Andy gets into an accident. Rhysand doesn't give a fuck about the Porsche.

*

Rhysand is in a meeting with one of their new artists when he gets a call.

Discreetly, he turns his phone over, checking the screen, furrowing his eyebrows to see that it's his wife calling.

She's been calling a lot these past few days—just to say that she misses him, to ask what he had for lunch, to remind him she'll pick him up for dinner or vice versa, to squeal and announce that she felt their baby kicking. Normally, Rhysand doesn't mind. He has his own studio and a fuckin' receptionist, and those calls from her are highlights of his day—but when he's in meetings, he directs them to voicemail.

Andrea knows this. He's not ignoring her, he's just in a meeting.

So he puts it face down again on the table, refocusing his attention on his work.

But then it buzzes again, and Rhysand furrows his eyebrows, turning it over to read the message.

Hi baby, i know you're in a meeting rn so i'm not gonna call anymore, but call me back when you have the time because i need to tell you something

He stares at his screen for a few moments, and types his reply under the table. Is everything okay?

The chat bubbles appear quickly for a few seconds and dance. Then they're gone. Then they're up again.

Rhysand frowns, fingers tapping his thigh impatiently, raising his head to let his co-workers know he's listening.

He is. Beyond the sound of his slowly increasing heartbeat.

Finally, his phone buzzes again. Please don't get mad

Now, Rhysand is confused. What happened, sunshine

Please just don't get mad is his wife's response again.

Rhysand scrapes his chair back and stands. His co-workers look at him, blinking, stopping mid-sentence, and he gruffly says, "Excuse me for a moment. Please continue."

Outside, he pushes his finger down on the button and calls her.

Andrea picks up with one ring. "Rhys," she whispers.

That is not helping. "What happened?" he snaps. "I'm worried."

Andrea sucks in a deep breath, noise at her end of the line. Rhysand checks his watch, it's only two o'clock. She's supposed to be in school.

"You remember I drove one of the cars this morning to work," she mumbles, the anxiousness evident in her voice.

Rhysand blinks. Yes, he had to go to work early, and Dean was off today, and Andrea insisted she can drive herself to work. He waits for his wife to keep talking, to elaborate, but she doesn't, and Rhysand says, "Okay? How is that supposed to make me—"

"I got into an accident," Andrea rushes to say.

"You what." Rhysand grabs the nearest piece of furniture he can touch.

"Oh my God, baby, don't be mad," Andrea pleads, clearly almost on the verge of tears. "I'm so sorry, I'm at the hospital right now but the car is fine—no, no it's not, it's ruined, shit, but—"

"Which hospital?" Rhysand asks, speed-walking to his studio. "Are you hurt? What about our baby?"

"I'm fine, we're fine," she answers quickly through her tears, and Rhysand's knees fucking buckle. "And Grace Medical, but I'll be out of here in no time, I can still drive the car back—no, oh my God, I don't want to ruin it again—"

"I don't give a shit about the car, Andrea!" Rhysand shouts, pushing open the door to his studio, snatching his bag, barely even stopping a step before he's out the door again. He's not—God, he's not angry. He's just had several heart attacks and his wife is—Jesus Christ, she's worried about the goddamn car. "Sit down and wait for me," he snaps, ending the call.

Derek catches him in the parking lot, blinking. "What's the rush, Rhys—"

Rhysand doesn't bother. He steps on the gas and puts on his seatbelt.

He makes it to the hospital in fifteen minutes, and he's pretty sure his fucking hair has turned white during the drive over. He rushes inside the waiting area, where Andrea said she was, and when he finally spots her, his knees almost sink to the floor.

She's fine. There's a small bandage on her head, and her hand is safely on top of her growing belly, and she's fine. Crying, but fine and intact.

Rhysand breathes, kneeling in front of her, hanging his head. "Jesus Christ."

Andrea's fingers go to his hair soothingly. "I'm sorry about the car," she whispers.

"Please just tell me you're fine. Our baby's fine," Rhysand says, shaking his head.

Andrea leans down to kiss his forehead. "We're both fine, love," she whispers softly. "I just have a little scratch on the head."

He stands shakily and sinks down on the seat beside her, shutting his eyes. "Okay," he mutters, taking her hand, squeezing it. Rhysand breathes out. "Okay."

Andrea hugs his arm and puts her chin on his shoulder. "Sorry for worrying you," she whispers.

Rhysand shakes his head. "Scaring," he corrects quietly. "You scared me."

"I'm sorry," she mutters, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "Can we go home, please? I'm tired."

Rhysand nods and kisses her head, pulling her up with him, interlacing their fingers together. "Yeah. Let's go."

Andrea hugs his arm while they walk toward the exit, and they only take a few steps out the door before a man comes storming over to them.

His wife clicks her tongue and mutters, "Oh, shit."

Rhysand raises an eyebrow.

"You!" the man yells, pointing at her. Andrea flinches at the voice and takes a step back. Rhysand stares at that finger, and then at the asshole, tilting his head to the side. "You little bitch, you owe me a new car!"

"You're the one who slammed into me!" Andrea argues, eyebrows drawing together. "You moved out of your lane, I don't owe you shit!"

Rhysand steps forward, and that's only when the shithead looks him up and down. He stares at him and says, "You crashed into her?"

"I'm not talking to you," the asshole sneers, hand reaching out to push him aside, already walking towards his wife. "Maybe pregnant sluts like you should learn how to drive first before—"

Rhysand takes the wrist about to touch his sweater—his very expensive sweater, mind you—and twists that.

The shithead's eyes widen, a groan caught in his throat.

Rhysand stares at him, putting more force to his hand. "You don't touch her," he says quietly. "And you apologize to her. And then you walk away."

The man does as he says, cradling his wrist.

Andrea grabs his hand. "That was hot, husband."

Rhysand rolls his eyes, wrapping an arm around her. "Well, it's good to know you're not the one at fault."

If she had been the one who crashed into the asshat, Rhysand would've offered to pay for the damages—if the man were respectful. Angry, yes, because anger was understandable. But not disrespect and pointing fingers and yelling and calling his wife names.

Andrea sighs. "I'm so sorry about the car, Rhys."

Why does she keep apologizing about it? Jesus. "I don't care about the car," he says tiredly, pressing her to him. "Which one, anyway?"

His wife pauses. And then, "The Porsche."

Ah. "That's why you keep apologizing." He runs a hand through his face, mouth curving into a smile. "We'll buy a new Porsche. Just don't...crash it the next time."

"He's the one who crashed into me," she says, pouting.

Rhysand laughs and kisses her. "I'm kidding, baby." He leans down to kiss her bandage sweetly, cradling the back of her head, and then bends to kiss her stomach. "Thank God both of you are okay."