Words on a Page

XAVIER (word count : 289)

You stir in your sleep and instinctively reach for the other side of the bed, where Xavier is usually asleep beside you. Your fingers meet only empty sheets.

The mattress is still slightly warm beneath your touch.

Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you sit up.

You check the living room first.

Empty.

The kitchen.

Empty.

You knock on the bathroom door and push it open.

Empty.

Your pulse begins to pound in your ears, each heartbeat louder than the last. You tell yourself not to overreact, that Xavier would never leave without a reason.

But the reassurance doesn’t stick.

A familiar panic starts to claw at your chest, and your breathing turns shallow.

Waking up without him beside you feels colder than it should.

Then you hear it—

The soft click of a key turning in the front door.

You rush toward the sound, and the moment the door opens, your eyes meet Xavier’s.

Relief hits hard.

Without thinking, you throw yourself into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Where were you?” your voice is barely above a whisper. “I woke up, and you weren’t there.”

“I went to the bakery,” he says gently. “You were sleeping so soundly, Starlight. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Your grip tightens, and he feels the slight tremor running through your body.

Xavier understands.

He lets the paper bag of still-warm pastries slip from his hand onto the floor and wraps both arms around your waist, drawing you close.

Pressing a kiss to the top of your head, he murmurs against your hair, “I’m sorry, Starlight. Next time, I’ll leave you a note.”

He leans back just enough to look at you, his gaze tender.

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ZAYNE (word count : 250)

Zayne comes home after another long shift at Akso Hospital to find you sitting quietly on the couch, completely absorbed in something resting in your lap.

When he sits down beside you, the cushion dips under his weight. With practiced ease, he loosens his tie in a single motion before leaning closer to see what has captured your attention.

It’s a photo album, its pages filled with memories the two of you have made together over the years.

“Zayne, don’t you think we look older in these newer photos?” you ask, running your fingertips over the page before looking up at him.

Zayne hums quietly as he studies the photographs.

“Aging is only natural,” he replies.

You lower your gaze again, your chest tightening.

“I don’t want you to grow old,” you whisper. “If you get old, it means you’re getting closer to death.”

“Life and death come hand in hand,” Zayne says, the doctor in him answering with calm honesty. “Everyone dies eventually.”

Your eyes fill with tears.

“I don’t want you to die,” you murmur, your voice breaking. “If you do, I’ll be alone.”

Zayne’s expression softens.

He takes your hands in his, his thumbs rubbing across your knuckles.

“Let’s not dwell on things beyond our control,” he says gently.

He lifts your hands to his lips and presses a gentle kiss against them.

“Right now,” he murmurs, his gaze steady, “I’m here with you.”

“So let’s focus on the present and spend every moment we can together.”

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RAFAYEL (word count : 273)

Living in Whitesand Bay means you and Rafayel can visit the beach whenever you want.

As a Lemurian, Rafayel is happiest in the ocean, where the waves seem to welcome him home.

You sit in a floaty while he paddles behind you, pushing you along at a leisurely pace.

A mischievous grin spreads across his face. Before you can react, he flicks the floaty, tipping you straight into the water.

Rafayel dives after you, laughing at your bewildered, slightly unimpressed expression.

A moment later, the two of you break through the surface of the water at the same time.

Then a larger wave rolls in, pushing you several feet away.

Your eyes widen.

Rafayel has his back turned, watching the horizon, effortlessly balanced on the water as if he has no care in the world.

A sudden worry tightens in your chest.

You swim back to him, feeling as though you’re fighting against the waves until you can wrap your arms tightly around his hips, clinging to his wet skin.

“Using me as a floaty now, Cutie?” Rafayel teases, glancing over his shoulder.

You press your forehead against his back.

“How do I know the waves won’t take you away from me one day?” you murmur, your voice trembling for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold ocean water.

Rafayel gently takes hold of your arms and turns in the water, drawing you around to his front until you’re floating against his chest. He brushes the wet strands of hair from your face.

“Even if they do,” he says, “this fishie will always swim back to you.”

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SYLUS (word count : 263)

You sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing your eyes and yawning as Sylus moves around the room, getting ready.

It’s the middle of the night, a time when most people are already asleep. For Sylus, however, the day is only beginning.

With sleepy, half-lidded eyes, you watch him button his shirt.

A familiar sadness settles in your chest when you remember where he’s going. As the leader of Onychinus, another meeting, another deal, is waiting for him.

Luke, Kieran, and Mephisto are going with him, as they always do. It should make you feel better.

It doesn’t.

Fully dressed, Sylus steps in front of you, his broad frame towering between your knees.

You wrap your arms around his waist and press your face against his stomach, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt as you breathe in his familiar scent.

“Do you have to go?” you ask, the words sounding dangerously close to a child’s plea.

“I’ll be back before you know it, sweetie,” he says, his fingers combing gently through your hair.

You refuse to let go.

Sylus knows that although you’ve accepted who he is - the ruler of the outlawed N109 Zone and the leader of Onychinus - you still hate the danger that follows him everywhere.

He scoops you into his arms and lays you down on his side of the bed.

Leaning over you, he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“By the time you wake up,” he mummers, tucking the blanket around you, “I’ll be right back beside you.”

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CALEB (word count : 256)

You walk into the kitchen barefoot, wearing nothing but one of Caleb’s T-shirts. It’s far too big for you, hanging loosely against your frame.

You follow the smell of food and find Caleb standing at the stove, his back to you, dressed in sweatpants and an apron tied over his bare torso.

You don’t announce yourself.

Instead, you stay quiet and watch him move around the kitchen, preparing breakfast.

It’s an ordinary sight, but one you treasure.

As the colonel of the Farspace Fleet stationed in Skyhaven, Caleb lives a life where ordinary moments can disappear without warning. Every time he boards a ship bound for the Deepspace tunnels, a part of you fears he might not return.

Caleb turns and sets two plates on the dining table. The moment he notices you, he walks over and smooths his thumb gently over the crease between your brows.

“Keep frowning like that and you’ll get wrinkles,” he teases, flashing the boyish grin that belongs only to you - a stark contrast to the composed colonel the rest of the world sees.

You lift the dog tag that never leaves his neck, holding it in your palms.

“If only our time together could always be this ordinary,” you whisper, your gaze fixed on the tag.

Caleb’s expression softens with understanding.

He slips an arm around your waist and lifts you effortlessly, settling you directly on his robotic arm.

“No matter where my missions take me,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead lightly against yours, “I’ll always fly back to you.”

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VALKO (word count : 250)

You and Valko have escaped the hustle and bustle of Linkon City for a few days in his wooden cabin, tucked deep within the woods.

Out here, your boyfriend can truly be himself.

No prying eyes.

No need to hide his wolf hybrid form - his bushy tail swaying behind him, wolf ears twitching at every sound, and claws extending from his fingertips.

You breathe in the scent of morning dew and pine. A few steps behind him, you watch the muscles shift beneath his broad back as he walks through the forest.

Then, without warning, Valko drops to all fours and sprints ahead. Your heart drops with him. He always seems different here - lighter, calmer, as though he has finally returned home.

And that thought terrifies you.

What if one day he keeps running?

What if he never comes back to you?

Something large crashes into you from the side.

Valko barrels back out of the trees, knocking you both into the damp grass and rolling you through the wildflowers.

He grins down at you, small canines peeking out as he proudly holds out a bouquet of freshly picked daisies.

With one hand, you scratch gently behind his wolf ear.

“I hate imagining a day when you run off and never come back,” you admit, your voice quiet.

Valko’s grin fades into something more serious.

“That will never happen,” he says.

“You’re my mate. Fate itself bound us together, and no forest in the world could make me leave you behind.”

Permanent tag list : @cordidy @thehyperfixationgirly @pjselee

It was Akso Hospital's newest ad, something he didn’t bat an eye at when Greyson mentioned it. Now, he was curious about it—he hadn’t even seen it himself.

You’ve rewatched the clip over 10 times now, a 30-second video, muttering how scandalous it is for not giving him enough screen time. He appeared for a solid 8 seconds—you counted it. You’ll be downloading and cutting the video sooner or later.

Yes, he was in a video, for an ad about Akso Hospital. You happened to come past a compilation edit on social media about a certain cardiac surgeon. It wasn’t long until you reached the source.

Zayne didn’t think much when they asked to record some footage of him—he slightly regretted agreeing so easily. He wasn’t expecting the ad to become popular for the wrong reasons—or perhaps reaching the wrong audience.

4 seconds in, it showed him inside his office behind the desk, just doing some paperwork or charting—whatever he was doing, he couldn’t remember—layered with a voice listing Akso’s benefits. 

The other 4 seconds of him were Zayne in his glory. Zayne was in his scrubs—you’ve paused at that one for a long time before the transition with his surgical gown in the operating room—his eyes sharp, assessing the surgery he’ll be operating while he was scrubbing in.

Ah, he remembered this one, working on a dummy operation for content purposes. He was free. He was even happy to help that day after receiving a lunch box from you, followed by a separate container of your pancakes as dessert. 

He was in a good mood—he didn’t think much.

“...Are you not bored? It’s been five minutes you’ve been staring at that part.” Zayne muttered. He wasn’t sure if he was embarrassed or amused. Why watch and stare at the ad when he was right beside you?

“Well… My boyfriend is looking too good in here. I understand the uproar of the comments.” You nodded to yourself, as if trying to judge how good this ad is. “The only crime is your part is minimal!”

In all honesty, you just want to see Zayne in his scrubs. With the underscrubs, which complete the look, you were growling.

A different vibe from his usual buttoned-up shirt, like the one you always see when you visit him. It was probably your first time seeing him in scrubs. 

It drives you crazy.

Muscled arms covered in his long-sleeved underscrubs, holding the writing pad. The attentive gaze while he questioned the patient’s condition—er, dummy patient. This ad was giving you another look at your boyfriend.

“I hate how I have to share this look of you with people in the whole world who see this ad.” You sighed, leaning back, and falling right into his open arms.

His arm found your waist naturally as he pulled you closer. Finally, you were not glued to his on-screen version.

He only hummed. “Is it that special?”

“You have no idea what this does to me.” You let out another exasperated sigh, gesturing to the paused screen. You zoomed in on his pixelated figure, one you could decipher while they were recording in the hallway—another him in his scrubs, maybe going into an actual surgery.

He squinted, probably needed his glasses. But he was surprised. It was really him—at least from the outfit itself.

“Now, I need to see you in a sleeveless shirt, period.” You stare at him with a serious look. “I’ll get you a whole cake for it.”

Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless instead. Not that you don’t love that look, no. But certain outfits on him just get you somewhere.

Zayne wasn’t sure he should be scared or flattered that you’re showing this much love over his physique. Was he considering your request? Maybe.

“...You’re not going to be bothered by this?” 

Zayne pulled up his sleeves, showing the scars that made him cover them. His own battle and struggle. He never wanted to show anyone any of it. 

“Oh, honey, why would I?” You frowned. 

You raised his arm to your lips—your lovely forearm even if it’s full of scars. You peppered his scars with kisses before doing the same to his other arm. Lastly, you left a big smooch on his cheek. 

“Of course not. In fact, I want to take good care of your skin.” You hummed, hugging his arm. “I don’t know what causes it yet, but I’ll treat it with good care either way.”

“These are my precious hardworking forearms. Mine.” You grinned, squeezing his arm in your hug.

Zayne lets out a small breath, seemingly like a small laugh. Right, he could never predict your answers. You never fail to surprise him.

“Now, would you come home in your scrubs sometimes?” You bat your eyelashes towards him, giving your best puppy eyes afterwards.

“What’s your bribe for that?”

“...Uh, I’ll make you pancakes for two weeks?”

“Alright...” Zayne sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Does that mean you’ll wear a sleeveless top too?”

“...If you wish, but I haven't acquired any sleeveless tops. You might need to pick one for me.”

You shot to the air, grinning, chanting a ‘yes, yes, yes’ under your breath. 

“I’ll collect your pancake due every lunch hour and the cake on the day the top arrives—”

You weren’t even listening, already giggling while you ran to the living room, probably grabbing your laptop to browse the top you want to dress him up in.

Zayne only smiled. As long as he’s making you happy, he’ll do anything for you.

And as long as you’re not asking him to be stripped down with nothing at all—yet. 

i keep reaching 1k words send help—inspired by a katsuki blurb. and i’m a fan of the pitt’s scrubs, so i shall fan over zayne in his scrubs as well. honestly he would look great in ptmc’s scrubs HAHA. i don't watch the show tho, only thirsting over sir abbot.

i can’t recall if he ever wore sleeveless tops like sy’s or caleb’s, wondering how he would look in it, was there a card of that visual?

The keurig rumbled, Leon walked into the station's small break room. He saw an unfamiliar figure looking through the fridge. "No creamer of any kind, are you serious?" You slammed the door closed, turning around to see a man standing a few feet behind you. You felt so embarrassed, having a fit over the realization you had to drink your coffee black. "Oh. Good morning. I'm uh. So sorry." He smiled slightly. "No problem. It's an acquired taste," Leon said before getting a cup and leaving the room. You scoffed.

He discovers that you're the new secretary in the office. You come in just on time every morning with a flushed face. Leon is not in the building a whole lot, but when he is there, he looks forward to seeing you. He observes how you do your work. The way you always have a smile on your face when greeting someone on the phone even though they can't see you. Sometimes writing in a journal when no calls are coming through. He was intrigued by you. Everyone is always very serious at work. You did your job well, but it seemed like you actually tried to enjoy it.

As you type on the keyboard, a faint sound catches your attention. Leon had placed an iced latte on his desk. "Oh wow. Thank you so much Mr Kennedy! How did you know my order?" He smiles. "Well, when it's time to go home I can hear you talking to your friend on the phone. You seem to go to cafés quite a bit." You gulped softly, kind of flattered that he would even care to listen when you spoke. "Also, please call me Leon." His boots thumped as he walked across the carpeted floor.

Leon’s hand is on the small of your back, purely tactical. Purely for appearances. His thumb is not supposed to move in reassuring strokes like it is.

“Two nights,” he says smoothly, sliding over the IDs. “Just us, sweetheart.”

The word leaves him in that low government-trained voice and lands directly in your spine.

You turn. Just a little, just enough to look at him.

Leon does not look back at you.

His face remains professionally blank, all clean lines and practiced indifference, but the tips of his ears go pink.

You smile. Oh, this is going to be fun.

By hour three, he has said sweetheart seven times. You were counting because every single one hit differently.

There’s the clipped, efficient sweetheart he uses in public when ushering you through doors or steering you away from security cameras.

“This way, sweetheart.”

“Careful on the steps, sweetheart.”

“Forgot your purse, sweetheart.”

Each one accompanied by his hand at your waist, your elbow, the center of your back, touches that are supposed to look casual but linger one beat too long because Leon is suddenly, catastrophically aware that he is allowed to touch you whenever he wants under the guise of maintaining cover.

Then there is the low murmur he uses when hotel staff are nearby.

“You cold, sweetheart?”

You nearly trip because that one sounds domestic. Familiar, like he has been saying it to you for years.

And Leon hears it too, judging by the way his jaw tightens immediately after.

You glance at him.

He is staring dead ahead like a man who just stepped on a landmine but cannot stop walking.

By dinner, the problem becomes obvious: Leon is getting too good at this.

Not at surveillance or gathering intel. At husbanding.

He pulls your chair out, orders your drink from memory, cuts into some overpriced chicken while discussing case details through clenched teeth, then absentmindedly slides the better-looking portion onto your plate because you always steal his food anyway.

Your amused stare makes him freeze. He looks at the plate then looks at you.

“…habit,” he mutters.

“Leon.”

“Don’t.”

“You fed me.” Your tone is lightly teasing. Like you know something he doesn't.

“It was tactical.”

“With the larger piece? The big juicy one we'd normally fight over?”

His expression says he wants the earth to open and swallow him whole.

You grin into your wine.

Sweetheart count: thirteen.

Sleeping arrangements are where it starts to ruin him.

One room. One king bed. Of fucking course.

You don’t even bother pretending outrage; both of you have done this dance before. Missions are uncomfortable. It happens.

What does not usually happen is Leon looking at the bed like it has personally betrayed him.

“It’s fine,” you say, already kicking off your shoes. “At least it's a king.”

“Yeah,” he answers too fast. “Fine.”

It is not fine because married couples do not build a pillow wall.

Married couples do not sleep rigidly on opposite edges of the mattress like Victorian strangers.

Married couples, if anyone is listening through the walls or watching through optics, sleep close.

So close that Leon can feel your body heat through the thin hotel blanket. So close that every shift of your leg brushes his. So close that when you roll over in your sleep and tuck unconsciously into his side, one hand splayed over his chest, Leon’s entire central nervous system exits the building.

He goes perfectly still.

Your breath fans warm against his throat. Your knee slots between his. Your wedding band - fake, fake, fake - taps softly against his sternum when your hand flexes in sleep.

Leon stares at the ceiling all night with the expression of a man being slowly executed.

Because now he has to call you sweetheart in the morning. Now he has to wake up with you draped over him and act like this is normal.

Now he has to survive thirty-six more hours of pretending you belong to him in front of witnesses while his body starts reacting to that fiction like it has found religion.

The second morning is fatal.

You are both in the breakfast lounge scanning suspects.

You lean over his shoulder to whisper an observation. Your hand lands on his thigh under the table.

It's tactical. Something about keeping up appearances, Leon remembers vaguely. You feel the muscle in his leg jump violently beneath your palm.

He turns his head just enough to glare at you.

You widen your eyes innocently.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” you ask.

His pupils blow wide. There is a full two seconds where Leon forgets how language works.

Then, through gritted teeth, “You are enjoying this too much.”

“Enjoying what, honey?”

He makes a strangled noise. You have to bite the inside of your cheek not to laugh. This is no longer a mission for Leon, this is psychological warfare.

Every pet name from your mouth hits him like a bullet.

Honey.

Baby.

Darling.

One time, in the elevator, just to watch him malfunction, you smooth nonexistent lint from his tie and murmur, “You look handsome, sweet husband.”

Leon walks directly into the closing doors.

By the final night he is wrecked.

Forty-eight hours of sweetheart. Forty-eight hours of rings. Forty-eight hours of your head on his shoulder in public, your fingers linked with his, your smile tossed at him over breakfast like you’ve done this a thousand mornings before.

Forty-eight hours of pretending to be a man who gets to keep you.

The mission concludes at 11:37 p.m.

Target apprehended. Intel secured. Cover no longer necessary.

You close the hotel room door behind you and immediately start peeling off your ring.

“God, I’m ready to stop being married.”

Leon says, very quietly, “Don’t.”

You look up. He is standing across the room, jacket half unzipped, hair a mess from the rain outside, staring at your fingers.

At the ring.

At the small pale indent the metal left behind.

The room changes.

You lower your hand.

“Leon?”

His laugh comes out thin. Disbelieving. Ruined.

“I have called you sweetheart for two days,” he says, like this is an indictment, “and every time I did it, it sounded less fake.”

Your heartbeat stumbles. Leon drags a hand over his face.

“I know your coffee order. I know which side of the bed you sleep on. I know you steal the olives out of my drinks and leave me with the stupid toothpick.” He looks at you then, eyes dark and exhausted and frighteningly open. “Do you understand how bad it got in my head?”

Neither of you moves.

His voice drops. “By this afternoon I stopped pretending for them.” He swallows. “I was pretending for me.”

Oh.

Oh, that poor man.

He looks furious about it. Furious that two days of domestic theater exposed something he had apparently been keeping chained in the basement of his chest.

Furious that hearing sweetheart in his own voice made him want things.

A kitchen. Your shoes by his door. Arguments over laundry. Lazy Sunday mornings. A life he was never supposed to let himself imagine.

And now that he has imagined it, even by accident, he cannot force it back out.

“What do you want?” you ask softly.

Leon’s eyes drop to the ring still pinched between your fingers.

When he answers, his voice is almost wrecked enough to shake.

Truthfully, there were many things about his past he hadn’t managed to share yet. You had probably pieced fragments together already through conversations, things overheard from the crew, and your own intuition. Your relationship was still young enough that there were chapters of each other’s lives left unread, but old enough that neither of you needed every detail to understand the other.

He loved finding you curled up in the library with a book, or half-asleep in bed—sometimes your own, sometimes his—waiting for him to finally stop working and come lie down too.

He loved the spark that lit your eyes whenever the two of you visited museums in whatever city the crew temporarily docked at. The conversations about paintings, writers, history, myths. The way your excitement spilled into every topic you touched.

And he loved your affection for sweet things.

Especially, as you constantly reminded him, for him.

“The sweetest thing of all.”

Every single time, it earned an exasperated eye roll, ears tinged pink beneath the brim of his hat, and a desperate attempt to change the subject or stare intensely at the nearest wall.

Sweet. Sweet. Sweet.

Law wasn’t always fond of revisiting the past. It followed him regardless of where he went, a shadow he had never quite managed to outrun.

But that evening, his thoughts drifted to his family.

To his father.

He remembered the way his father would surprise his mother with bouquets of the freshest flowers he could find. There was always a small note tucked among the stems, usually containing only a few words, yet somehow capable of bringing an even brighter smile and a blush to her cheeks.

Sometimes his father would return home early from work, a near impossibility for a doctor as respected as he had been, simply because he wanted more time with his wife and children.

Law remembered him helping around the house without being asked. Cooking lunch. Washing windows. Dusting shelves. Even the smallest, most ordinary little acts had been woven together with care and affection.

The captain found himself yearning for that too.

Love didn’t always have to be spoken.

Perhaps that was why the memories lingered.

Because words had never been his strongest point.

He loved you.

God, he loved you.

There was never any doubt about that.

Yet sometimes it felt as though an unbearable invisible weight sat heavily across his shoulders, preventing him from taking that final step and showing you every ounce of tenderness he carried for you.

And there was so much tenderness. More than he knew how to express.

He only hoped you knew that already.

So he started small.

Just as you were about to leave your room and march down the corridor to his office and force your chronically sleep-deprived boyfriend into getting at least a tolerable amount of rest, the door slid open.

Law stood there holding two mugs of hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream and two books tucked beneath one arm.

“I figured you could use about three hundred milliliters of concentrated sugar shock right now.”

His voice was as flat as ever, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed him. One corner of his mouth twitched upward as he stepped inside.

You blinked.

Before you could say anything, he crossed the room, placed one of your favorite books in your lap, and set the mugs on the nightstands on either side of the bed.

A moment later he slipped beneath the blankets beside you. Without a word, he nudged you gently against his shoulder and opened his own book.

You stared at him. Then at the hot chocolate. Then at him again.

“…Are you feeling alright?”

Law snorted.

“Unfortunately.”

You laughed, and the sound alone made the strange fluttering sensation in his chest feel worthwhile.

A few mornings later, you woke to something even stranger.

Instead of waking up alone in bed while Law disappeared into another round of research before sunrise, you woke up wrapped tightly in your lover’s arms, his hands resting securely around your waist.

For a long moment, you simply stared.

It wasn’t unusual to fall asleep together.

It was unusual to wake up together.

Usually, by the time dawn painted pale streaks across the submarine’s metal walls, he had already disappeared into his office to bury himself beneath stacks of notes and medical journals.

As though he sensed you stirring awake, he pulled you even closer, a sleepy sound escaping him.

Then he buried his face deeper into your hair.

“Keep sleeping.”

His voice was muffled against your head.

“We’re comfortable like this.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Captain, are you cuddling me?”

“No.”

“You literally have me trapped.”

“It’s a strategic embrace.”

A laugh escaped you.

The vibration of it made him pull you even closer. He inhaled slowly, catching the familiar scent of coconut and mango from your shampoo.

Warm. Comforting. Home.

For once, neither of you moved.

On another morning, you walked into the kitchen expecting to begin preparing breakfast for the crew since it happened to be your turn.

Instead, you found Law already there.

The counters were occupied by ingredients, dirty bowls, and evidence of what could only be described as organized chaos. He was in the middle of arranging food onto plates.

When he noticed you standing in the doorway, he immediately became very interested in the knife he was holding.

“I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d make things easier for you.”

His eyes flicked toward yours, nervous despite himself as he waited for your reaction.

Your entire face lit up and you immediately walked up to shower him with kisses..

Before he could retreat, you crossed the kitchen and threw your arms around his neck.

“Law!”

You kissed one cheek.

Then the other.

Then his jaw.

Then his forehead.

The poor man nearly short-circuited.

He blushing so hard it was almost concerning, grumbling under his breath and pretending to complain the entire time.

Heat rushed straight to his ears.

“H-Hey.”

Another kiss.

“Cut it out.”

Another kiss.

“I’m serious.”

Another.

You finally pulled away enough to see his face.

Bright red.

Absolutely mortified.

And cute. Very cute.

Law muttered something incoherent under his breath and turned back toward the food as if the frying pan had suddenly become the most fascinating object in the world.

You only laughed harder.

The gifts continued.

Whenever the Polar Tang docked somewhere for supplies and circumstances forced you to stay behind to guard the submarine, your Surgeon of Death always returned with something for you.

A rare edition of a book.

A dress he’d spotted in a shop window.

A local dessert from a bakery tucked away in some side street.

A trinket tied to the history of the island.

Something thoughtful, chosen specifically for you.

He never made a big deal out of it. Usually he’d leave the gift beside you with a muttered explanation before pretending it wasn’t important.

Once, he returned with a shirt he clearly intended for you to sleep in—a design modeled after the tattoos stretched across his chest.

He didn’t even stay long enough to watch you open it.

The second he dropped the bag onto the couch beside you—where you sat listening to yet another one of Penguin’s ridiculously long jokes—he turned on his heel and marched straight back to his office.

He did not wait to watch you open it.

His stomach was performing acrobatics the entire way there. His pulse wouldn’t settle and something beneath his ribs felt unbearably strange.

Fifteen minutes later, a knock sounded at his door.

Then it opened.

You stepped inside wearing only your robe and the shirt.

Law glanced up and promptly forgot how breathing worked.

The oversized black fabric disappeared beneath your bathrobe, but the familiar tattoo design stretched across your chest exactly as he’d imagined.

Heat rushed violently up Law’s neck, spreading over his ears and across his cheeks in seconds.

“H-Hey… what are you doing?” he asked, heart pounding so hard he was convinced it might burst straight through his ribs and sink the entire submarine.

You smiled at him from beneath your lashes.

“I wanted to show you how much I like my gift.”

You walked over slowly, placing both hands on his shoulders before covering his face in kisses—his jaw, cheek, forehead, eyes, eyebrows, nose, and finally his lips.

By that time whatever remained of his composure had surrendered completely.

He deepened the kiss immediately.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist before sliding lower, lifting you effortlessly into his lap and pulling you flush against him.

When the kiss finally broke, his forehead rested against yours.

“I like it too,” he whispered against your mouth, the corners of his lips curved slightly.

“Especially on you.”

The following week, the Polar Tang surfaced near a small coastal town.

For once, there were no emergencies and the crew scattered to enjoy the rare sunlight however they pleased. Some swam. Others wandered into town. Some napped on deck, read books, or simply enjoyed the fresh air before the submarine inevitably returned to the dark depths below. Some headed into town.

You and Bepo claimed a comfortable spot on deck and spent the morning enjoying the warmth.

Law had gone into town on urgent business—restocking ingredients for his medicines—but insisted he wouldn’t be long and that there was no need for you to come with him.

Bepo had strangely supported this argument with suspicious enthusiasm.

Still, you didn’t think much of it. Days like this were rare. 

At some point, Bepo wandered off to grab cold lemonade while you stayed stretched out in your chair, eyes closed, listening to the waves and feeling the ocean breeze brush softly against your legs.

Everything felt peaceful.

Then suddenly, a tall shadow blocked the warmth of the sun.

You peeked over your sunglasses and found your beautiful, impossibly tall boyfriend standing over you, holding an enormous bouquet of peonies in soft pastel shades—soft pink, white, creamy, pale lilac. Petals layered like clouds.

Your breath caught.

“They’re beautiful,” you whispered, eyes shining as you buried your nose into the sweet floral scent. “How did you know these were my favorite?”

Law watched you quietly.

His expression softened.

He’d known because months ago you’d stopped in front of a flower stall and spent nearly ten minutes admiring peonies.

You hadn’t realized he’d noticed, but he did of course.

Law noticed everything about you.

“Lucky guess,” he replied quietly, watching you instead of the flowers.

You narrowed your eyes.

“Liar.”

He shrugged.

Your fingers brushed against a folded note tucked between the stems.

The moment you noticed it, Law swallowed hard.

Suddenly he felt far more nervous than he had facing emperors, marines, or sea monsters.

Slowly, you unfolded it and three words stared back at you.

I love you.

You looked up at him immediately, startled and flushed pink.

Then Law exhaled.

“I mean it,” he said before you could speak.

“Even if saying it out loud is hard for me sometimes. I love you. Breathing feels easier when you’re around. I sleep better beside you. You make every day better.”

He continued before courage could abandon him.

“Everything is better.”

The vulnerability in his expression nearly broke your heart. And he swallowed thickly.

“Sorry if I’m not always good at showing it.”

Tears gathered in your eyes before you could stop them and you laughed softly and shook your head.

“I love you too, idiot,” you whispered, hugging the bouquet tighter. “Very, very much.” A tear escaped despite your smile.

“And trust me—you show it plenty. I never want you to stop.”

Something warm settled inside his chest. The anxious knot he’d been carrying all morning finally unraveled.

“I don’t plan to.”

He carefully took the bouquet from your arms and placed it on the lounge chair beside you, You could put them in a vase later.

The alarm’s still blaring; he’s no help. Another minute passes before you bother to reach your arm over Grace’s body to slam it off. And by then, with half your weight pressed down on his chest, he’s already rustled awake. Caught underneath you, Grace has a weary, half-conscious grin on his face. It’s almost enough to make you livid, the way he’s looking up at you, all glimmery, just past his lashes. Barely awake and far too pleased. Stubbornly, you say, “We’re throwing out the alarm clock.”

Your executive decision comes like a punch to the gut. Grace’s grin falls, and he immediately props up on his elbows. “What? Why?”

You have to rub your eyes. “It’s disturbingly loud—like, fire alarm loud. Adrien has the biodome on a regular twenty-four hour Circadian rhythm, which means we can wake up naturally,” you list off, “And it also doesn’t work.”

“It works.” Grace grabs away at his glasses, taking them up off the bedside table and slipping them on just to argue with you more visibly. Plainly, he states, “I’m awake right now.” “But, it doesn’t wake you up. It wakes me up, and then I have to do the dirty work of getting you out of bed.”

“Whatever this is—” Grace makes sure to jut his fingers around your stomach with a bunch of tentative prods, just about the same as you’d done minutes trying to jolt him awake, “—is not getting me out of bed.” You immediately grab for his hands, trying to pry them away from you. Despite your morning bickering, the back and forth of the two of you tousling against one another doesn’t have a single drop of malice to it. When all is said and done, you’re very, very pleased to be stranded in space with him.

—

“Okay, class. Review time. Who wants to tell me about Newton’s Laws of Motion?”  

Your favorite (and very rare pastime) is accompanying Grace to his science classes. The Eridian younglings seem to be extra jumpy every time you decide to help out and watch Mr. G in his element—pressed to the xenonite glass and rattling away at the sight of you sitting on a tall stool beside his setup. There’s a very large makeshift Newton’s Cradle atop the steel table today, and a chorus of loud chirping, each youngling more eager than the next to impress. Each has their own individualized pattern of: Me. Me. Me. 

The enthusiasm is resounding. Grace claps, a grin growing wide on his face, “One at a time, one at a time.” One very small Eridian at the front of the multitiered formation raises their claw particularly high. One of Rocky’s younglings. Grace throws an index-finger up: “Shoot, Junior.”

Junior shrills: If mate, where younglings?

You can practically see Grace’s soul rise up out of his body. His hands are stilled at his sides. Regret sets in on his face. Of all the things. You swallow, hand coming up to pull at the neckline of your sweater; it’s unbearably hot despite the fog. It takes a moment for Grace to fall back into motion. Sternly, he says, “That is so presumptuous of you and not at all appropriate for you to ask me in a classroom setting.” Stubbornly, Junior thuds himself into a slump on the floor. Grace carries on, “Who’s up next?”

It’s clear that Grace wants to get a grip on the detour quickly and try to steer them all back in the right direction. But, it’s too late. This initial question seems to spiral into a very clear trajectory. More chirps and hums: Tired of human Newton. Want learn human courting ritual. Tell us first meet story.

Grace puts both of his hands up. “We’re supposed to be learning about Newton’s Laws. Not scaring our very special guest.” His objections are met, and vastly overpowered, by the repetitive chorus of the younglings, who are increasingly interested in the same thing: First meet. First meet. First meet.

“Okay. You want me to do first meet.” Grace turns to you, finally, a sorry look on his face and a blush tinging his cheeks red just beneath the rims of his glasses. “They want me to do first meet, hon.” He’s exasperated. You can’t help but grin, because this occurrence is nothing new. You’ve told some iteration of “first meet” to the class about a hundred times—detailing, at length, your chance meeting with Grace. All things considered, it isn’t the worst story in the world.

It takes you a very short amount of time to get yourself set up for the retelling. You sit cross-legged in front of the xenonite glass. The younglings make sure to huddle up as close as possible as you speak. Now, Grace has his cardigan shed, hanging on the corner of his whiteboard, and he’s taken your place on the high stool. You talk, and he listens—along with the rest of his Eridian science class. “Mr. Grace and I met on a ship on an ocean just like this one, but bigger, a very, very long time ago. We were both recruited for a very important mission to save the Earth. We all know this part of the story, right?” The younglings sing with agreement. They know Earth’s prior turmoil as much as they know Erid’s.

From behind you, you pull out two identical, xenonite models. You hold up one, “So, here’s me,” and then the other, “And here is Mr. Grace.” They’ve seen these before, and are sure to brighten up at the sight of the little figurines. “When I first met Mr. Grace, I thought he was… handsome.” 

The word choice sets Grace into a fit, all while the younglings chirp along and stamp their claws on the floor. “Oh, good lord,” you hear him grumble. You peer over your shoulder to see that Grace has his hands buried in his face, unable to look you in the eyes.

“We were assigned to work with one another, which meant we had to see each other constantly. This was more difficult than you’d think. When I talked to Mr. Grace, like this…” You dance your little figurine mini-me towards mini-Grace, and you make sure to pull mini-Grace back. “He’d be a little bit surprised, and retreat into his shell a little. An equal and opposite reaction, kind of like…” you trail off, gesturing to the Newton’s Cradle behind you. The younglings seem to murmur with agreement: Third Law. You nod, “And I’d do the same. We kind of danced around each other for a while, but it all worked out in the end.” Junior waves a claw around: Is true?

Grace concedes, pressing his glasses higher up on his face. You can see the bottom half of his lenses beginning to fog up. He’s absolutely flushed and it’s impossible to conceal. He concedes: “It wasn’t that simple, but for the sake of the lesson, yes, it was just like Newton’s Third Law of Motion.” Then, they erupt into further discussion amongst themselves: Now, mates. Human courting very simple. Human courting like physics. Bond is easier than Eridians.

“Alright, alright,” Grace pipes up again, trying to quiet them down. “If you guys can run me through the other two laws, we can do lunch a little bit early.” 

—

The younglings are only half-willing to accept your departure and listen to the rest of Grace’s motion unit. While Grace teaches the rest of his lesson, you’re due to meet with Rocky on the central quarter of the beach. He’s always making sure to monitor the two of you, a good host tending to his human guests.

You’re not sure how the topic comes up. Maybe, it’s the unintended topic of Grace’s physics lesson, or your nearing one year anniversary of being on Erid. Or, it’s the fact that it’s simply been long enough without verbalizing your particular feelings on the matter. Grace was something to you on the carrier, before either of you had been sent up to space. Acquaintance, then crush. Then, sort-of boyfriend. Definitely boyfriend, by the time he’d gotten the greater portion of his memory back.

Now… all the Eridians like to call you mates, which is altogether too biological for either of you. Partner’s probably better. With all this taken into account, there hasn’t been a very good time to iron it out with him. The two of you have been so satisfied on Erid that it seems sort of pointless to do so. You’re happy. And still, you’re being struck with the sudden feeling that you desperately, desperately want to be married to Grace.

So, you bring this up to Rocky. As the two of you have your daily stroll about the biodome, he’s trying his best to understand the minute details of what a “marriage” is. You make sure to trudge along the sand slowly, matching the pace of Rocky rolling along as best as you can. Human ritual is confusing. Mate asks mate to be together forever, but together already. Futile?

There’s no doubt about it that the proposal thing is futile. It’s futile and outdated already on Earth—and so, it should be futile and outdated all the way on the other side of the galaxy on Erid, where its inhabitants bond so easily. “Well, yes. Obviously, we’re already together, together.” It sounds so immature when you say it. “But, it’s an Earth tradition, you know? Beyond the formality and all, it’s… romantic.” 

Rocky dips only slightly into the seafoam as it approaches and recedes with the tide. Need meaning of word. You have to think about this particular word deeply. Romantic? What’s romantic?

Grace is, even if he doesn’t claim to be. Nobody else would be willing to ration out coffee for you, teach the robot-arm to dance to your favorite songs, and take up handicrafts to make you slightly less bored (his favorite: an army of medical glove dolls). His proudest achievement, by far, has been solving your complaints about having zero reading materials. His idea: taking Stratt’s pirated-everything laptop and transcribing books for you by hand on the back of old lab manuals. It takes you a short minute to collect your thoughts together neatly for Rocky’s understanding. “Humans like to express care for their mates. In a marriage, rings are a symbol of a lasting bond. You wear them on your left hand, here.”

You wiggle your ring finger at Rocky. He rolls a bit closer to you, water flicking off the geometric edges of his xenonite shell. Oh. Understand. Like how Adrian name carved on arm? All Eridian mates do this.

“Yeah,” you nod, “It’s exactly like that.”

I know Grace finger circumference. And I know your finger circumference. His claws are raised into the air triumphantly, as if struck by a stroke of genius. Adrien and I fabricate rings for human ritual. You try to breeze over this fact that Rocky has your body measurements stored in his very extensive Eridian brain. What’s more concerning is the fact that he’s serious about the rings. You almost immediately draw back, raising your hands up and waving them rapidly, with a punchy “no.” Rocky seems to slump in his xenonite casing. You’re far too disagreeable. Why not? Rocky provide easy fix.

“Grace and I haven’t had the talk yet, and I don’t want to rush it.” The truth is that you’re shy to ask. When all is said and done, you’re sure that Grace will say yes. There’s no reason for him not to say yes—one, because he adores you, and two, because you’re basically already married. But, the question feels far too serious for your taste, and you’d rather let him bring it up himself.

Rocky seems to tumble on his back and roll over into the water again. No sense. Not difficult to see—you, Grace, good life. Unnecessary complication. You don’t have much of an argument against him.

—

Your walk back up to the house after Grace’s class is filled with nothing but high remarks. It’s just the two of you again, the younglings back to their respective clans and Rocky back to work.  As you trudge up the hill with Grace, breeze whipping around your hair, he’s still a little bit caught up by the thought of you handling his students earlier in the morning. “Maybe, you can take my job and I can take up something more solitary. Like fishing.”

“It’s not a big deal, Ry.” You have to stifle your amusement. “You short-circuited. It happens.”

Grace tilts his head, blinking intermittently, “Would you really call that short-circuiting? I’d consider it more strategic than anything else.” Grace shoves his hands into his pockets, more mortified than anything else at the thought of his own flustered shock. He doesn’t believe what he’s saying himself, and still, he’s far too prideful to admit otherwise. As the two of you reach the front door, Grace makes sure to skip in front of you eagerly to open it and let you both in. 

“Right. We can definitely classify it as a strategic, intentional lapse in speech,” you tease. While Grace bends over to untie his Converses and kick them off, he seems to hang his head particularly low.

“You’re not allowed in the classroom for the rest of this month,” he tells you. Two and a half weeks. It’s more for his sake than it is his students’. You nod, placing your work boots on the rack right by Grace’s sneakers. 

“In any case, they’re just curious. It isn’t an inherently bad thing.” He doesn’t try to contest that point. Curiosity is never a bad thing, and it’s palpable how much his new class of younglings adores learning from him. What he doesn’t like, admittedly, is how their curiosity extends into your shared dating history. He’s very lucky you haven’t retold how you sacrificially launched yourself into space with him; it would no doubt cause a coup.

It’s clear that Grace is at least overall pleased with your storyelling—because as soon as you shut the door behind you, he seems to stoop down to try and kiss you. His blonde hair tickles at your forehead with the action, glasses slightly askew. It’s with much regret that you have to stop him. Grace comes upon an impasse. He’s kissing the front of your palm, not your lips, and he’s deeply confused. He retracts. “What?” You make sure to duck out the way and keep a straight path towards your writing desk. Grace trails behind you like some kind of lost puppy, “Wait, wait.”

“It’s Friday.” Since the start of Project Hail Mary, you’d been assigned to documentation, and so, on Erid, you thought it would be best to carry on with the work. Fridays—you and Grace had agreed upon sticking to as close as Earth time as possible—were for your weekly log, an ongoing tracker of your settlement on Erid. You tell Grace, dragging your chair back and seating yourself onto it, “It’ll take ten minutes just to type something up.” More like twenty. You’re very thorough, and he knows that. “I’ll make it quick, and then we can do dinner.”

You’re dancing around the fact that Grace very clearly does not want dinner. He nearly keels over at your despondence towards him. “I’ve been waiting all day to get you to myself,” he confesses. Much to his protest, you open the old laptop and click into the usual file. Grace tries again, throwing his cardigan over the back of your chair: “Maybe we can circle back to the log in an hour or so, and work productively on our oxytocin output.” The corporate-scientist talk really kills you.

“Fifteen minutes,” you wager. Grace groans. You know exactly where this tends to go. He gets needy, distracts you from your work, makes it near-impossible to return to. Secretly, you adore when he gets like this—all restless and slightly irritable. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere,” you chuckle, “I mean, physically, I cannot leave the dome.”

“One smooch and I’ll get out of your hair?” he rasps back. You tilt your head to look up at him with a very empty look of exasperation. Grace takes both of his hands and cups them onto your cheeks, before holding you still to plant his lips onto yours. Still seated at your desk, you have to twist your neck oddly to better face him, and when you finally find a comfortable enough way to turn, you make sure to brush Grace’s forearm with your hand. You can feel him smiling into you. It’s almost juvenile, the way he evolves the quick peck into a deeper and more intimate kiss.

You tug on the side-loop of his jeans, and he pulls off of you with a labored breath. “O-kay,” you punch out, “Quota reached. You go work on lesson plans over there, and I’ll do my logging over here.” He lets out another belligerent grumble, and reluctantly obeys. Grace makes sure to press a kiss to your temple, before padding over to the living room to give you space.

Though, you can hear Grace mumbling, out of sight, “Armando, do you see what I have to deal with?” It sounds as if Grace drags a chair out at the dining table and slides himself onto it. Then, silence.

Alone, now, you have ample time to consider what your writings will be made up of. Your log from last Friday reads briefly about improvements to the biodome—perfection of water temperature thanks to Adrian and your attempts to germinate soybeans from the Hail Mary. You’re not exactly sure what to write about for this week. There’s Grace’s lessons with the Eridian younglings, your ongoing efforts to create an English-Eridian dictionary, and today’s extensive talk with Rocky about marriage. The last option, of course, needs to be omitted from the record, on the off chance that your other half checks the file. All things considered, you could be happily un-married to Grace.

—

But you’re pleased, of course, finding that he thinks otherwise.

Only a few weeks pass when the subject crops up again. You’re busy hanging up laundry, while Grace sweeps the floor. It’s one of those more productive weekends in the biodome, and he’s whistling along to The Beatles. The clothesline reaches from one edge of the bedroom to a corner of the dining room on the opposite side. You’ve got a good momentum going, a rhythmic tug and fold of clothes off the line, until Grace asks—or, rather, stumbles into—“Do you remember when I thought we were married? I mean, I thought I was married to you, but I didn’t know that you were you. What am I saying?”

You know exactly what he’s trying to say, and it’s enough to make your hands jittery. Just when you thought you’d be able to flee from the overall concept of marriage, he decides to throw you off your game. You hold up a maroon shirt of his—a worthy distraction. It has a crude illustration of an amino acid with downturned eyebrows and fumes puffing out on either side of it. A-mean-o, the shirt reads. Not very funny, but you’re sure that you’ve stolen it from Grace at least once or twice. You try to laugh it off. “Well, I’d say it’s pretty difficult not to remember,” you tell him, “You’re still a pretty long way from living it down.” 

“Well, I don’t think I’d necessarily want to do that,” he hums. You fold the shirt with an all-too-sharp precision and toss it onto the rest of the old shirts piled on your king bed. Does he know what he’s saying? You can’t tell. The next garment that you grab off the line is one of Grace’s red jumpsuits that the two of you have naturally turned into gardening gear. The act of folding this up isn’t nearly as easy, considering that your hands are stiffening with nervousness.

Grace comes right behind you, one hand brushing against the small of your back as he passes you and bends over to rustle around his side of the bed. He’s very determined to obtain whatever’s been stashed there. You can see his hand slip underneath the mattress, and he makes sure to hold the foreign object behind his back as he turns to face you. “Can I give you a hypothetical? Won’t take too much of a setup.”

“Ryland.” You’re as wary as you are delighted. You try to peer around him to see what he’s got tucked behind his back, but he’s very quick to angle himself away from you.

“Okay, just be patient with me.” He chuckles at your eagerness, one hand coming out to hold you still by the shoulder. Then, he retracts it—chest rising and falling as he looks more soberly over your face. “The first time we met.” Grace stalls, then tries again, “Let’s say, hypothetically, the first time we met, I desperately wanted to talk to you.”

“What?”

“Like after my first astrophage meeting, I saw you eating dinner in the cafeteria on the center-left table, but I was too nauseous from the jet ride over to eat that night. So, I sat there the morning after because I thought you might show up. And you did,” Grace rambles through the explanation, before talking a big breath in. “How would you react if I had done that? Hypothetically?”

“I’d probably call you a stalker, hypothetically.” Your lackluster response makes him squirm.  

“Okay, well, that’s what happened,” Grace surrenders. He only seems half-offended—less so when you seem to start laughing at him. “Okay,” he breathes in, “I’m trying to tell you that I’ve always wanted you around me since forever ago. And I want us to do… this.” He takes your hand to place the object onto your palm. You seem to sober up a little bit, hushed. Grace hands you a small, xenonite box, all cross-hatched. It weighs barely anything.

“This isn’t an ammonia bomb, is it?”

Grace snorts. “I have a sneaking suspicion that you know it isn’t that.” You turn the box over in your hand; you’re sure that there’s some sort of Eridian engraving in it that you haven’t quite mastered yet. “I figured that we haven’t done things very linearly. You basically proposed by coming up to space with me, and I proposed by already thinking we were married. So, the real deal’s in there. Sorry for the wait.”

You don’t even care to open it that moment, too preoccupied with him to even think about the box in your hand. You make a sweeping motion to throw your arms over Grace’s shoulders, chin tucking over his shoulder. With just as much ardor, he brings his arms around your waist. There, the two of you embrace there for the next couple of minutes. In your cottage on Erid, in the middle of space, ages away from Earth. Away from Earth might’ve bothered the both of you once before—but now, it doesn’t seem so bad.

—

It’s a warm night in the biodome. Grace has your hand in his lap, and he’s using his index and his thumb to rotate the wedding band on your left hand. It’s a perfect fit on both of you, some kind of dark metal alloy with what you think is xenonite glass embedded into a middle-layer. The hushed sound of the waves echoes out from down the hill, and the two of you sit on the grassy knoll in one another’s company. You’ve been thinking this all night long, and you’ve got to ask: “Did Rocky tattle on me?”

Grace hangs his head with a grin, “Not on purpose. I went and asked if I could get him to fabricate me some wedding bands. You can imagine the look on my face when I found out he already had them done.” Before he can tease you any further, you make sure to take Grace’s face into your hands and kiss him silly. He seems to chuckle into it a bit, caught off guard by the sheer intensity that you seem to want to press your lips into his. By the time you’re done with him, his glasses are practically at a forty-five-degree angle on his face.

You have to reach your hands up to straighten them out for him. Then: “How long d’you think before your class notices these things?”

Grace groans, leaning his forehead straight onto your shoulder. “I can’t even think about that right now… Half a class period, if I’m lucky.”