Rhysand can get incredibly jealous. He knows this.

Veronica liked it. She liked it so much she flirted around with other men when they were together just to rile him up—and it worked. Rhysand gets rougher in bed when he's jealous, and Veronica liked it. She liked it when he was mean—no, meaner.

Sanford is not Veronica. Rhysand knows that Sanford used to have a crush on that Connor kid (fuck him), but he wasn't about to demand her to stay home when she wanted to go out with him and their other classmates. So, with reluctance, he let her be. And turns out he had nothing to worry about.

But. This is different. This Jonas kid is in two of Sanford's classes, and with his girlfriend still in university, he can't exactly do anything about it.

And Rhysand knows this Jonas kid has been driving Sanford home from PhysEd, and he'd bitten his tongue and resisted the urge to drive over and pick her up instead. He knows this fucking Jonas kid is her friend—just her friend, who's been helping her with water polo (that's another thing he tries not to think about: Sanford in a one-piece swimsuit, and all the horny fucking college boys ogling her), so Rhysand kept his mouth shut about them going out for dessert. They're friends.

She's still in university. She deserves friends her age. Friends who are in school, too.

Logically, he knows this. But when she doesn't reply in over two hours, even just to give him updates—it pissed him off. He's still pissed off.

Rhysand exhales the smoke out, lets the cigarette dangle between his fingers with his elbow propped onto the window ledge. He drives with one hand on the wheel and presses harder on the gas. He wants to see this Jonas kid.

But when he pulls up to Sanford's location, she's alone inside, looking out the glass. When she sees the Jeep, her eyes widen a bit, then she's standing up and grabbing her bag.

Rhysand inhales from his cigarette again and lets his eyes rake over her body as she walks out of the shop—the thick and long strands of her hair shine against the moonlight as they fall over her shoulders. It's pulled back against her forehead in a purple headband that matches the cardigan draped over her white turtleneck. The top is so fitted Rhysand can see every curve in her body—his chest flares with a new thought—she's been looking like this the entire time she's been with that Jonas kid, he has no doubt he also appreciated the sight. It doesn't get better when Rhysand's eyes sink lower—his fingers twitch at the short, plaid skirt she's wearing. It barely reaches her knees.

Sanford opens the door on her own. It makes Rhysand feel a little guilty. She immediately faces him and takes a deep breath. "Rhys, I'm sorry. I really lost track of time. I wasn't doing it on purpose."

She sounds so desperate for him to believe her that it almost breaks Rhysand's composure. He turns his head out the window and blows out his smoke.

He's trying to think of something to say without sounding possessive. He doesn't want to scare her off with his intensity when it comes to being jealous. Sanford isn't Veronica—he can't just punish her.

Rhysand doesn't notice how long he's been silent until Sanford whines, "Rhys."

Fuck. He hates it when she whines.

No. No, he loves it. She sounds like she's waiting for him to wreck her or something, even though that's not her intention. "Where is he?" he finally says, glancing at her.

Her trusting eyes are big and gorgeous and pleading, red and inviting lips parted. "He went home. Rhys, don't be mad," she says, looking up at him through her lashes.

"Does he know you have a boyfriend?" It's a genuinely curious question. But it's the kind of question Rhysand also asks before the punishment.

No. No punishing. This is Sanford. Sweet, innocent, inexperienced Sanford. They haven't even done the vanilla thing yet—hell, they haven't even done anything close to it.

"Yes," she answers his question softly. "We're just friends."

"Do you know how worried I was?" Rhysand asks her quietly, tossing his cigarette into the almost-empty soda can in the cupholder. He was so worried he couldn't focus on his project. He was pacing his damn studio. "When an hour passed and you weren't replying, Jenner kept me from leaving the house."

Sanford bows her head. Oh, fuck, no. Fuck, the submissive action stirs something in Rhysand's belly. "I'm sorry I worried you, it won't happen again."

Then, with bravery he didn't know she had, Sanford crawls across the center console and plops herself on Rhysand's lap.

    Surprised, his brain takes a few seconds too long to register the movement, but when it does, his finger flies down to the bottom of his seat to move it backwards, just so the space can accommodate his girlfriend. Sanford is on his lap. Fuck.

She wraps her arms around his neck and pouts. "I'll keep my phone on loud mode when I'm out from now on, okay? Don't be mad anymore."

His hands find themselves on her pretty, little waist. Rhysand loves this—loves the weight of her on him, loves that he needs to look up to catch her gaze. He loves this position a little too much, even though they're not doing anything remotely sexual. Just the fact that Sanford straddled him with no hint of embarrassment (yet)—he loves it. God, any feeling of anger dissipates. "Fine," he huffs.

Sanford grins. There's that smile. He loves that smile. "This is all it took?"

"I'm surprised you're not blushing."

She bites her lip and leans closer to him. God, she's so tempting. "I don't want to overthink it yet, so don't make me. Also, I can't believe you're the jealous type."

She hasn't seen anything of Rhysand being jealous yet. This is nothing. "That Jonas kid is in love with you."

Sanford throws her head back and laughs. He loves that laugh, too. "That's ridiculous. I can assure you he's not."

Rhysand slides his hand a little lower. Brushes his thumb against the skin where her short skirt ends. "He wants to fuck you, then."

"Rhys!" Sanford gasps, smacking him on the shoulder. "No, h-he doesn't! We're friends, okay? Just that. Is that so hard to believe?"

"If we weren't together I can't just be your friend," he says, looking up at her. "I couldn't."

That makes her blush. Rhysand wants to laugh—the small, honest things he says to her makes her so flustered. She hides her face with her hair. "Johann and I are friends," she repeats firmly, cupping his face tenderly. "Nothing to be jealous of. I just wanted to treat him because of the rides and for earlier—"

She abruptly stops, realizes what she just said, and shuts her mouth. Rhysand raises an eyebrow. "What happened earlier?"

Sanford leans forward and buries her head on his neck. "Nothing," she says, lips brushing his skin.

Rhysand isn't convinced. "Tell me."

He didn't mean to sound so—so cold, but it works because Sanford pulls back with a frown and mumbles, "I got hit with a ball during drills and my nose bled. He and another friend helped me."

Rhysand should be glad. She had friends who took care of her.

While he was at home, working. It shouldn't bother him so much but it does. Fuck, it does.

"You didn't tell me," he says lowly, fingers twitching again. It's not a big deal, but damn if it doesn't make him want to do something. Now that he's touching her, he needs to find more control in his actions. "Is it fine now?" he asks, reaching up to inspect her nose. It doesn't look bad.

Sanford nods. "Just didn't want to disturb you over something so small. Plus, it's embarrassing. I made a scene in class, Rhys!"

Rhysand wants to laugh. God, this girl. "You got hit with a ball, sunshine. It's not your fault."

He'll find that fucker and beat his ass.

"Still," she mutters, wiggling on his lap, and Rhysand's hands fly to her hips to keep her still. She doesn't notice Rhysand's sudden action, but thankfully, she stops moving. "Anyway, can we go home now? I'm tired."

Home. Rhysand nods. "Yeah. Let's go home."

But before she moves back to her seat, Rhysand tilts his head up and kisses her softly. Sanford lets out a sound of surprise but melts into the kiss, like she always does, and Rhysand's hand tightens on her waist—she tastes so sweet.

He presses forward, wants to coax her mouth open and taste more, but remembers what happened the last time—she freaked out. He needs to keep himself in control or he'll scare her away.

So Rhysand pulls back and balls his hands into fists. Sanford looks dazed, completely and utterly tempting. He kisses her again, but just a quick one, and pats her lower back. "Okay," he says. "Let's go home."

Sanford threads their fingers together. Rhysand drives with one hand on the wheel again.

*

Andy sees the picture a few days later.

She wakes up with the sun blearing her eyes and a gentle touch caressing the skin of her wrist. Andy grasps Rhysand's hand and pulls it to her chest, smiling sleepily. "Hi."

"Sunshine." He reaches out with his free hand to brush the hair out of Andy's eyes.

When her vision's clear, she's met with the sight of her boyfriend in a sweater and joggers, a towel slung over his shoulder, a bit of sweat lining the sharp edges of his face. His hair is a little damp, and Rhysand shakes the strands out of his forehead before saying, "How'd you sleep?"

"Really well, thank you," Andy says groggily, rolling over to her stomach. "Why are you awake?" She usually gets up before Rhysand to freshen up and brush her teeth.

"I went to the gym."

His response shouldn't shock her, but it does—even makes her eyes fly open.

Of course he goes to the gym—there's no way his body looks that lean and strong, that he can carry Andy with such ease, without working out. Not that she's seen any of his body. At all.

She doesn't realize how silent she's been until Rhysand flicks her forehead. "Pervert."

"I am not!" Andy says, flushing. She pulls away from him and hides under the covers. "Take a shower. You stink."

Her boyfriend scoffs and smacks her hip through the sheets. Andy squeals in surprise and raises her head to look at him.

Rhysand chucks his phone on the table and heads to the bathroom, mouth curved into a wicked smirk. "Pervert."

"Shut up!" Andy yells. Her neck is hot.

His laugh echoes through the walls. Andy sits up, a silly grin on her face, and reaches for her phone on the bedside table, but her fingers knock out Rhysand's instead.

It clatters onto the carpet with a loud sound and Andy flinches. Crawling across the covers, she snatches it from the floor, about to put it back on its original place—when the wallpaper on his lock screen makes her catch a breath.

She's surprised—no, she's dumbfounded, to see herself and Rhysand staring back at her.

She doesn't even remember when the picture was taken, but it seems to be one of the silly selfies she takes in Rhysand's phone when he's working and she's seated on his lap. Andy's smiling widely at the camera, gums and all, eyes bright—while Rhysand's head is turned, and he's looking right at her. There's no smile on his face, he was probably annoyed with her at this point for taking so many pictures, but there's something written on his gaze that Andy can't read.

It's a cute picture. She can't believe he made it his wallpaper—Rhysand isn't really the type.

Andy's mouth curve all the way up her cheeks as she presses her palms to her face. She sits again on the bed and looks at it once more. Her heart grows three times bigger and she's squealing into her hands.

Andy sits up, exhales heavily, and makes her way to the bathroom. She can't talk to Rhysand without looking (or smelling) presentable.

The water is still running when she comes in. The glass door is frosted, so she can't really see anything even if she wanted to (and no, she didn't want to—yet), but Rhysand hears her and says, "Joining me?"

"No!" Andy squeaks incredulously, blushing furiously. "I'm washing up!"

She doesn't know, behind the water's noise, if he snorts, but knowing him, he probably did.

Andy washes her face and brushes her teeth, and tries not to think about her boyfriend being only about two meters away from her. Naked.

Andy splashes her face with water again and slaps her cheeks. Not appropriate. At all.

She comes out of the bathroom and stares at the phone again, and a few minutes later, Rhysand steps out in a huge hoodie and shorts, shaking his damp hair out of his face. "What do you want to do today? Do you have homework?"

Andy crosses her legs together and holds the phone up with a shy smile. "I don't care what you say. You're a romantic, too."

Rhysand only raises an eyebrow, squinting, then realizes she's pertaining to his wallpaper and says, "Ah. You saw."

Andy pats the space beside her on the bed excitedly.

Rhysand shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but he comes closer and sits on the edge of the mattress, anyway. "I knew you'd make a big deal out of it."

"It's just not you!" Andy says with a giggle, throwing an arm around his neck and situating herself across his lap. "You need to send me this picture. I need to make it my wallpaper too so we can match."

Rhysand wrinkles his nose and mutters, "Gross." His hand curls around the curve of her hip. "S'not a big deal. Just wanted your face on there for when I don't see you."

"Romantic," Andy muses, grinning widely.

"Cut it out," Rhysand counters flatly.

Andy tucks herself into his large frame and wraps her arms around his waist, knees pressed to her chest. "It may not be a big deal to some, but it's really sweet. Thank you."

She falters for a second on the look on Rhysand's face—he stares at her for a long time, eyebrows furrowing.

Andy backtracks. "Sorry. Did I scare you? Was I too forward? I—"

Rhysand immediately grabs her wrist when she starts moving away. "No," he says lowly, pushing his tongue against his cheek. He exhales heavily, and Andy watches him in worry. "I think...I want to tell you now."

Andy's stunned. She blinks. "About?"

Rhysand doesn't say anything once more.

And Andy understands that he's trying to find the words to say. She lifts their intertwined hands to her lips and kisses the inside of his wrist. "It's okay, baby."

"Don't leave," he forces himself to say, jaw clenching tight. "Don't leave when I'm done."

Andy nods. "I won't."

Rhysand takes another deep breath. A couple of heartbeats pass.

And then, "No one wanted to, ah, adopt me. When I was a kid. I was too scary and troublesome, I think."

Andy keeps her face blank even though surprise rises up on her chest.

He keeps his eyes trained on hers. "No siblings. No parents. I lied. So, uh, I just kind of grew up there while the rest of the other kids found their homes. And I'd always wait for mine—you know, when parents come and look at us, I'd cross my fingers behind my back and hope that they look at me long enough to decide to want me. But, ah, they never did."

Andy squeezes his fingers. Her heart hurts—it hurts suddenly for him.

"And it took a long time, believe me," he murmurs, "to eventually realize that no one was going to adopt me. So I stayed there until I turned eighteen. The people in the foster care were nice enough to give me a roof above my head and food on the table. Got through high school with double jobs and student loans."

Andy curls herself further into him and asks softly, "And college?"

Rhysand answers, "Earned enough to get myself a shitty room to rent after high school. Worked at odd places again to afford the tuition. Got my first job after that."

"Your previous one," she mutters. "Before this."

"Yeah," he says lowly. "I, um, it was shitty, too. I was miserable, but I was glad enough to have a job. A good-paying one at least. And then I met Jenner and Veronica."

Andy swallows the lump in her throat. "When you were sent here."

Rhysand nods. He stares at her. "For the first time, Sanford—I was happy. But, uh, she eventually got tired of the long distance. She claimed that I couldn't take care of her—said that my career was shitty enough as it is, so we broke up."

Andy's jaw clenches. "She's wrong."

Rhysand's lips curve upwards. "I know," he murmurs. "And I left that company as soon as I heard back from one that I applied to. Here. In South Bend. I contacted Jenner, and, well, you know the rest. And I'm past that. I'm past it. I just wanted you to know."

She tucks her face against his neck and presses her lips on his skin—just near his pulse point. "Thank you for telling me," she whispers to him, clutching his shirt. "For trusting me."

Rhysand grips her hip. "The picture," he starts, "is a reminder for me. To work hard to be in your future."

Andy inhales shakily. There's a rush of emotion flowing through her system that she can't name or decipher—and it's a little, no, beyond overwhelming. She clasps her hands tighter against his shirt. "Rhys—"

"Sunshine," he murmurs, "truthfully...Jenner's been my only home."

He doesn't say it, but he doesn't need to. Andy understands.

There's wetness clinging to her lashes when Andy pulls back, tenderly cups Rhysand's face, and without no other thought than this...this staggering wave of emotion that engulfs her heart and soul and body whole, she kisses him.

Andy feels as if she's memorizing the shape of Rhysand's lips against her own. She kisses him softly. Slowly. Sweetly. Tries to tell him.

And Rhysand understands the words Andy can't say yet.

She moves back, presses one last kiss to his lips, and God, she's crying.

Rhysand says, "You kissed me first."

Andy lets out a weak laugh and wipes her tears away. "I did. Where are the damn speakers Veronica gave you? I don't want you to use them anymore. At all. Throw them away."

Her boyfriend drops his head on her shoulder. "I gave them to Jenner the moment you told me you wish they'd burn."

There it goes again. Another tidal wave. Is this what it feels like to have her heart so enchantingly captured by dark eyes and the taste of cigarettes?

Andy sniffles. "Really?"

Rhysand's silence is enough of an affirmation.

Andy hugs him tighter. "I don't understand how anyone could not want you, Rhysand. You—you're—"

"Shut up," Rhysand whispers into her skin. "You want me. I don't give a fuck about the rest of the world anymore."

She takes his face into her hands again and kisses him again. Gently. "Okay."

"That's twice now."

"Stop pointing it out, it's embarrassing," Andy whines, smacking him on the shoulder.

Rhysand's eyebrow raises. "What? All it took was for me to tell you about my shitty childhood?"

Andy purses her lips and taps her fingers against his neck. "It's not shitty. And no, I just—you opened up to me. You rarely do."

Rhysand's eyes search hers, but he doesn't say anything in response.

Andy grabs the picture. "You look like you're thinking of something," she notes, focused on the look on his face. "What was on your mind? Was I annoying you?"

He shakes his head. Hugs her again. "No," he murmurs. "This was just the moment that I knew."

Rhysand doesn't offer anything more than that, and Andy doesn't ask.

"Can we go to the shelter today?"

Rhysand laughs once. "Yeah. Whatever you want."