Tecchou's #1 Wife

There’s nothing for him so I’ll write little shitty drabbles for him bc I miss him.

It survived exactly until auscultation.

The metal diaphragm met the bare skin of your back, its familiar chill drawing an involuntary shiver you bit back before he could comment on it. He worked methodically, the way he always did: upper lobes first, then down through the mid-zones, then the bases. Each placement deliberate, each breath timed to his instruction.

"In."

You inhaled.

"Out."

You exhaled.

"Again."

Another slow breath, and this time the stethoscope didn't move on.

It stayed.

It lingered a beat too long over one spot before sliding back, retracing the exact same path with precision.

Then again.

And once more, shifted an inch lower, as if triangulating something.

A small, cold knot of unease settled somewhere under your ribs, and vanished the instant the stethoscope lifted away.

You opened your mouth, some half-formed joke about finally being diagnosed as terminally dramatic already queued up on your tongue...

...Only for another instrument to take the stethoscope's place. Smaller. Colder. A pleximeter, tapped once against your back with two knuckles, mapping the dull thud of solid tissue against the hollow ring of healthy lung.

"...Veritas?" Your voice came out lighter than you meant it, threaded with the first real edge of concern.

He didn't answer. Percussed again, a hand's width to the left.

"Veritas?" Quieter this time.

"Silence." His voice came, clipped enough to stop the rest of your words from ever forming.

You obeyed.

You turned your head just enough to catch him from the corner of your eye. Ratio's attention remained fixed entirely on his examination. His brows were drawn together in a slight furrow, far from the familiar expression of exasperation you had grown accustomed to over the years, his expression one of deep concentration. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, thoughtful as he listened, then repositioned the instrument with meticulous care and whatever he was hearing — or not hearing — had clearly captured all of his attention.

For the first time since you'd known him, Dr. Veritas Ratio looked troubled.

"What other symptoms have you experienced?" He asked, finally, withdrawing the instrument and setting it down on the tray with care. Only then did he meet your eyes properly.

Usually you could read him without effort; the dry irritation worn like a second coat, the long-suffering patience, the faint permanent disappointment in a universe that so rarely met his standards.

This time...

You couldn't read him at all.

"What?" You ask, because for a second your brain seems to have forgotten how to arrange itself into a coherent thought, a nervous laugh escaping you because how else were you supposed to respond?

His gaze moved over you once, and then again, slower, as if the answer were written somewhere in the lines of your face and he were simply confirming what he already suspected.

"Dry cough," He stated, not a question. "Wheezing on exertion."

"Pain: sharp, stabbing, localized," His hand came back to your back, two fingers pressing briefly against a specific point along the lower right ribs, precise down to the intercostal space. "Here."

You went very still.

Because he was right.

Whatever showed on your face in that moment must have confirmed it for him, because something in his expression shifted by the smallest possible degree.

"I—" You started, and stopped, because there was nothing useful to put after it. He hadn't guessed. Guessing implied uncertainty, and there had been none in his voice at all. He had known, or narrowed the field so precisely that knowing was the only word left for it.

The cough had started weeks ago... a minor irritation, easy to ignore until it became frequent enough that you simply absorbed it into the shape of your day. The wheezing had followed soon after, subtle enough to blame on exhaustion. The pain, you'd decided, was a pulled muscle.

Ratio didn't wait for you to speak up. He stepped back from the exam table with the brisk efficiency of a man who has already moved three stages ahead of the conversation, pressed your shirt back into your hands without looking at you while he did it, and pulled out his phone. His thumb moved across the screen fast enough to suggest irritation, though you had the distinct, uneasy feeling the irritation wasn't aimed at you.

"Get dressed," he said, without looking up. "You're getting a chest radiograph."

"...You're joking."

"I have yet to make one." Still no glance spared. "Auscultation and percussion are suggestive, not diagnostic. I have a suspicion I am not willing to speak aloud until it can be confirmed or excluded on imaging. Speculation without evidence is intellectually irresponsible."

There was no room in his tone for negotiation, and you found you had none of your usual arguments to offer against it. His phone chimed; he silenced it and pocketed it in the same motion, already halfway through composing whatever came next in his head.

"If I'm wrong," he said, quieter now, "I'll say so plainly. But if I'm not..."

His eyes dropped, briefly, to your mouth, and then away again, as though he'd caught himself lingering on something he shouldn't.

"Then wasting even a minute would be unacceptable."

-

Three days later, you were back in his office, and the air in the room felt entirely different.

Ratio stood behind his desk holding your imaging results like the datapad itself had personally wronged him. None of his usual dry impatience remained. No sharp remark waited at the edge of his tongue. There was something careful and grave in the set of his shoulders, the posture of a man delivering news he genuinely wished he didn't have to.

"...Hanahaki?" You echoed, the word didn't feel real in your mouth.

He'd said more than that, you knew he had. A measured explanation, clinical and sequential, meant to walk you toward the conclusion rather than drop it on you. Medical terminologies. Differential diagnoses. But the moment the name of the disease registered, everything else seemed to blur at the edges, your mind refusing to hold onto anything past it.

"Hanahaki," He confirmed, his voice remaining steady as though he's speaking about the weather rather than a potentially fatal disease — a stark contrast to the tension in his shoulders. "Fortunately, you're in the early stages. The radiographer's initial read found no significant abnormality, which is not uncommon at this stage. Organic plant tissue in the early phase has a radiographic density close enough to soft tissue that it can be missed on a first pass."

He tapped the datapad, enlarging a portion of the image.

You looked at where he pointed. You had no idea what you were looking at.

Hanahaki.

Hanahaki.

Hanahaki.

"On closer review," He continued, "we identified faint branching opacities extending outward from the hilar structures bilaterally, more pronounced on the right."

He traced the shape with one finger, not quite touching the screen.

"Here. Root-stage growth, following the bronchovascular bundles rather than invading independently; Consistent with early presentation."

You tried to listen. You did.

"The overall burden remains limited. No evidence of significant airway obstruction so far, and flow measurements from your spirometry this morning were within an acceptable range given your symptoms."

Hanahaki.

"Several mediastinal lymph nodes have reacted to the foreign tissue and are mildly enlarged; An immune response, not a sign of malignant spread. I want to be precise about that distinction."

Your head swam.

None of it made sense laid next to the word itself. Hanahaki didn't happen to people who weren't in love. And you weren't. Not like that.

You'd never had some doomed, aching romance. Never pined after anyone from a careful distance. Never stared at a holo-message at two in the morning wondering if you should send it. So who—

You looked up.

"—given the anatomical location, the exertional dyspnea and localized pain are both expected findings, not incidental ones—"

You stopped hearing the rest of it.

Because you were looking at him. Really looking, in the way you apparently hadn't let yourself in longer than you wanted to admit.

The sharp, deliberate lines of his face. The furrow between his brows that appeared only when he was thinking past the edge of what he already knew. The way his hands moved when he explained something complicated, like every idea needed to be physically arranged in the air in order to be understood correctly. The way his voice picked up, almost imperceptibly, whenever the subject was something he actually cared about.

Your friend.

Your brilliant, insufferable, infuriatingly handsome friend.

But just a friend......... You'd have said, with total confidence, right up until about four minutes ago.

The one you told first when something good happened.

The one whose opinion mattered more than it had any right to.

The one whose messages you reread before answering, editing your own replies more carefully than you'd ever admit to him.

The one whose approval left you embarrassingly pleased with yourself, and whose disappointment — however mild, however quickly hidden behind irritation — stung far more than it should have.

The realization hit with enough force to nearly take the breath you didn't have to spare.

His voice kept going somewhere behind the rush of your own pulse, words about staging and prognosis and intervention windows arriving distorted, as if from another room. The office seemed to tilt very slightly around the fixed point of him standing there, results in hand, wearing that terrible, careful composure of a man who had already done the difficult part of the work and now had to hand the rest of it back to you.

Then the cough came.

Dry, catching low in your throat, and then harder, wheezing as your body reacted faster than your mind could keep up with. You doubled forward, one hand rising to your mouth, horror rising in you in a slow, merciless wave that had nothing to do with the diagnosis and everything to do with what you'd just understood underneath it.

He crossed the room before the second cough finished. Concern broke across his face for exactly one unguarded second before professional composure closed back over it, and his hand settled at your shoulder, steadying.

Warm.

The contact only made it worse, because now every strange, discarded feeling of the past several months was clicking into place with horrible clarity.

Every lingering glance you'd told yourself was nothing, every small flicker of anticipation before seeing him, every unreasonable rush of happiness whenever he chose to spend time with you over someone more deserving of it, every fluttering thing you'd filed under admiration because the real word had never once occurred to you as a possibility.

Oh.

Oh, no.

The realization crashes into you with all the subtlety of a collapsing star, no matter how hard some small, panicking part of you clawed for an alternate explanation.

You were in love. Hopelessly. Catastrophically.

You were in love with Veritas Ratio.

And the cruelest part of the entire, humiliating picture was this: the man currently holding you upright through a coughing fit, one hand steady on your shoulder and his brilliant, furious brain already three steps into solving a problem he didn't yet know he is the cause of.

Legends once said that every being on the universe are an incarnation of a star, whereas any body, including those Intellitron or even Imaginae, will have a minimal tiny speck of stardust concentrated on their own body.

It starts from a lonely, mesmerizing cloud wandering all their way to find its own cause of precipitate, trying to find their own purpose(s) of why the supernova remnants chose them.

First, they were skeptical, but when all the matters solidified, such as stardusts themselves, a scorching star will born from there, like a ballerina spins, the closer she pulls herself in, the faster she will turn, slowly making a star forgets that they were once a dust before.

Another thing is, when a star almost met its end, it will gradually became a white dwarf, they can choose on becoming another supernova for other future stars, or collapse so that they can be a neutron star or the black hole itself—which never left you speechless, on how they will absorb anything into their own body, greedily drowned themselves in ecstasy.

"Idiocy is not on my requirements for my soulmate list."

The violet haired professor staring intently at your whole body, while you quietly see the stars, humming a forgotten lullaby.

"… I'm very aware of that, Mr. Ratio.”

You absurdly stopped your hum, now looking directly on his head, "but that doesn't mean that the very Veritas Ratio himself agreed to those child-like agreement called matchmaking, right?" You sarcastically cheerfully asked to the only man, head still as attractive as ever.

You realized that his brows knitting for a mere second, after that he scoffs, "I agreed because the algorithm's methodology interested me. So, no less."

Your smile rose slyly, wondering on how this bastard prodigy accepted this unthinkable meeting without his annoy— ahem, white head on.

"Ah, another important question, do you have any stargazing place on your house?"

LovOrbit, a matchmaking app made by the Interastral Peace Corporation for any being who are thirsty for an euphoric feeling called love, already exist from three Amber Eras ago, successfully made billions of people find their other half by a simple click.

All you need is your full government name and from what world you came from, you will eventually get paired by someone that has the same gravitational frequency as yours, a soul—or mechanical body—whose orbit aligns perfectly with your own.

Once the system detects any kind of mutual resonance, LovOrbit, or the AI called Orbi, will synchronizes both of your timelines, creating a private bubble where only the two of you exist until you decide to meet.

The IPC themselves claimed LovOrbit has 99% success rate. Which only raised one question: how, in any Aeon's name, had it paired you with Dr. Veritas Ratio himself? While in reality, you're actually a nobody, like a nobody in any language if we compare it to Dr. Ratio himself—well, not really.

You're normal, you were born and raised in Lushaka, a Luvian that loves to see the sea of stars because they look different than the blue seas and the boring stateships you always see in your childhood memories. Any astronomical-related books left by the Old Era is your source of craving for diving in the stellar ocean, and fortunately the now you is a wanderer among them.

You left Lushaka on your 21st birthday, saying goodbye to your home world was hard, but it does worth as you now a proud Armed Archaeologist member with your newest discovery; Meteoric Bullet with your team, what's more surprising is that they were already exist from even all humanity doesn't.

So of course, you’re proud of yourself. Even the little you would beaming in a biiig grin. But those always comes with a price, in your honest opinion, the stars had always been easier to understand than people.

Unfortunately, Veritas Ratio counted as both.

"Something on your mind? or someone already lost its consciousness due to their brain crashed mid-process?" Ah yes, a peculiar Nous please see me >.< professor with his dear stupid alabaster head, how dare he disturbs your romantic date with the stars above?

"At least they will explode gracefully. You imbe— ah I mean, dear beloved husband, that imploding his partner by talking pure nonsense."

It's already been three days since your marriage...? with this one and only Dr. Ratio, better if you ask yourself why in the first place you agreed, but hey at least his gazebo is a nice spot for stargazing.

The first day you're in, aka the night after a feverish dream called your marriage, it only filled with you unpacking your belonging, ahem, maybe you unpacking is not the right word, but you giving some reasonable/? commands to your AI assistant to arrange your belonging.

Well, a little bit cruel for your own built AI, but at least your lazy ass tired after party body wouldn't be sick after all of that, yes? After all, a little bit of laying down wouldn't hurt a fly, they say.

The second day, your newly husband already gone, cheating with his work life meanwhile you on the other hand still on the nirvana, waiting to dear nearest star's light to wake you up with rather annoying customizable alarm(s) from your AI, duh.

Fortunately your work life isn't as strict as him, bless those Armed Archaeologists.

The next day which was today, he suprisingly has a day off, that was really suspicious of him while he was a literal professor himself, which from your knowing will always have those students lurking to him 24/7.

You squinted at the tea mug in your hand. “Ah, I better be worried,” you muttered, “if the great Professor Ratio voluntarily takes a break. Either the university burned down, or he’s planning something equally catastrophic.”

A low voice answered. “Catastrophic? hardly. Though I do appreciate your concern for my productivity.”

You didn’t even look at his well being. “Concern implies emotional investment. I’m merely curious how a man who worships logic decided to take a sabbatical from it.”

“Marriage is a contractual arrangement,” he said flatly, “logically, it requires time to evaluate the other party.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Heh, evaluate? What am I, a research subject for your stupid experiment?”

“If the shoe fits.” he answers with— oh, he has his white head on.

You sipped your tea, “you know, for someone with eight PhDs, you’re remarkably bad at human interaction.”

He gave the voice that will scream that mischievous smirk, "and yet, you married me.”

“Temporary insanity. It happens to geniuses too.” you then look away from your tea mug to the captivating stars, giving a honeyed tone to the man that standing beside you.

“That would explain several of your recent decisions." you scoffs at his statement, starting to feel a liitle bit regretful.

Surprisingly unsurprising, living in a same house as Veritas Ratio is not that kind of bad, he's pretty much like a typical quiet roommate you'll have in a university dorm, heck he even cooks better than you so you frequently caught enjoying his food more often than before.

Ah, did you mention how he always takes his bath time forever?

You never notice that because of your routine, wakes up later in the morning, head always rummaging around for a fresh cup of coffee after that.

Thus at some point, you stopped asking whether the kettle had already been boiled or not. Because from somewhere on your memory, it always was.

And there was always food too.

Not explicitly prepared for you, of course. Your husband would never phrase it that way, yet the portions had a strange tendency of being… divisible by two.

You learned not to comment on it.

He would only respond with something infuriatingly clinical like, “You are welcome to interpret coincidence however you wish.”

You didn’t, sometimes will narrow your eyes because some foods are not your liking but never explicitly say that. Let alone cooking another piece of food.

But you still ate it, no?

Once in a rare Sunday, you will wake up minutes earlier than usual, your head having the best bed hair ever that time, with a cup of coffee on your hand, you rub your eye with a hand stretching upward—you don’t like how sweet it was, though—.

Then, you stopped at the bathroom’s door—the one on the kitchen, specifically—, the grey colored thing still closed behind.

You quickly muttered, “How does one even take a bath that long?”

He doesn’t answer. Either not hearing, or choosing not to. There’s no in between.

You blink slowly, then roll your eyes, coffee already halfway finished before you decide it’s too early to argue with a closed door.

So you don’t, before some illogical arguments start fulfilling your air-filled morning head.

Instead, you walk to the couch, to the one that has comfy synthetic leather that glows over within your reflection.

To the one that has somehow become yours, even if neither of you ever said it out loud.

You sit down, sinking into the familiar softness, coffee warm between your hands.

The light on the surface reminds you of when you were a child, so curious about the world, yet body too little to decide whether something was wrong about it.

…

“Only an idiot would sabotage the remainder of their day by rushing through its first hour."

Until a calm voice suddenly stopped your daydream, cold enough to act as a reminder to yourself, yet you find yourself chuckling at his abrupt voice, the surface of your coffee trembling ever so slightly in your hands.

Small ripples danced across the surface of your coffee as you lowered the cup. “Ah, there he is, a very smug bastard on a peaceful morning.”

His presence wasn’t even in the same room as you, he’s still enjoying his dear time on a date with maybe his concrete book, analyzing oh so slightly his study inside a literal bathtub.

"… research suggests that a well-maintained bathing routine improves both physical and mental health."

You took another sip of coffee.

"Research also suggests that people should sleep eight hours a day."

He scoffed. "Correct."

Before you add, "You don't do that either,” in a such teasing tone.

A quiet laugh escaped you, sending small ripples across the surface of your nearly finished coffee.

Silence.

A slow grin threatening enough spread across your face.

Another sip.

"So we're selectively trusting research now."

For once in a blue moon, the professor had nothing to say. That was definitely going into your archives.

"A disappointing attempt at rhetoric."

Click.

"If you're done celebrating mediocrity, your breakfast is getting cold." The bathroom door finally opened. Veritas Ratio stepped out a moment later, violet hair still damp from his shower and a towel draped loosely over his shoulder.

You narrowed your eyes at him over the rim of your coffee cup.

"Good morning to you too."

Breakfast followed shortly after. The house settled into a familiar rhythm, you sat across the table, while Ratio—with his book—occasionally turning a page as you worked through your breakfast.

Until—

"reminder."

You groaned, “No."

"Reminder."

"No."

"You have an Armed Archaeologist briefing in two hours."

"... oh."

You stared blankly into your plate. It was two hours away. Two hours before responsibility came knocking at your door on a lazy Sunday morning.

How tragic.

"Master’s reaction suggests the briefing is mandatory."

"Don't say things I don't wanna hear."

In front of you, Ratio calmly took another sip of tea. “Reality remains reality regardless of your preferences."

You frowned, “And people wonder why nobody likes philosophers."

Beside you, your AI patiently waited for your attention.

"Would you like me to postpone the reminder?"

Hope sparked within you.

"Can you?"

“No.”

"Then why the hell did you ask?" your frown deepened, even the breakfast suddenly turned into not delicious anymore. You have lost your appetite.

“I must say that even an artificial being can be more logical than a human, can’t it?”

“Why are you suddenly in the same boat as my AI?” you pouted, huffing from irritation. The man in front of you looked annoyingly pleased with himself, that infuriating smirk already back on his feeble face.

He opened his mouth, “I merely returned the favor.” His honeyed tone somehow made him even more punchable.

In a blink, your briefing ended.

Nah, better to phrase it as:

With twenty four questions, one headache, and seventeen unnecessary meetings afterward, you were beginning to understand why people occasionally fantasized about launching themselves into space.

Fortunately, the day wasn't over yet.

Unfortunately, neither was your grocery list.

How your peaceful Sunday somehow ended with a grocery list remained a mystery. But if anyone was to blame, it was the man with the suspiciously judgmental red eyes.

Shortly after your briefing ended, your torture day seems to be unending.

Ever since the briefing began, your AI had been enthusiastically summarizing every single thing your colleagues said. Unfortunately, it never learned the value of brevity.

Also the way Hosea Lazaro—one of your colleagues—wholeheartedly also yapped about his great invention called Galaxy Guide or whatever that was right to your ears,

…

And his confessed sin that he once blew a hole inside Herta Space Station, how did he even ran away from his absurd galactic shenanigans? Hell even still employed after all of that.

Meh, in everything, you find yourself in front of an inter-astral supermarket, funded by the IPC themselves, with a peculiar alasbaster-head man beside you.

“Fascinating. You abruptly stopped walking.”

You slowly blink, your head automatically moved to the direction that has a mundane scholar, innocently deadpanned, you say:

“I was looking at something.”

“Very nice indeed, that was my second hypothesis.”

Far away from you two, in front of an atrium stood a suspiciously enthusiastic cluster of university students. Even one of them has a stack of books floating around her, with a… poster?

Oh shoot.

Beside you, he trails your vision then immediately scoffed at a bold writing that says:

PROFESSOR RATIO APPRECIATION CLUB

You blink again, not wanting to believe what your eyes had read.

But reality remains reality, that poster was real, and so the lurking students.

You always knew that your husband has a fan club. After all, you’re not that kind of chronically offline.

But seeing them in real life, especially with said husband standing right next to you. Makes you want to dig a hole then live in there forever.

Thus, much like worker bees finding a patch of flowers, the news traveled alarmingly fast.

“IS THAT PROF RATIO???”

“WHERE??”

“OH MY NOUS IT IS?!”

“Who’s that person beside him?”

“His assistant?”

“I thought he worked alone!”

“Should we like, say hello?”

“NO, DON'T RUN.”

Your eye twitching, you quietly mutter,

“they’re multiplying.”

Horrified at the thought how parasocial they can be, you can’t help but sneak a glance on him.

…

Then again, perhaps you had no right to judge.

Judging by how unbothered he looked, this was merely another day in his life.

His violet hair was still hidden beneath that ridiculous white head, though fortunately he wasn't crossing his arms. Experience had taught you that would've been a much worse sign.

To him, the enthusiastic crowd seemed no more noteworthy than the stars you spent hours staring at.

“WAIT IS PROF RATIO STARING AT US??”

No,

he’s not.

You deadpanned inside.

In fact, judging by the direction of his gaze/?, he was staring at a discounted packet of tea leaves.

“Are they this kind of enthusiast when you meet them or what.”

“From your reaction, you've yet to grasp how remarkably persistent they can be.”

Well, you couldn’t handle all of that.

You thanked your job once more.

Not until one of the brave soul from that crowd suddenly approaching you two, with such hesitation, he trembled slightly.

“Pr, Prof Ratio, is that your assistant?”

Oh how you love this Sunday.

Patience breeds success, they say. The singular college student patiently waits for his dear professor—or even you—to answer his simple question.

“Mr. Hastings, ever wondered why assumptions are considered one of the greatest obstacles to one’s rational thought?”

The student visibly froze.

“I— what?”

“You observed an unfamiliar individual standing beside me and immediately concluded they were an assistant of mine. Tell me, what evidence led you to such a conclusion?”

“W, well…”

“Nothing substantial, I presume.”

The poor student opened and closed his mouth twice.

Beside him, you quietly took a step away. “Professor, please don't start.”

“I am merely correcting a misconception.”

“Nuh uh, you're publicly executing him.” You want to roll your eyes, but you restrain yourself from doing so.

He replied with a voice that teased a smirk, “An unfortunate but educational side effect.”

The surrounding students had gone eerily silent.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Ratio adjusted his gloves. “For future reference, they are my spouse.”

The silence somehow became even louder.

“Oh.”

One of them let out a small squeak.

Unfortunately, the sound wasn't nearly enough to restart whatever mental processes had just crashed.

Then silence again. A complete, uninterrupted silence.

The sort that only appeared when an entire collective consciousness ceased functioning at once.

"???"

"How.”

"... oh."

“OH???”

“WHAT!??”

Judging by the collective expression before you, half the club had just ascended to another plane of existence.

… poor you and fuck his stupid grocery date.

You know you would have the loudest—

““OH MY NOUS—””

There goes your silly days without any worry about stalkers and media.

You could practically feel every pair of eyes in the supermarket fixed on you.

Meanwhile, the big meanie responsible for this humiliating situation was busy inspecting groceries as if he hadn't just detonated your social life.

“If you're formulating a complaint,” he said without looking up, “I recommend expressing it before it consumes the remainder of your cognitive resources."

You open your lips, then close it again. A huff then coming from your mouth, “why in the first place—“

“I ask you to do the groceries with me?” Checkmate, Prof Ratio.

You fixed him with a stare, waiting for his logical explanation for it while you two can just order it online, arms now crossing.

“… refrain from asking rhetorical questions if you already know the answer.”

“The current discrepancy between your accomplishments and public recognition remains statistically irrational."

Is he flirting with you?

“And no, I’m not doing everything you have on your brain now.” He deadpanned.

The sheer audacity of this man…

“Are you done yet inspecting your grocery or you have other things on your mind?” Non enthusiastic you ask another question, still with Ratio himself has his eyes on some discounted vegetables.

You didn’t wait for an answer, so of course, as you not wanting to have more association with the man, you walk away to the fruit stall, the one beside the vegetable section.

An apple then piqued your interest, with how delighted its red shining beneath the lights, making it impossible to resist picking it up.

“That variety of apple contains approximately 0.3 grams less vitamin C than the one beside it,” he chimed in, “I assume the latter would be a more rational choice if our objective is obtaining nutritional value.”

You stared at the apple in your hand.

Then at him.

Then back at the apple.

“It's an apple.”

“Yes.”

“You just lectured me over an apple.”

“Correction. I prevented you from making an inferior decision.”

You slowly lowered the fruit, eyes narrowing, “Did you follow me here just to tell me that?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To tell you that your selection criteria are questionable.”

The urge to launch the apple directly at his alabaster head was becoming increasingly tempting.

After what felt like an eternity of unsolicited nutritional advice, their grocery date was finally drawing to a close.

Standing before an automatic checkout station, you volunteered to scan the groceries while Veritas Ratio reviewed the shopping list. As insufferable as he was, at least his organizational habits remained alarmingly consistent.

A cyan holographic grocery list floated beside him as he patiently checked off each item you scanned, "… may I ask why you suddenly decided to buy all-purpose flour?"

For half a second, he froze.

It was brief. So brief that anyone else might have missed it.

Unfortunately for him, you weren't anyone else.

"Is that another rhetorical question?"

“No? I don’t even remember we went to other section beside of groceries and beverages.” You denied immediately.

"Yes, we went there for a minute and twenty-four seconds." A pause, "I merely remembered that you once mentioned a Lushakan pastry."

You stared at him.

??? When.

"Two months ago."

That did not answer the silent question.

"When."

"The symposium on Epsilon-7."

You continued staring. Ratio sighed.

"You were complaining about the catering."

"… you claimed the pastries were inferior to a fried sweet bread commonly sold near the docks of Lushaka."

"You then spent approximately seven minutes describing that."

"..."

"And somehow," he added dryly, "I am the one being interrogated about it."

You sure he didn’t just flirting with you???

You were beginning to suspect that either Veritas Ratio had a deeply concerning memory, or he was flirting.

Unfortunately, both possibilities were equally plausible.

“Now, can we continue the delayed checkout activity, no?”

In front of the inter-astral supermarket door, your hand has a small eco-bag containing your dear apples, which him on the other side obviously has a bigger eco-bag on his hand.

You two walked together. Well, not exactly together.

It’s more like in the same general direction. Unfortunately too, that distinction seemed irrelevant to everyone else.

Inside your mind, you were still trying to determine whether Veritas Ratio possessed an alarmingly selective memory or an equally alarming tendency to flirt.

Before you could arrive at a conclusion, something landed lightly atop your head.

...

You stopped walking.

A gloved hand. A very familiar gloved hand.

Slowly, you turned.

Ratio had already withdrawn it.

"Your expression was becoming increasingly absurd."

"..."

"There’s a leaf on top of your head earlier.”

"You just touched my head."

"I am aware."

That was not an explanation.

In fact, it somehow raised even more questions.

“WHAT???”

“HE PATTED THEIR HEAD??”

“WRITE THAT DOWN! NO, DOCUMENT IT!!”

“I ALREADY AM!!!”

Somewhere far away from you two, spotted the infamous fan club of your husband— is that a fucking telescope??

“Ratio.”

“Yes?”

“Go away.”

.

.

.

Fortunately, your own replica of Space Anchor functions really well.

All thanks to those kind Trailblazers or otherwise taking a public spaceship after today's events would've forced you into permanent self-exile.

Before the very eyes of you, stood a familiar house you spent looking at it for months.

“Is something really the matter?”

And the annoying owner of the house was standing directly behind you.

“I’m considering whether moving into a hole would be a better long-term investment.”

“The ventilation would be suboptimal.”

“I’m not asking you.”

Examining his gazebo then to the man, you wondered why a place as pretty like that has an owner whose name start with V and ends with eritas Ratio.

…

Hmph, whatever.

Looking away, your eyes thoughtlessly drifted toward his hands.

Familiar gloves,

familiar posture,

familiar voice...

Somewhere between grocery lists, burnt coffee, endless student complaints, and breakfasts that always appeared on time...

those things had stopped belonging to Veritas Ratio.

They had simply become part of your day.

When had that happened?

When had Veritas Ratio become familiar?

That whip splash hit you like a brick.

Cruel enough to be thrown without a kiss.

Two weeks after that incidentTM.

Especially the day after his fan club spotted the two of you, the IPC's radio, Interastral Peace Broadcast gleefully announced your marriage,

… even though the ceremony had happened months ago.

You blame him for your peaceful day loss, yet he didn’t even bat an eye for your pathetic complaint.

But, the house was quieter lately.

Not empty. It just quieter.

Your husband continue to cheat on his work life, leaving you and your assistant AI back in home for approximately three days.

Veritas Ratio had been away for two days now, attending some symposium on a planet whose name immediately escaped your memory.

A shame. You were sure it was probably important.

To him. Not to you.

Obviously.

The tea tasted different tonight. So you stared at the cup.

Then at the cabinet.

Then at the cup again.

Ah,

wrong tea leaves.

At some point during the past month, your favorite blend had mysteriously become the default option inside the kitchen.

Suspicious.

You blamed Ratio.

A sigh escaped you.

The stars remained beautiful, even the gazebo remained alluring.

The weather also had been surprisingly cooperative.

Everything was exactly where it should be.

So why did the house feel larger?

"..."

How annoying.

For someone whose greatest talents consisted of criticizing your life choices and relocating kitchen utensils, Veritas Ratio occupied an unreasonable amount of space.

You hated that realization.

“Master’s seem displeased. Is that perhaps because of Dr. Ratio?”

You blinked. Then immediately frowned.

“No.”

“Understood.”

The AI paused.

Then added, “Master has stared at the front door six times today.”

...

“That's unrelated.”

“Master also checked Dr. Ratio’s itinerary twice.”

“That's called curiosity.”

“Master additionally spent seventeen minutes complaining about the tea.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“The tea was objectively worse.”

“Understood.”

Your AI paused again.

A dangerous sign.

“Would Master like me to calculate the statistical probability that these events are connected?”

“No.”

“Noted.”

Silence settled once more between the two of you.

Above, the stars continued their endless dance.

Below, the tea remained mediocre.

You sighed. Again.

“Master sighed.”

“I know.”

“Master has sighed seven times in the last hour.”

“Thank you for your valuable contribution.”

“You are welcome.”

...

Sometimes you wondered why you built this thing.

Then again, Veritas Ratio once called it your most successful long-term project.

You hated the fact that he was probably correct.

Fortunately, the universe eventually remembered mercy.

Three days was apparently the maximum amount of time Veritas Ratio could remain away from home before the cosmos itself grew tired of him.

The front door slid open shortly after noon.

You only knew that because your AI announced it.

Not because you'd been listening for footsteps. Obviously.

"Dr. Ratio has returned." You looked up from your datapad.

"..."

"..."

"Why are you looking at me?"

The AI tilted its head. “No reason."

A lie. A terrible one.

Footsteps echoed through the hallway.

It was steady. Measured. Annoyingly recognizable.

A travel bag landed near the entrance. Then another.

You didn't bother greeting him, a perfectly reasonable decision. After all, he was merely returning from a symposium. Not a galactic war.

“Good afternoon." There goes the honeyed voice, which you immediately frowned.

Ah. There he was. The problem itself.

"Oh, you're alive."

"What a fascinating greeting."

"I try my best."

Ratio removed his gloves.

Carefully and methodically.

Like he was performing surgery instead of unpacking.

Then his eyes landed on the tea mug beside you.

"..."

"..."

"What?"

"Wrong blend."

You froze.

"..."

The bastard. The absolute bastard.

"It was the only one available." You lied like you’re breathing.

Ratio looked toward the cabinet, then back at you.

"The one you usually drink is on the second shelf."

...

How did he know that so quickly?

More importantly. Why did you suddenly feel caught?

"Congratulations." You deadpanned, “your observational skills remain functional."

"An expected outcome."

You wanted to throw the mug at him. Instead, you took another sip.

Still terrible.

Unfortunately.

A liittle less terrible now.

For a brief second, something shifted at the corner of his mouth.

Then it was gone.

A month has passed after that grocery incident.

Like your Credit, it was already running low for your new project with your team.

But at least it was worth because cooperating with the Genius Society themselves already a big dream for you and your team.

Specially it's the famous Intellitron with number code 76; Screwllum himself.

Also, did you mention the downside living together with him?

The answer is that you will eventually disturbed with mechanical voices from time to time.

Because of what? of course it’s because of his students.

With their endless energy, they’re waiting for the Professor’s approval for their theses, which fortunate enough from his scolds only will drive them away.

"Heh, seeing them like this remind me from those pitiful college era, luckily my professor is not a heartless being that has 3% of completion rate."

Enjoying swirls at late night balcony stargazing is always a nice thing to do, "The best thing about them is at least they're not foolish enough to embarrass me in the public."

"Oh, what a rare sight, a man that happily married with his dumb white head not wearing them tonight?"

From the side of your eye, you can see the menacing red pupils that unfortunately will stuck with you forever.

"Hmph, only one astute enough to see a Mundanite without his pride," smug smile plastered on his damn attractive face, “yet you call it really affectionate.”

“You can just admit that you devote an unreasonable amount of attention to me."

"Hm, there goes a narcissistic bastard that can't stop mumbling about his own face," you say it quietly, still admiring the stars.

“I always take pride in my education first, if I must say.”

Eyes both twinkling from the skies above, you blinked before answering the dear rhetoric question, “but still, better if you keep that white thing on, though."

"If not?"

He crosses his hands, waiting patiently for your response.

“If not—" taking a small walk, you're now standing in front of him, forcing two different pair of pupils staring at one another.

He immediately shuts his eyes, as if he knows your next move, but unfortunately high expectations always make things fall apart, and he's one of them.

.

.

.

"Pfft, you really thought I'm going to kiss your damn mouth?"

He blinks, startled by how close you still are.

You sigh, looking away. “... not tonight, you idiot.” he can see that your eyes are rolling, making an obnoxious excuse.

It’s half a lie.

You’re still fighting a smile.

Eyes continue to drinking ine tight of the stars, giving an uncertain cliffhanger ending to two beating hearts.

Then, before either of you can say anything else, you step close enough for your shoulder to brush his—

!!!

"Pfft— ha ha ha! look at your face, dear husband,"

For once, he failed to produce an immediate response.

Because from a mere kiss on his cheek.

Truly a remarkable achievement.

The faint redness at the tips of his ears remained long after he'd recovered.

"..."

"That was… unexpected."

"Your standards for entertainment continue to concern me."

But ah, how fortunate, the earlier event was real, and now you're giving him the biggest smirk ever.

“… good night, dear Veritas Ratio.”

You stepped away before he could reply.

For once, the professor seemed unusually reluctant to fill the silence.

And for the first time, you found yourself hoping he would stay that way a little longer.

Tonight, the captivating stars still shone beautifully.

The younger one is sprawled across the carpet with a blanket around her shoulders, dramatically upside down against the couch cushions in a position that looks profoundly uncomfortable and apparently isn’t.

The older sits cross-legged beside the coffee table surrounded by half-finished snacks and a notebook she’d insisted on bringing “for observations,” the nature of which she has not yet seen fit to specify.

Ratio sits in the armchair nearest the lamp, a book open in one hand.

It had been a different book an hour ago.

The first had been a comprehensive introduction to theoretical cartography that he had, in his considered opinion, selected reasonably. It covered exploration, discovery, the relationship between observation and recorded knowledge. Entirely appropriate.

“This is boring,” the younger one had announced, approximately four minutes in.

“Learning frequently is.”

“The sentences are too long.”

“Complex ideas require complex sentences.”

“Father.” The older one had looked up from her notebook. “We are nine and seven.”

A pause.

“The next chapter involves a stellar expedition,” he had tried.

“Does anyone get eaten?”

“Navigators are not typically—” He’d stopped. Looked at their faces. Closed the book with quiet dignity. “I’ll find something else.”

The current volume is an adventure, morally instructive, and the girls are significantly more engaged, which Ratio would never describe as a victory but which registers as one nonetheless.

“You skipped a page,” the younger one accuses.

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Ratio huffs. “An extraordinary claim. Present evidence.”

“The hero was in the cave and then suddenly outside the cave.”

“A transition of location does not inherently imply missing content.”

“It implies suspicious narration.”

“…That,” Ratio concedes, “is a defensible argument.”

Your younger daughter looks extraordinarily smug. The older one makes a note in her notebook without looking up.

“What are you writing?” Ratio asks.

“Observations.”

“On?”

“Father being wrong.”

Ratio gives her a look that has, in professional settings, caused grown adults to reconsider their life choices. She meets it with perfect equanimity, having apparently developed an immunity at some point in the last year.

He turns back to the book.

You step quietly into the room carrying fresh tea, pausing for a moment in the doorway.

The scene settles into you immediately—the rain against the glass, the warm pool of lamplight, the cushion-nest on the floor, the notebook-observations, the open book in Ratio’s hand.

Ratio looks up first.

The shift in his expression is subtle enough that the girls likely miss it entirely. You don’t. The faint easing around his eyes. The immediate, undemonstrated awareness of you.

“You’re still awake,” he says.

“You say that like you aren’t.”

“I’m correcting papers after this.”

Both girls groan in theatrical unison.

“Father,” the older one says, with the measured disappointment of someone twice her age, “you are ruining the atmosphere.”

“The atmosphere,” he replies, “was already compromised when you attempted to feed biscuit crumbs to the bookmark.”

“That happened once.”

“Once is sufficient.”

“It was an experiment.”

“In what?”

She consults her notebook. “Bookmark behavior under novel conditions.”

Ratio stares at her for a moment with an expression that is doing several things at once. Then he turns back to the book with great deliberateness.

You laugh softly and move toward the couch.

As you pass his chair he catches your wrist and draws you close enough that the kiss he presses to your forehead is unhurried and unself-conscious. Then he releases you and turns back to his page as though nothing has happened at all.

Your younger daughter’s hand shoots up immediately.

“Bias.”

Ratio does not look up. “Correct.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Life rarely is. Pay attention. The hero is about to do something inadvisable.”

She subsides. The older one makes another note.

You settle into the corner of the couch with your tea, pulling a blanket across your legs.

You listen to the rain and his voice and the occasional scratch of a pencil, and think that some evenings simply ask nothing of you except to be present in them.

Ratio reads on.

When he reaches the end of the chapter, the younger one is mostly asleep, blanket pulled to her chin, one hand still curled loosely around the edge of her cushion. The older is still writing with great concentration.

“What now?” she asks, without looking up.

Ratio glances at her notebook. Then at you.

“One more chapter,” he says. “For the sake of completion.”

She looks up then. Something in her expression that is very much his. The faint, private satisfaction of someone getting what they wanted without having asked for it directly.

“Mm,” she says, and turns to a fresh page.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)

Aventurine, on principle, often did things on impulse.

This was not a character flaw, in his opinion. It was a strategy, just pattern recognition moving faster than conscious thought, the hand that reaches for a card before the mind has finished counting. He had built a career on it. He had, at various points, also aquired several other things on it: an ultra rare watch, one of only two in the entire universe, commissioned just because. A penthouse in a city he visited twice a year, when he remembered. A starskiff he had purchased during a negotiation because the seller mentioned offhand that it was for sale and Aventurine had thought why not and signed before the ink on the actual contract was dry. It lived in a dock somewhere. He had been on it once.

He was aware of the pattern. He found it, on balance, more amusing than not.

But the most notable, and the most impulsive, decision he had ever made happened to be the addition of the three catcakes into his daily life.

The three catcakes which, as it turned out, happened to have opinions. And very strong ones, at that.

And Aventurine had funded their opinions, shamelessly. He had sourced their imported silk beds, their hand-carved puzzle feeders, their toys with the little bells that rattled when batted across marble floors at three in the morning. He had done all of this willingly, even cheerfully, and had considered it a reasonable investment in domestic harmony.

What he had not accounted for, despite his innate sense for business, was that the return on that investment would go entirely sideways.

Because the catcakes would, quite decisively, forget all about Aventurine the moment she entered the equation.

They could spend an entire afternoon draped across furniture like decorative afterthought— soft, idle things, barely stirring as he worked in his study, the quiet broken only by the occasional shift of fabric or the faintest puff of a sleepy sigh.

And then...

The soft, precise click of the latch easing open, followed by the familiar cadence of her steps.

Two seconds.

That was all it took.

From the hallway came the sudden chaos of movement: light thuds, the frantic patter of paws, and then the unmistakable jingle of bells as the toy mouse was unceremoniously knocked from its place on the entryway shelf in reckless enthusiasm.

Then a soft, delighted sound from her.

Aventurine waited.

He would not go check. He was a man of considerable dignity who was stronger than a few overexcited creatures who, moments ago, had shown no such urgency in his presence.

He lasted approximately forty-five seconds before leaning back far enough in his chair to see through the study doorway.

Exactly as expected.

All three of them had claimed her.

The largest had secured the prime position, draped comfortably across her shoulder as though it had always belonged there, tail flicking with smug contentment. The smallest had somehow, impossibly, embedded itself halfway into her bag before she’d even had the chance to set it down, peeking out as if it had discovered buried treasure. And the middle one— traitor of traitors— was weaving intricate figure-eights around her ankles with a devotion it had never once shown him.

Aventurine narrowed his eyes.

The traitors.

He had, on multiple occasions, attempted to elicit even a fraction of that enthusiasm, unsuccessfully.

She looked up and caught him staring.

“Hi,” she said, like she hadn’t just been ambushed by a small, disloyal army.

“They were sleeping,” he replied smoothly, tilting his head just slightly. “Thirty seconds ago, they were all asleep.”

"I can tell." She finally managed to unhook her bag from her shoulder, though not without resistance. The smallest catcake tumbled out, landed with an indignant little puff, and immediately began its ascent back toward her as though deeply offended by gravity itself. “Were they bothering you?”

“They were ignoring me,” he corrected, one brow lifting with quiet precision. “Unlike someone else, I suppose.”

They both knew there was no real accusation in it.

........................

The second incident, he had to admit, was personal.

Aventurine had a routine. After late calls— the ones that ran past midnight with Jade or Opal, who had no concept of time zones and even less concept of mercy— he'd come home and pour himself something worth drinking. He would sit, gazing at the city view, one arm draped along the backrest, glass balanced loosely in hand, not quite thinking, not quite not thinking either.

Some might have called it brooding.

He liked to think he was still above that, even in those moments.

It was, perhaps, the closest he ever came to acknowledging that some days demanded more of him than others.

The catcakes had somehow always known this.

The largest, especially, had a preternatural sense for it, and would appear within minutes, weight warm and substantial against his side, doing absolutely nothing useful, which was exactly the point. He had not told anyone this was something he actually looked forward to. It was an arrangement between himself and the catcakes, private and unspoken, and it had never needed to be anything else.

Then she fell asleep on the couch one night, waiting for him.

And, quite abruptly, everything changed.

He came home to find her curled on the couch, light still on, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other resting loosely at her side, breath slow and even in sleep. And all three catcakes had draped themselves across her with impressive efficiency.

The largest had claimed her chest, settled there, rising and falling faintly with each breath she took. The middle one had stretched itself comfortably along her legs, tail flicking once in vague satisfaction before going still again. And the smallest...

The smallest had wedged itself into the crook of her neck, tucked so close it bordered on possessive, with an intimacy that Aventurine, frankly, had earned more than it.

He stood in the entryway for a long moment, looking at the sight, debating whether to wake her (which he wasn't going to do) and whether there was any remaining couch space for him to settle onto (which there wasn't) and whether the armchair across the room counted as a dignified alternative (which it didn't).

Finally, after who knows how long, he grabbed the blanket from the couch, draped it over her and the entire catcake situation without disturbing anyone. He lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

Then he stepped back.

The armchair received him with all the dignity it could muster, which was to say, not enough, but sufficient for the circumstances. He settled into it regardless, and gazed at them, something in him thawing at the scene.

Then the middle catcake opened one eye at him from across the room. It regarded him from its position along her legs, unimpressed, entirely aware.

"Not a word," he said.

It sniffed indignantly, and closed its eyes again.

Peace, apparently, had been restored.

He remained there longer than he intended.

Long enough for the drink in his hand to sit untouched. Long enough for the silence to settle into something steady. Long enough for something inside of him to loosen.

After that, they never came to him when she was there.

Not once.

The arrangement, it seemed, had been renegotiated without his consent.

........................

The third incident he brought on himself which, naturally, he would never admit.

Because, after a period of careful observation, and a frankly insulting amount of empirical evidence, Aventurine had come to a conclusion: This was a matter of attention economy.

The catcakes’ behavior was not random. It was a skewed distribution of interest toward a newly introduced variable— her— whose novelty had yet to pass.

The solution, logically, was to increase his own engagement. More direct interaction, or quality time, if one insisted on phrasing it so inelegantly.

So he set aside an afternoon.

Cleared his schedule.

And, in what he considered a gesture of considerable magnitude, he sat on the floor of the living room, adjusted his sleeves once, then reached into a carefully selected bag and produced his chosen instrument:

A wand toy.

But not just any toy. The feathers were imported, ethically sourced, meticulously crafted and expensive. They caught the light when he lifted it, iridescent in a way that suggested quality. The small bells attached to it chimed softly with the slightest movement.

Aventurine gave it a precise flick of the wrist.

The largest catcake looked at it, almost in deliberation, then walked past him into the bedroom without looking back.

He shook the toy again, slightly harder this time.

The middle catcake approached, sniffed the feathers with a polite sort of curiosity, then after what could only be described as a token effort, bit them once and left.

The smallest catcake, at least, offered something resembling participation. It batted at the feathers once, twice, before losing interest in favor of the now-empty bag at his side.

Aventurine remained seated on the floor, wand toy in hand, surrounded by the unmistakable quiet of failure. He was still on the floor when she arrived twenty minutes later.

“…What are you doing?”

Aventurine lifted his gaze.

She was looking at him with something between surprise and poorly concealed amusement, eyes flicking from his position on the floor, to the wand toy still held loosely in his hand, to the smallest catcake asleep in the bag beside him.

The closest any of them had come to sustained engagement.

"I'm bonding," he said, smoothly.

"With the bag?"

“With it,” he corrected, indicating the smallest catcake with a subtle tilt of the wand. “It's in the bag. I’m near the bag. We’re in proximity.”

She pressed her lips together, visibly restraining something that was very clearly laughter, and crossed the room before lowering herself to the floor beside him, which immediately summoned all three catcakes from wherever they had dispersed to. It was a migration so swift and unanimous that it was almost insulting. The largest climbed directly into her lap. The middle pressed against her side. The smallest abandoned the bag entirely in favor of her ankle.

Aventurine watched this happen in real time with morbid fascination.

"I have had it for months," Aventurine said, pointing at the smallest catcake almost accusingly. "It hid from me for the first three weeks. But you just come in, and they're all over you."

She was visibly trying not to laugh, which required effort. "Maybe it has a type?"

"I have never been disrespected more in my entire life," he said, gravely. "I'm just furniture."

"You're not furniture," she said quickly, though the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her.

"I'm a very well-dressed surface they occasionally walk across on their way to you."

She finally laughed, and the sound of it made the largest catcake knead her knee in approval, which was, somehow, the final insult.

She took the wand toy from his hand gently, shook it once, and all three catcakes launched into motion at once, ricocheting off the couch and each other and both of them, filling the room with bell sounds and patter as they played with her.

It would be impressive, if it wasn't sad.

Aventurine did not move from where he sat, hands resting loosely against his knees now, gaze following the arc of motion, when a sudden weight landed in his lap.

He blinked.

The smallest catcake had, in the chaos, made a miscalculation and landed fully on Aventurine's lap and couldn't be bothered to relocate.

He didn't move. He was very still, in fact, in case it noticed. Even his breathing slowed, measured unconsciously to avoid disturbing the small, warm weight settled against him.

The catcake gave a faint, content huff and snuggled more into him.

After a moment, despite himself, he smiled.

........................

By now her presence had become something of a fixed feature of the relationship— her arrival in the evening, the instant affection of all three catcakes, her staying for dinner, and then, as it happened with increasing regularity, staying the night.

Aventurine had no complaints about this. He had, in fact, engineered it to some degree: the imported tea she liked, restocked last week; the second drawer in the bathroom, quietly cleared for her things. There were small adjustments throughout the apartment, subtle shifts that made space for her without ever announcing themselves as such.

He was not subtle about wanting her around, he simply preferred not to remark on it directly.

The catcakes, apparently, had no such preference for subtlety when she stayed over.

And the ensuing bed situation was, by far, the most egregious offense.

The first time, he allowed for coincidence.

He had come to bed late, later than her, which meant she was already warm and half-asleep when he settled beside her, and there was a specific quality to her like that that he found... the word distracting was not quite right. Compelling was closer.

She shifted when the mattress dipped, a quiet, instinctive movement, and turned toward him. Her hand found his sleeve first, before settling, fingers curling faintly against the fabric.

“…You’re late,” she murmured.

“Occupational hazard,” he replied softly.

His gaze lingered, drawn to her lips.

Her palm grazed his cheek lightly, then she rose a little, and he met her halfway, one hand lifting almost absently to steady against the mattress near her shoulder. The distance between them narrowed to something precarious, lips ghosting over each other, suspended just at the edge of more.

And then—

The largest catcake landed squarely on his chest.

Directly on his sternum, with full confidence. The force of it startled both of them apart instantly, whatever fragile moment had been forming snapping cleanly in two as the catcake adjusted its weight and settled more into him with absolute disregard for context.

It kneaded once, twice, found the position satisfactory, and began to purr at a volume he found inappropriate for the circumstances.

Aventurine lay very still, staring up at the ceiling as though it might offer some form of explanation.

"Move," he said.

The large catcake opened one eye. Then closed it.

She made a sound muffled into his shoulder that was unmistakably laughter. "It missed you."

It only purred louder.

"I missed it, too," he said, with considerable patience, "just not right now."

She laughed again, properly this time, which was the only thing that made the situation even slightly acceptable, and the largest catcake settled in for what appeared to be the long term, which meant the moment was gone, and Aventurine looked at the ceiling and conducted a brief internal audit of his life choices.

He couldn't prove it, but he knew it was on purpose.

........................

Next time, he was prepared to take action.

The action he had decided on was simply waiting them out. The catcakes slept deeply, they had routines. There was a window, he had observed, between approximately eleven and midnight, when all three were reliably unconscious and the apartment was quiet and the bed was just the two of them, which was all he had ever wanted from the bed, truly, in the grand scheme of things.

He had communicated none of this to her, of course, on the grounds that saying I have scheduled a window in the catcakes' sleep cycle out loud would require a level of self-reflection he wasn't prepared to perform.

He had simply suggested, at half past ten, that she should probably head to bed, citing a long day.

She had looked at him with the expression that meant she was aware something was happening and found it entertaining. "It's early," she said.

"It's been a long week."

"For you?"

"For both of us."

"Mmhm." But she had gone to bed, and the catcakes had been distributed across the apartment in the deep and motionless sleep of the innocent, and he had given it twenty minutes to be safe before settling beside her, and the room was quiet, and she was looking at him with something warm and hungry in the low light, and he had his hand at her waist and her fingers had found the collar of his shirt, and everything was going entirely according to plan —

A small, deliberate weight landed on the mattress.

Aventurine froze.

The smallest catcake, who had never once, in all the months he had her, been awake past eleven, climbed the length of the bed, walked directly across him, and wedged itself into the exact warm hollow he usually occupied, perfectly positioned to claim any proximity that might otherwise have been his.

He counted to five.

She bit her lip not to laugh.

"It's never awake at this hour," he said.

"Must've sensed the energy," she said, muffled slightly by catcake.

"What energy?"

"The energy," she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

He moved the smallest catcake, firmly, to the foot of the bed. It returned immediately. He moved it again. It sat on his pillow and watched him with round, unblinking eyes that contained no comprehension of what it had interrupted and no remorse.

"I," he said, carefully, "am going to lose my mind."

She petted its head. "It just wants to be included."

"It's not invited."

"It doesn't know that."

He lay back. The smallest catcake took this as an opportunity. It walked onto his chest, turned a circle, and settled.

"This," he said, to the ceiling, "is a coordinated effort."

"They love you," she said.

"They are sabotaging me."

"Same thing, probably."

He looked at the smallest catcake. It purred, which proved nothing and which he was choosing not to find endearing. And then, as if summoned by some unspoken signal, the other catcakes choose exactly that moment to join the fray, as well.

The large one spread across his pillow as though asserting ownership, effectively pushing him further toward the edge of the bed. The middle one wedged itself neatly into the space between them, occupying far more territory than its size justified.

"I'm being evicted from my own bed," Aventurine said, with great clarity. "In my own home. By animals that I feed."

She laughed. "You have space."

"I have twelve inches of mattress and someone's tail in my face."

He glared at the catcake on his pillow, affectionately. It looked back at him with eyes that contained no guilt whatsoever, and made no effort to move from the pillow. He tried to move it, gently, which it tolerated with profound sufferance before immediately resettling back on the pillow.

He laid back next to it in outmost offense, and looked at the ceiling.

She shifted, sliding closer to him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her in his space, in his apartment, in the bed that was technically his even if everyone else was pretending otherwise.

"You're jealous," she said, into the dark, "of the catcakes."

"I'm establishing boundaries."

"You're jealous." He could hear the smile in her voice.

"I provide for them. I source their enrichment. I have read—" he paused for emphasis— "two separate guides on catcake development. And I'm still getting sabotaged."

"Mmhm."

"It's my apartment, and I'm simply noticing," he continued, voice gaining the faintest edge of whining, "that there is a glaring distribution problem occurring, and that as the primary investor in this household, I am not seeing adequate returns on—"

"Aventurine."

"—what is objectively a significant emotional—"

"Aventurine."

"What?"

The largest catcake was lifted, very carefully, off the pillow and moved to the foot of the bed, where it settled with mild outrage. Then she shifted again, closing the distance fully as she tucked herself against his side, which rearranged the whole layout of the bed and displaced the middle catcake and fixed, in a single movement, the distribution problem he had been circling for three paragraphs.

And just like that, the problem was solved.

Aventurine went quiet.

"There," she said. "Are you happy?"

He was, though he would not admit it.

The smallest catcake migrated up again, and settled on his other side, which he suspected was an accident on her part but was choosing to count anyway.

"I'm locking the bedroom door tomorrow," he said.

"You won't."

"I will. Watch me."

She tilted her head slightly, studying him in the dim light. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room settled.

"You know," she said, "they only come to me because you spoil them so much they've gotten picky."

He considered this. "That is most certainly not true."

"It is," she admitted. "And you know it."

He did. He didn't say so.

What he did do, was tuck his arm around her, pulling her closer and disturbing the largest catcake, which it registered as a personal grievance before resettling on top of his feet with tremendous passive aggression.

"Tomorrow," he said. "Door. Locked."

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"Sure."

He didn't lock the door the next day. But he did acquire, from a specialty importer, a fourth silk bed— smaller, placed strategically on the nightstand on his side— and said nothing about it to anyone, which he felt was a reasonable compromise between dignity and honesty.

The catcakes never used it.

He had put a warming pad in it. The catcakes had evaluated it with great seriousness for several days and then resumed sleeping in his spot without comment.

She saw it and said nothing.