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Feyre knows it's not a good idea to fall asleep at a college party. Even if it is at her friends' house.
But it's been such a long week, and she's absolutely exhausted. Not only did she stay up far too late studying for her finals almost every night, she lost extra sleep tossing and turning and trying to parse out her feelings about her closest friends. She's known Rhys and Mor since freshman year, and she loves them. They're also stupidly gorgeous— Mor with her golden curls and brown eyes and supple curves, Rhys with his sculpted muscles, dark hair, and sinful smirk. Anyone would have to be blind to not acknowledge that.
Her feelings, though, might be going a little further than pure aesthetic admiration. It feels stupid to call it a crush when she's almost twenty, but Feyre doesn't know another word for it. And goddamnit, she's pretty sure she's managed to develop a crush on both of them.
So she's dead tired and sprawled out across Rhysand's couch. Mor is dancing across the room, swaying hypnotically in that little red dress, and Rhys and his friends are chatting just a few feet away. What's the harm in a little nap?
Despite the loud pulse of the music and chatter of students, Feyre finds sleep coming to claim her rather quickly once her eyes flutter shut.
Yelling wakes her some time later, familiar voices overlapping with each other.
"What kind of childish, stupid, idiotic idea— I cannot believe you three." Mor's irate voice floats over her mind, not fully pulling her from sleep.
"I was trying to st—"
"I don't want to hear it, Rhysand. This isn't funny, it's fucked up."
Feyre's almost fully awake now— awake enough to register the warmth and wetness between her thighs, pooled beneath her ass—
Oh, god. Oh fuck.
This can't be happening again. The shouting fades to background noise as Feyre sinks into an all-too-familiar panic.
Waking up having… wet herself isn't new, but it hasn't happened in years. It's like she's eight again, after her mother died, waking up in soiled sheets. And every time she dragged her bedding and pajamas to the washer, she'd be followed by her sister's disgusted scoffs and disparaging comments about how gross it was, how babyish, why couldn't she just grow up?
Tears line her eyes as she squeezes them shut, trying to block out the humiliating memories, the not-so-secret whispers between her sisters. Whatever they said about her when she was little would have nothing on what everyone would say about her now. She's a grown adult, and yet she's sitting on her friends' couch in a puddle of her own urine because she couldn't control her bladder in her sleep.
A whispered apology sits on the tip of her tongue, but she can't bear to look at her friends— a small mercy that they seem to be the only people remaining— and watch as their faces turn in disgust.
Her breath hitches, and she can't silence the sob that escapes her.
The argument that she's been tuning out stops.
"See what you've done?" Mor reprimands. Feyre curls further into herself as if that'll save her from the scolding that's surely coming. "Go make yourselves useful elsewhere."
Then Mor's clicking footsteps approach, but when she speaks, her voice is gentle and soft. "Oh, Feyre. Honey, I'm so sorry."
Managing to pry her eyes open, Feyre gazes at Mor through a blur of tears. Her warm brown eyes don't hold any anger, only… understanding? "No, I— I'm s-orry," she practically whimpers, voice pathetically thin and shaky.
"Nope, none of that," Mor tuts, gently shifting Feyre into a sitting position on the couch. "This isn't a big deal, and it's certainly not your fault."
The warmth in her voice is soothing away some of that primal anxiety, releasing the tension in her muscles.
"Now, what do you say we get you cleaned up?"
She nods weakly, tears still spilling down her cheeks. Feyre's not thinking about what 'cleaning up' entails, too wrapped up in the fact that Mor isn't mad. Not only is she not mad, she's… taking care of Feyre. Her warm arms are wrapping around Feyre, scooping her easily up into her arms.
It's automatic for Feyre to rest her tear-soaked cheek against Mor's shoulder, taking in her strong, cinnamon perfume as she relaxes into the hold.
Mor flicks the light in the bathroom on, and reality comes crashing back into Feyre. She's going to be cleaned up. By Mor. And that involves undressing, being naked. Every instinct in her body roars against the idea, hates that the girl she's slowly catching feelings for will see her naked in such a demeaning context. She wriggles, trying to escape Mor's grip and settle on her own two feet, but Mor holds fast.
"Shh, Feyre, honey, you're alright. It's alright. I've got you."
"I can— I can clean myself up, it's fine," she sniffs, wiping at her eyes. "You don't need to see me like this."
A soothing stroke of a thumb over her ribs.
"I know you're capable, baby, but you don't have to be. Let me take care of you."
Baby. The word echoes in her ears in Mor's honey-sweet voice, and it, along with the promise of being taken care of, drains the fight from her. Maybe it's weak of her to fall for the first modicum of kindness that's been offered to her in such a vulnerable moment, but Feyre can't bring herself to care. Even if Mor never sees her the same after this, she thinks it'll be worth it simply for the warm glow of affection she feels in this moment.
She nods her assent, and then Mor sets her down on the counter next to the sink just as a knock sounds at the door.
"Fuck off," Mor snaps.
"It's me," Rhys says from the other side of the door, sounding… almost forlorn? "I figured Feyre might want some comfy, dry clothes, so I grabbed some for her."
Oh, great. He knew exactly what happened, too. At least, Feyre supposes, he doesn't sound disgusted or disappointed in her either. He'd brought her clothes.
Grumbling under her breath, Mor snatches the clothes from him and shuts the door in his face, demanding he 'fuck off and give us some privacy, for god's sake'. When she turns back to Feyre, she's holding a black t-shirt and a pair of grey joggers— both unmistakably belonging to Rhys. It is his house she's sitting in, and he brought the clothes, so it makes sense, but it sends another rush of embarrassment through her all the same.
In all the scenarios she's imagined herself wearing Rhys's clothes in, none of them have ever been as humiliating as being changed out of her clothes because she wet the bed. Couch. Whatever.
Mor starts the shower running, and Feyre lets out an audible sigh at the mere suggestion of the warmth it offers. Her damp jeans have grown cool and distinctly uncomfortable, and a warm shower sounds heavenly.
She only remembers that Mor is intent on helping her when those perfectly manicured hands land on her hips and pull her gently to the edge of the counter. A hot flush paints her cheeks, and she can't bear to meet the warm, open gaze she knows is fixed on her.
"Can I take your shirt off, honey?"
Feyre nods, resigned to her embarrassment. Mor's fingers brush against her waist as she pulls the navy blue top up and off, leaving Feyre's chest bared to her. She shivers at the touch, nipples peaking in the chill of the air. Instinct has her crossing her arms across her breasts to hide them from sight.
"Good," Mor murmurs, bending down to carefully unbuckle Feyre's heels and tug them off before helping her to her feet. "Is it okay for me to take off your pants and underwear, too?"
Another nod, even as her head spins with the improbability of it all. How is Mor being so nonchalant? Feyre had… she'd pissed herself, and had a breakdown about it. She's still only half-present in her body, letting herself be maneuvered and taken care of. She's standing half-naked in a bathroom that isn't her own as Mor drags her pee-soaked jeans and panties down her legs.
And Mor doesn't bat an eye.
She has her raise one leg to get out of her jeans, then the other.
There's no time to be mortified about her nakedness, because Mor simply helps her into the shower. With soft, gentle touches, she uses a warm washcloth to lather soap across Feyre's body, scrubbing at her stomach, back, calves, and thighs. It feels nice, to simply let go, to let herself be taken care of. The steam of the warm water clouds her thoughts; the fresh jasmine scent of the soap washes her humiliation away.
"Now," Mor hums softly, hands withdrawing from Feyre's skin. "It's a good idea to clean your vulva, but I don't want to make you uncomfortable."
It should make her uncomfortable, shouldn't it? The idea of her best friend, the most beautiful woman she's ever met, the girl she's slowly falling for, washing up between her legs after she… had an accident. And on some level, Feyre's logical self balks at the idea, but she's just so tired.
And here, in this shower, Mor perched on the rim of the bathtub, Feyre feels warm and safe and cared for. Selfishly, she doesn't want to let that go. "It's fine," she mumbles, shifting to further part her legs. "I don't mind."
If Mor is surprised, she doesn't show it, just nods. Just as gently as before, she drags the washcloth up the sensitive inside of Feyre's thighs and higher, using the lightest pressure to sweep across the soft skin between her legs. Feyre shivers, just slightly, at the intimate touch, but quickly relaxes into it.
Then the warm spray of the shower cuts off, dragging Feyre's attention back to Mor, who's already procuring a soft, clean towel.
"There we go," she soothes, wrapping Feyre up in the towel as easily as if she's a small child. "That must feel much better."
"Thank you."
"It's no big deal, Feyre. I promise."
She blinks up at Mor. "But I—"
"No, honey. It wasn't your fault."
"How can it not be?"
Mor scoffs. "The boys thought it would be funny to pull the 'hand in a bowl of warm water' prank on you. I didn't realize until it was too late."
Oh. That brings a little relief, knowing that she hadn't suddenly regressed to where she'd been at eight and nine years old. But… all of them? Rhys, who had brought her the dry clothes that are sitting, neatly folded, on the counter without prompting? Feyre shakes her head, not wanting to think about it right now.
"That's what I get for falling asleep at a party."
"No. Nope. You being asleep is no excuse for them being MASSIVE FUCKING ASSHOLES." The last words are shouted at the door, ensuring the boys heard her displeasure.
The ire on her behalf makes a funny, fluttery feeling rise in Feyre's belly. When was the last time anyone had cared enough about her to be mad for her? She can't remember. She's not sure it's ever happened. "Thank you," Feyre repeats, looking into Mor's deep brown eyes in the hopes that she'll understand just how much she's thanking her for.
Mor just smiles at her and starts properly drying her, then helping her into Rhys's soft clothes. "Sorry there's no underwear. I don't usually bring a backup pair to parties."
"I'll survive."
"That you will, baby. Which is more than I can say for those three imbecilic boys. I'll kill them myself."
An involuntary giggle escapes her. Of course Mor would jump straight to murder— but… on her behalf? It's a concept that's been thrown at her over and over again for the past half hour, but she's still trying to wrap her head around it.
Finally, Mor leads her out of the bathroom and through the hall back to the living room, where only Rhys is sitting, perched on the arm of the couch like he's been waiting for them to emerge.
"Rhys, for fuck's sake, just go. You've done enough," Mor sighs.
"I keep trying to tell you, I tried to stop them."
Relief floods through Feyre's body at his insistence, and she believes the truth of his words inherently. The way he's looking at her, at Mor, his eyes begging them to believe him.
"Well you didn't do a very good job, then, did you?"
"Obviously not, don't you think I know that?" His voice is raw with emotion, and it cracks something open within Feyre's chest. He's always been so good to her, of course tonight wouldn't be any different.
Mor, however, doesn't seem convinced. "Well, at least you know, because that totally helps."
"Shit, Mor, do you need a written and signed confession? It wasn't me! I was trying to help her then and I couldn't, so just— please, let me fucking help now." Rhys looks almost desperate, glancing between Mor and Feyre, waiting for a rebuke.
Instinctually, Feyre takes a step forward, toward him. It's like she's seeking any comfort offered, inhibitions lowered by some… something. She isn't sure what it is, but after being taken care of by Mor and being wrapped up in Rhys's clothes and his scent, something within her has unwound.
"Let me help you, please, darling."
"Okay," she breathes, squeezing Mor's hand once before letting go and stepping into Rhys's offered embrace. He's so warm, his body heat radiating through her like an electric blanket. Feyre melts.
"I'll be staying in the guest room tonight," Mor says, voice soft. "Come get me if you need me, Feyre."
She mumbles her thanks into Rhys's broad chest, her thoughts slowing to molasses as his drugging presence consumed her. It could be seconds or minutes later that he takes her fully into his arms and carries her to his bedroom.
"I'm so sorry, Feyre," he breathes into her hair. "I promise you, I tried to stop them. They shouldn't have— it was a horrible prank."
Feyre doesn't have the words to reassure him, not right now, when she's still so drained. Instead, she just hums into his shoulder and clutches onto him tighter.
Eventually, Rhys shifts them onto his bed, tucking Feyre into his side.
"You're not— mad at me?" Her voice is small when she asks, afraid to break the comfortable quiet between them.
His large hand rests on the back of her head, fingers twining between the sections of her braid. "No, darling. Of course I'm not mad at you."
He should be. Feyre ruined his couch and caused a scene and now she's wearing his clothes and laying with him in his bed, a leech to his generosity. "It'd be okay if you were," she mumbles, "mad at me."
"Feyre," Rhys breathes, tilting her chin up so she has to look at him, gaze into those fathomless starry eyes. "I'm not mad at you. You had an accident, that's all, baby. It's not your fault. All I want is to make sure that you're okay."
There it is again, that word: baby. It raises a flush on her cheeks, sends her heart racing, makes her feel something foreign and fuzzy inside. Especially when it's falling off of the lips of Rhys or Mor, her— well, they are her best friends, but tonight has convinced her that her feelings definitely go beyond the platonic. And she doesn't want to hope, but… the way Mor cleaned her up, gently and without question, the way Rhys is holding her…
Maybe they feel the same way.
That thought is far too big for her current brain to handle, too big for how small she feels nestled into the safety of Rhys's arms.
He just wants to make sure she's okay.
Is she okay? Feyre doesn't know. She's tired and mortified, but the mortification is sequestered in the back of her mind, most of her just soaking up any of the comfort offered to her like a sponge. "I'll be okay," she murmurs, resting her cheek back against his chest, right where she can feel the soft thrum of his heartbeat within his ribs.
"I'll hold you until you are." He presses a kiss to her head, lingering for moments longer than is probably necessary. "Forever, if you need it."
That offer sounds nice, she thinks, though maybe she'd like Mor to hold her a little bit, too. Feyre smiles at the thought, letting her mind be lulled into sleep by the constant rhythm of his heartbeat.