Even after years of dating, after marriage, your relationship with Veritas was far from perfect. You loved him fiercely, and he loved you in his own quiet, unwavering way. But that didn’t stop the two of you from clashing. Often.

Your emotional honesty, his clinical detachment. Your need to feel heard, his obsession with logic. It wasn’t always easy.

Tonight had been one of those nights again. He had told you, plainly, that his research was more important than dinner with you. Then blinked in genuine confusion when your expression crumbled. You’d stormed off. He hadn’t followed. Typical.

Now, curled beneath the blankets, your thoughts swirled. He’s so frustrating... you thought bitterly. He never apologizes unless he’s actually convinced he was wrong, which, of course, he never is. He’s Veritas Ratio. Why would a so-called genius ever believe they’re mistaken?

You turned to face the wall with a sigh, heart aching and body chilled from both the argument and the cold. Before suddenly you felt a brush of warmth against your frozen feet.

Veritas' feet.

He had come to bed earlier without a word, and though your feet were practically ice, he didn’t flinch away. Instead, he let his feet rest there, gently pressed against yours, grounding you.

He wouldn’t say he was sorry. Not unless he truly believed he’d erred. But this, this quiet act of closeness, was his form of an apology. His way of saying, I'm still here. I still love you. Even when the words failed him.