((art by @.vYqi_ on twitter))

Veritas Ratio isn’t exactly the domestic type. At least, that’s what he told you the first time you ever brought up moving in together, back when his apartment still looked more like a lab than a home- full of stacked research papers, scorched wires, and a whiteboard that took up an entire wall. But somehow, months later, you’re here. The place still smells faintly of solder and printer toner, but there’s a coat rack now. And a mug you picked out. And a second toothbrush beside the sink.

Things with him are quiet in the way oceans are quiet. That is, deep and still on the surface, with something immeasurable underneath. Ratio doesn’t talk about feelings, but he always makes sure your charger’s plugged in. He walks on the street side of the sidewalk. He keeps a mental note of what foods you hate and never makes you say it twice.

And every morning since you moved in, he’s let you wake him up with a kiss on the cheek, even if he grumbles about “disrupting optimal REM cycles.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You’d mentioned a dog once. Or possibly more than once. You’d even shown him pictures of the cutest ones you could find on the nearby shelter's website. He always said no, quite firmly. And he had plenty of reasons to back up his answer, all of which you refuted easily. He didn’t have the time (you promised you would do everything), the shedding would ruin the air filters (you offered to pay for the new ones), and he’d rather not get attached (you reminded him that he said the same thing about you at first).

He still said no.

But then, last week, you found her. Skinny, scruffy, curled up by the recycling bins outside the apartment building in the rain. You brought her in without asking, towel-wrapped and trembling, and he’d stood there at the threshold with that tired, put-upon look, pinching the bridge of his arched nose like you’d just handed him a paradox with paws.

“You’re not keeping it,” he'd muttered, not even looking at the oversized, shivering mutt. “It's just until you find the owner.”

Two months later, and you never did find the owner. The vet said she'd most likely been abandoned on purpose.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You come home late, arms full of takeout, and the lights are mostly off—just a gold band of sunset slipping through the blinds. The whole apartment smells like warm rice and fur, a familiarity that you've come to love.

Ratio is on the couch, half-slouched, olive-toned skin glowing soft in the low light, with the stray curled into the crook of his arm. He doesn’t move when you walk in, doesn’t speak either. Just stares straight ahead at the wall like if he doesn’t acknowledge it, it’s not happening. The tips of his ears are red.

After a beat, he shifts slightly, careful not to wake her. “…Did you find the owner yet?” He asks quietly, not even daring to look at you.

His voice is dry, face blank as ever. But he’s got one hand resting over her big, scruffy chest, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

And just like that, you know the answer.