Dick had never realized how musical a language could be until he started dating you.

He’d heard Portuguese before, in passing — on patrols, in restaurants, from tourists, in snippets of Brazilian music blasting out of someone’s car. But none of it compared to hearing it directly from you, soft and warm and threaded with that unmistakable cadence that curled around him like sunlight.

He wasn’t sure when it happened exactly — somewhere between your first date and the way you said his name the second time you kissed — but he had become completely, hopelessly enamored with your accent.

It wasn’t just that it was beautiful (which it was). It wasn’t just that it made his name sound like something softer, warmer (“Djiqui,” the way Brazilians did with English D’s, and God help him, he melted every time). It was the way every word felt like it carried sunlight.

You were still in the early months of dating, everything tender and new, and he was discovering things about you faster than he could make sense of them — the foods you missed from home, the music you grew up with, the slang that he could barely keep up with but loved hearing nonetheless.

But the accent?

It did things to him.

Tonight, you were sprawled on his couch, legs tangled, some half-forgotten movie playing in the background. You were telling him a story about the fiasco you had at work that day, slipping effortlessly between Portuguese and English when you got excited.

And Dick… wasn’t hearing any of it.

Or rather, he was hearing all of it, but not in the way you intended.

He watched your mouth move, watched the way certain sounds rolled or softened or snapped with a rhythm he didn’t have in his own language. You waved your hands as you talked, expressive in a way he adored, and every now and then you'd drop a word he didn’t know but wanted to.

He caught himself smiling like an idiot.

You paused. “What?”

He blinked. “Nothing. Just… keep talking.”