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Chapter Text

The room was dimly lit, the faint scent of crushed herbs and candle wax curling in the air like an old secret. Shelves lined with dusty tomes stretched high above Feyre’s head, their spines cracked and titles worn. The lesser library of the Night Court rarely saw use, which was precisely why Feyre had chosen it for her little experiment. Privacy was essential when dabbling in questionable alchemy.

Feyre stood at a long wooden table in the corner, its surface cluttered with vials, scrolls, and an open book that looked older than Velaris itself. She peered skeptically into a goblet filled with a glittering rose-colored liquid, its shimmer catching the flickering candlelight like it held starlight inside.

"Are you sure this is the one for enhanced friendship?" she asked, arching a brow at Amren, who sat nearby with her legs curled under her like a lounging cat, flipping lazily through a brittle page of a spellbook.

Amren didn't even glance up. "Positive. Azriel said he labeled it."

Feyre narrowed her eyes. "And we're trusting Azriel's organizational skills now? The same male who stores daggers in his sock drawer?"

Amren shrugged with a smirk. "He's efficient, not neat."

"Comforting," Feyre muttered, rolling her eyes. She sniffed the potion again. It smelled suspiciously delightful—like sugared pomegranate and crushed mint leaves with a dash of something more elusive. Stardust, maybe. Or madness.

With a sigh, she raised the goblet. One sip. Just one. What could possibly go wrong?

The potion was cold and fizzy on her tongue, the sweetness wrapping around her senses like a lover’s whisper. A tingle ran down her spine. Warmth bloomed in her chest, spreading outwards like the slow unfurling of flower petals in spring.

She blinked, waiting. Any second now, the effects would kick in. Clarity. Connection. Maybe even a sparkle in her aura. But nothing happened. No floating. No heartwarming revelations.

Disappointed, she turned back to the table to jot notes in the margin of her book. That’s when the door creaked open.

Rhysand strolled in like mischief wrapped in moonlight. Dressed in casual black, shadows whispering at his heels, he looked entirely too smug for someone who had just walked into a supposed accident.

"Feyre darling," he drawled, the corners of his mouth curling in a slow, dangerous smile. "Trying out potions now? Should I be concerned?"

Feyre opened her mouth to deliver a sarcastic retort—but instead, the words that spilled out surprised even her.

"Rhys, has anyone told you your voice could melt diamonds?" she purred, her tone honey-sweet and entirely alien to her. She took a step forward, hips swaying with a grace she certainly hadn’t intended.

Rhys blinked. Once. Twice. "Pardon?"

"Your eyes," she continued dreamily, absently twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "They’re like the night sky after a storm. Brooding. Beautiful. Broodingly beautiful."

Silence.

Then Rhysand burst out laughing, his body shaking as he leaned casually against the doorframe. "Oh, this is going to be fun ."

Amren looked up at last, her silver eyes gleaming with poorly hidden glee. 

Feyre flushed, mortified and yet unable to stop herself. Her body moved with infuriating fluidity, like she was performing for an invisible audience. She turned to Rhys again.

"Has anyone ever told you that your wings are unfairly majestic? Like... aggressively majestic. I want to write a poem about them."

Rhys grinned. "You can write an entire sonnet if you like, Feyre darling. But I think this is less 'friendship' potion and more 'affection overload.'"

"Affection overload?" Feyre repeated, eyes wide. "That’s not a real category."

"It is now," Amren said, clearly amused. "Congratulations. You’re the test subject."

Rhys stepped forward, head tilted with faux seriousness. "So. Do I get daily compliments now? Or is this a limited-time enchantment?"

Feyre tried to scowl, but the expression melted into a smile. A dreamy, ridiculous smile. She was still Feyre, trapped behind the veil of magical adoration, and it was infuriating . Yet—deep down—some small traitorous part of her didn’t entirely hate the way Rhysand’s lips twitched with delight.

She reached out and flicked his nose. "You look like a romantic villain who got lost on the way to a masquerade."

He caught her wrist and kissed the back of her hand, entirely unfazed. "And you, my dear, are a poem in potion form."

Feyre groaned. "This isn’t fair. I’m adorable against my will."

"You always are," Rhys whispered.

For a beat, the room was quiet. Too quiet.

Then the bookshelf behind Amren groaned—a magical reaction, perhaps—and exploded in a small puff of rose-scented smoke, scattering books like confetti.

"Oops," Feyre said, staring at the chaos with wide eyes. "Was that me?"

Amren coughed and waved a smoky tome out of her face. "You may want to keep the rest of that potion away from structural support beams."

Rhysand, still holding Feyre's hand, only laughed again, eyes dancing.

And somewhere in the middle of the chaos, the glittering goblet tipped over, the rose-colored liquid slowly creeping across the table toward a second, unlabeled vial.

"Oh no," Feyre whispered, her eyes following the trail.

Rhysand's grin widened. "Oh yes."

Chapter Text

It turned out, the potion didn’t enhance friendship. Not exactly. What it did enhance was any underlying emotional or physical connection—intensifying it into bold, unfiltered affection. And Feyre, to her horror, couldn’t stop flirting. Loudly. Publicly. Obnoxiously.

She complimented Rhysand’s hair during High Lord meetings. She invented absurd nicknames in front of emissaries: Shadow Prince, Lover of Stars, Winged Wonder. She left sticky notes on his paperwork with hearts and doodles and poetic nonsense like, "Roses are red, violets are blue, your wingspan is scandalous, and so are you."

At first, Rhysand found it hilarious. He smirked through strategy councils, smoothed down his hair with exaggerated vanity, and let her sit on his desk while he reviewed treaties. He even flirted back, just to see what she’d do.

But things started to shift when Feyre climbed into his lap during dinner—allegedly because her chair was too far from the dessert tray. She'd whispered, "Feed me cake, my shadow lord," and licked frosting off his finger. And Rhysand, usually the embodiment of charm, had stiffened beneath her touch, his wings flaring slightly as a flush crawled up his neck.

The next day, Feyre woke up with a note pinned to her pillow.

Please refrain from weaponizing pastry-based affection in public. Sincerely, your dessert-addled High Lord.

Feyre had laughed, but it didn’t stop the affection storm. If anything, it escalated.

She brought him wildflowers during sparring practice.

She recited dirty limericks to him across the training ring. Loudly.

She enchanted his bath with rose petals and a tiny enchanted orchestra that played love ballads when he walked in.

The worst (or best?) was the surprise serenade.

Feyre had stolen Varian’s lute. Somehow. And during a formal gathering with dignitaries from the Day and Dawn Courts, she’d leapt onto a table and belted out a song she made up on the spot:

"Oh Rhysie, you glorious bat, With wings so broad and abs so flat, Your shadows dance, your smile blinds, You haunt my dreams and fog my mind."

There had been clapping. Lucien spilled his wine from laughing so hard. Helion asked for an encore.

Rhysand stared at her like she’d grown another head.

Afterwards, back in their townhouse, Rhys sat silently on the couch, a glass of wine in one hand, the other rubbing his temple. Feyre, sitting upside down on the cushions, feet in the air, giggled.

"You love it. Admit it."

"I love you. That’s the problem," he muttered into his wine.

Feyre blinked. Something in her brain hiccupped.

The potion still clouded her reactions, but his voice—low, serious, raw—cut through the haze. A tiny moment of clarity.

"Say that again?"

"Nothing," he said quickly. "You said something about the dessert tray?"

She narrowed her eyes but let it go.

The next morning, Feyre found herself following Rhys into the Court of Nightmares for a diplomatic affair. She wore her fiercest leathers and braided her hair with starlight. But when she saw him talking to a curvy, gorgeous emissary from the Autumn Court, something in her twisted.

Was she jealous? That wasn’t like her.

But the potion amplified everything. And Feyre, naturally impulsive and deeply in love on a regular day, turned into a catastrophe under magical influence.

She strutted up, wrapped both arms around Rhysand from behind, and said, loudly, "Excuse me, hot stuff. I forgot to kiss you for luck."

Then she kissed him. Fully. Deeply. With tongue.

The emissary made a choked noise. Azriel looked like he wanted to vanish. Cassian let out a cheer.

Later, in the privacy of her room, Feyre finally broke down. She sat on the edge of her bed, face in her hands.

"I can’t keep doing this. I’m not even sure where I end and the potion begins. What if you’re only enjoying this because it’s temporary? What if this ruins us?"

Rhysand knelt in front of her, taking her hands.

"Feyre, listen to me. You’re ridiculous. You’re unpredictable. You’re mortifying. And I am head over heels for all of it."

She peeked at him through her fingers.

He smiled. "Potion or not, you’re still you. Just a louder, flirtier version. And maybe you needed that. Maybe we needed that reminder."

She blinked again, tears stinging. "You really mean it?"

He kissed her forehead. "I mean every word. But we are definitely burning that goblet."

The next day, Amren informed them the potion would wear off soon—a week, give or take.

Feyre was relieved. Sort of.

But she was also a little sad.

Because despite the chaos, she’d loved every ridiculous second.

And Rhysand, watching her twirl in the garden singing a song about his eyebrows, wondered if he would miss it too.

One thing was certain: they were keeping the nickname "Shadow Prince".

Chapter Text

Two days later, they were alone on the balcony overlooking Velaris.

The air was crisp. The stars shimmered like scattered gemstones across a velvet sky. Feyre sat curled in a chair, a thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders, sipping tea from a chipped mug. Rhysand leaned against the railing, his wings relaxed, his gaze distant.

"Still under the spell?" he asked softly, eyes never leaving the sky.

"I think so," Feyre said. She traced a finger along the rim of her mug. "Unless it wore off and I’m just hopelessly into you now."

Rhys glanced down at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. "And what if it has worn off?"

"Then I probably shouldn’t be thinking about kissing you."

He turned fully toward her, stepping closer. "Are you thinking about kissing me, Feyre?"

She looked up, her lips curving slightly. "I think about a lot of things."

He knelt beside her chair, taking her mug and setting it aside. "Maybe I want to know what those things are."

She laughed under her breath, trying to shake the sudden heat in her chest. "You always want to know everything."

He leaned in, his nose brushing hers. "Because you fascinate me."

It would have been easy, in that moment, to close the space between them. To kiss him and pretend it was just part of the spell. But Feyre hesitated.

Her voice dropped. "What happens when it wears off? When I stop being this...flirty little chaos storm? What if we go back to quiet dinners and long silences?"

Rhys pulled back slightly, his brow furrowing. "Do you want that?"

"I don’t know what I want anymore." She bit her lip. "This potion—it magnified everything. I don’t know how much of it was me. How much of it was just magic making me bold."

He studied her for a long moment. "Then let me ask you something real. No games. No flirting."

She nodded.

"Do you love me? Not because of the potion. Not because you feel like you’re supposed to. Just you, Feyre."

Her eyes met his. Wide. Vulnerable. Unshielded.

"I think I’ve loved you since the moment you taught me to fly," she whispered. "Even when I hated you. Even when you made everything complicated."

Rhys exhaled, his shoulders relaxing. He reached up, brushing a curl from her cheek.

"Then I don’t care if it was magic or madness or something in between. You’re here now. You chose me."

She nodded. "Still scared."

"So am I."

He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. They stood close, barely touching. The sky stretched behind them, stars wheeling above.

"Then we can be scared together," he said.

They didn’t kiss, not yet. But they stood like that for a long time. Silent. Still. And something unspoken passed between them.

The next day, Feyre felt the shift. 

The potion was wearing off.

She still wanted to leave him love notes. She still thought about licking cake frosting off his fingers. She still wanted to serenade him, occasionally.

But something else had returned, too: doubt. And that scared her more than the magic had.

At breakfast, she barely touched her food. Rhys noticed.

"You’re quiet. That a side effect?"

She shrugged. "Just...recalibrating."

He didn’t push. But she saw the flicker of worry in his eyes.

Later, walking through the market, she caught sight of a vendor selling enchanted crystals—little charms that pulsed with emotion. One flashed pink when she held it.

"That one reacts to affection," the vendor said. "Powerful stuff. Great for lovers."

She bought it on impulse. Carried it home like it meant something.

That night, she gave it to Rhys.

"For when I forget how I feel," she said.

He took it gently. Tucked it into his pocket. Said nothing.

She hadn’t painted in weeks. But one afternoon, while Rhys was out flying with Cassian, she picked up a brush.

The canvas started with a star. Then a wing. Then a teacup. Then his smile.

She painted the whole story: the potion, the flirting, the doubt, the fear. A swirling storm of color and chaos. At the center, two figures holding hands. Surrounded by laughter. By love.

Rhys found her asleep on the floor, paint on her cheek, curled beneath the finished canvas.

He didn’t wake her. He just sat beside her and waited.

When she opened her eyes, he said quietly, "Still scared?"

She nodded.

He kissed her forehead. "Me too. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you."

She sat up, eyes bright. "Then let’s be scared together."

He held out his hand. She took it.

And this time, when they kissed, it wasn’t about the potion. Or the pressure. Or the chaos.

It was just them.

Real. Raw. And terrifying in the best way.

And maybe—just maybe—better than magic.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the spell broke.

Just like that. One moment, Feyre was brushing her hair, humming some silly love song she would never admit to knowing. The next, it was like someone flipped a switch in her chest. The warmth, the glittering haze, the magnetic pull toward Rhysand—it vanished.

She sat frozen, staring at herself in the mirror. Cold clarity washed over her like a winter tide.

Oh, gods.

Every memory from the past week hit her at once. The shameless compliments. The lap incident. The spontaneous serenade in the House of Wind’s great hall. The pet names. Star-snuggler. Kisslord. Her Majesty’s Winged Snack.

She dropped her comb and buried her face in her hands. "I need to vanish."

She tried. Really, she did.

Feyre avoided the entire inner circle with the kind of precision that would impress even Azriel. She timed her meals in the kitchens. Took her sketchpad and disappeared into the hills for hours. Painted quietly in tucked-away corners of Velaris, hoping no one would recognize the Cursebreaker wrapped in a shawl and shame.

But memory was a vicious thing. Even painting didn’t offer the usual solace. Her brush strokes kept looping into the curve of Rhys’s smile. The lines of his wings. The color of his eyes when he looked at her—not amused. Not bemused.

Soft. Steady. Wanting.

Was it real? Or just a side effect of a damned rose-pink potion?

The doubt festered. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw herself through his lens. Dancing. Flirting. Making a fool of herself. And worst of all—meant every word.

Three days passed before he found her.

She was curled on a velvet cushion in a secluded corner of the House of Wind’s library, half-buried beneath a blanket and a mountain of books she had no intention of reading.

"Running from me, Feyre?"

His voice was soft, but it still sent her heart into a sprint.

She didn’t look up. "I embarrassed myself. I was under a spell. Let’s just forget it."

"No."

That single word, firm and low, made her finally glance up.

Rhys stood with arms crossed, looking at her like she was the only thing he could see.

"I’m not letting you pretend none of it meant anything."

She swallowed. "Rhys—"

"It wasn’t just the potion. Maybe it started that way. But the way you looked at me? That wasn’t magic. That was you."

Her throat tightened. Her voice came out barely above a whisper. "You’re sure? Because I’m not."

He took a step closer. "Then let me show you."

She opened her mouth, but no words came. He reached for her hand, threading their fingers together.

"Let’s start from the beginning. No magic. No potions. Just us."

Feyre stared at their joined hands. "You want to date me? Like...normal people?"

He smirked. "Stars save me, yes. I want to bring you flowers and let you pick the restaurant and argue over who pays the bill even though it’s technically all from the same treasury."

Her lips twitched. "So romantic."

"Oh, I haven’t even begun. I plan to awkwardly ask you to dance, trip over my own boots, and kiss you like it’s the first time. Every time."

Her heart ached, hopeful and aching all at once. "You mean that? Even without the glittery haze?"

"Especially without it."

He tugged her gently to her feet. They stood there, inches apart.

Feyre studied him. The man she’d mocked and flirted with and climbed on top of for dessert. The man who waited. Who didn’t laugh when she painted her heart out. Who still looked at her like she was a miracle, even now.

She lifted a hand to his cheek. "So this is us. No potions. No spells."

He nodded. "No lies."

And then he kissed her.

Not rushed. Not chaotic. Just real.

His mouth met hers with a slow certainty, as if he’d been waiting a century. She melted into it, every inch of her humming—not with potion, not with nerves, but with something that felt a lot like home.

When they pulled apart, Feyre was smiling.

Rhys kissed her forehead. "Still scared?"

"Yes. But less. You?"

"Petrified."

They laughed. And it felt like the spell had broken twice. Once from magic. And once from fear.

The next week was the strangest of her life.

They dated.

Rhys took her flying over starlit waterfalls and midnight bakeries. He gifted her paint—enchanted to shimmer under moonlight—and let her paint on his wings. (Cassian had questions. None were answered.)

Feyre wrote him letters she never sent and songs she never sang out loud. But Rhys knew. He always knew.

There were awkward moments too.

Like when she called him "Winged Wonder" out of habit in front of the Summer Court emissary. Or when she instinctively reached to sit in his lap again and ended up toppling both of them into a fountain.

But the laughter never hurt. Not anymore.

Velaris seemed to sigh in relief, as if the city had waited for this just as long as they had.

One night, back on the balcony, Rhys handed her a new goblet. Same shape. Same glittering hue.

She raised an eyebrow. "If this is another love potion, I swear—"

"It’s sparkling cider. Relax."

She sipped. "No side effects?"

"Only this."

He pulled her into a dance, right there under the stars.

They danced until the moon was high and her feet ached. Until her cheeks hurt from smiling. Until she whispered against his neck, "I love you."

He stilled.

Then whispered it back. "I loved you before the potion. Before the flirting. Before everything."

Feyre leaned her head against his chest. "Then I guess we’re both enchanted."

"Maybe we always were."

And for once, Feyre didn’t mind the magic.

Because this time, it was real.