You sat across from Feyre at a small table in Velaris. There was tea. There were biscuits. There was tension.

Feyre sipped slowly, peering over her cup. “So.”

You blinked. “So.”

“I walked in on you two twice this week.”

“You did.”

Feyre set her cup down. “In my library. In front of a priceless tapestry. Rhysand is still emotionally recovering.”

You tried very hard not to laugh. “In my defense, it was entirely Nyx’s fault.”

“Oh?” Feyre raised a brow. “Because from what I saw, he was fully clothed, and you—”

“Please stop talking,” you groaned, covering your face.

Feyre chuckled, then reached across the table and patted your hand. “I’m not mad. Really. Just… invest in better locks. Or a cave in the mountains. Or a soundproof warded room like Rhys and I had to—never mind.”

You stared. “That’s where Nyx gets it from.”

Feyre looked smug. “He is his father’s son.”

The two of you burst into laughter, and you couldn’t help but feel it—this quiet warmth of belonging. A family who saw you, chaos and all, and loved you anyway.