ALEXANDER
I lingered in the bedroom doorway, arms folded, saying nothing as my anomaly moved through the room with that careful, post-exhaustion gait I knew too well.
The aquarium lights spilled soft ribbons of blue across his face, catching in the faint lines of tension still lingering at the corners of his eyes.
He smiled and not the polished one he offered patients, nor the hesitant flicker he gave strangers. This was small, soft, and entirely his own.
He crouched in front of the tank, one hand resting lightly on the cabinet below. The fish drifted toward him almost at once, drawn by the familiar silhouette.
"Hello," he murmured.
A bright orange molly darted forward, pressing close to the glass. Dashiell's fingers tapped once against the wood, then stilled.
"They took good care of you today, didn't they?" His voice stayed low, almost conspiratorial. "I know. I missed you too."
He paused, watching a lazy drift of another fish through the swaying plants. "I had a difficult day."
Another beat of silence. His head tilted slightly, thoughtful. "Actually… you probably don't understand language either." A quiet huff of amusement escaped him. "I still like talking to you."
I stayed where I was, letting him have this. He always narrated his thoughts to them—fragments of work, half-remembered book passages, or simply nothing at all. It wasn't for show. He expected nothing back. Just the steady rhythm of the water, the predictable glide of fins, the absence of demands.
"My sister said she talked to you while I was gone," he continued, glancing toward one of the angelfish. A tiny frown creased his brow. "I hope she didn't overfeed you." Another pause. "She said she didn't. I believe her."
His gaze moved from fish to fish, greeting each one in turn. I knew their names. Broca, who always claimed the same corner of the tank. Wernicke, who never stayed still for long. Parkinson, whose slow, deliberate movements had earned him the name despite Dashiell insisting it was "not scientifically accurate." And Charcot, because, according to Dashiell, "someone had to be Charcot." He had introduced me to every single one. Twice. I remembered them all, the way I remembered everything that mattered to him.
Finally, he glanced over his shoulder. "You've been very quiet."
"I was watching."
"You usually stand closer."
The words pulled a faint smile from him. I pushed off the doorway and crossed the room, stopping right at his side. He leaned in just a fraction, and I felt the tension in his shoulders ease, like some invisible weight had finally lifted.
"Better?" I asked.
He nodded, eyes still on the tank. "Yes."
Satisfied, he turned back to the fish. "Alexander came with me," he told them, voice soft and earnest, as if sharing a secret they'd been waiting to hear. "He said he wanted to."
I studied the side of his face, the faint flush still lingering on his cheeks. He reached up absently and touched the lollipop stick between his lips, rolling it slowly. "My brain isn't loud anymore."
The quiet admission settled warmly in my chest. After another minute, Dashiell rose to his feet with that careful grace of his.
"I think they're finished listening," he murmured.
He gave the aquarium one last lingering look before turning toward the wardrobe. I stayed where I was, watching as routine wrapped around him like a familiar blanket.
He opened the left side of the closet and reached automatically for the shelf he always used. His fingers closed around a neatly folded set of comfortable clothes—a pair of soft charcoal lounge pants and an oversized cream T-shirt.
"These are for after my shower," he explained quietly, more to himself than to me, laying them carefully over his forearm.
Then came the drawer beneath. He unzipped his toiletry pouch just enough to peek inside—body wash, shampoo, face wash, hairbrush, deodorant—all exactly where they belonged. A small nod of satisfaction, and he zipped it closed again.
His gaze drifted back to the glowing tank. "I'll come back later," he promised the fish. "I haven't forgotten about you."
Only then did he switch off the bedroom light, leaving the aquarium to cast its gentle blue glow across the room. I reached the door before he did and opened it for him. He looked up at me, eyes soft.
"Thank you."
We crossed the hallway together into my room. The cooler air brushed over us immediately.
"I like your thermostat," he murmured.
A smile tugged at my mouth as I watched him set the folded clothes on the bed, then place his toiletry pouch with precise care on the bathroom counter. He returned to the bedroom and began undressing in that same deliberate sequence I'd come to know so well.
First, the ID badge, set neatly on the dresser. Then the pale blue hospital shirt, unbuttoned one by one, the fabric smoothed before he slid it from his shoulders.
He folded it with quiet focus and laid it across the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed.
When everything sat perfectly aligned, he studied the stack for a second, then gently nudged one sleeve into place.
"There."
I didn't interrupt. His routines deserved that respect—the same respect he gave everything.
He picked up the fresh clothes. "I'm going to shower."
I nodded once. "I'll be here."
He disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him. A moment later, the warm rush of water started. Downstairs, Selene's laughter drifted up faintly from the television. Soon Elizabeth would call everyone for dinner, but there was no need to hurry him.
His peace came first. Everything else could wait.
I stood in the quiet room for a long moment, listening to the steady rush of water behind the bathroom door.
Then I began undressing, when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I glanced at it.
A message from my secretary about tomorrow's OR schedule. Nothing urgent. I picked it up to read the full note, thumb scrolling once.
Then I dropped it.
The device clattered onto the nightstand, forgotten.
A few minutes later, Dashiell stepped out of the bathroom, hair slightly damp, wearing the lounge pants and oversized T-shirt that always looked too big on his frame. He smelled like my body wash and something uniquely him.
He paused when he saw me standing there in only my black boxer briefs, eyes widening slightly before he looked away, cheeks flushing.
"You're… changing," he observed, voice quiet but direct.
I crossed the room slowly, stopping in front of him. My hand came up to brush a stray droplet of water from his temple.
"Yes."
He swallowed, fingers tapping once against his thigh.
"I'm still a little tired," he said honestly, but he didn't step back. "My brain is quieter now, but… it's still processing today."
I tilted his chin up gently, my thumb tracing his jaw.
"Your brain's done enough for one day."
He leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering half-closed for a second.
"You're very warm," he murmured.
I pulled him closer, wrapping my arms around him. His cheek pressed against my bare chest, hands resting lightly on my sides. For a long moment, we just stood there, breathing together.
Then my phone buzzed again.
I ignored it.
Dashiell glanced toward the nightstand. "You should check that."
"It can wait."
He looked up at me, a small, sleepy smile forming.
"You're choosing me over your phone."
"Always."
He hummed contentedly and pressed closer, arms wrapping around my waist.
"Good."
The phone buzzed a third time.
I didn't move.
Instead, I slid one hand down to cup his ass, pulling him flush against me. He gasped softly as he felt how hard I already was.
"Alexander…" he whispered, voice a little breathless.
I leaned down and kissed him, tasting the faint sweetness from the lollipop still lingering on his tongue. He melted into it, fingers digging into my back as I ground my cock against him through the thin fabric of his pants.
When I finally pulled back, his lips were swollen and his eyes were glassy.
"You're very hard," he said, cheeks flushed. "I can feel it."
I smirked against his mouth.
"You did this to me."
He shivered, hips rocking instinctively against me.
"I'm still a little tired," he admitted, but he didn't pull away.
I kissed him again, deeper this time, one hand sliding under his shirt to stroke the warm skin of his back.
"Then let me take care of you," I murmured against his lips.
He whimpered softly, nodding.
The phone buzzed again on the nightstand.
Neither of us cared.