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The door slammed behind Phoenix, sharp enough to rattle the keys in the bowl.
“I don’t need you coming in here and telling me how to raise my kid.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Edgeworth said coolly, still standing near the threshold.
“You didn’t have to. The look you gave when she said she was skipping school for a magic show? Like I handed her a cigarette and a lighter.”
Edgeworth exhaled. Slowly. “I only raised an eyebrow.”
“You raised judgment.”
Phoenix shoved a stack of envelopes off the counter. Most were unopened. Trucy’s school newsletter, overdue bills, a flyer about summer classes he couldn’t afford.
“She’s twelve,” he snapped. “She wants to be on stage. I’m not going to kill that just because some principal thinks algebra’s more important.”
“I didn’t come here to fight.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Edgeworth said nothing. His coat was still folded over one arm, his other hand curling tight around the handle of his briefcase. He hadn’t taken off his shoes. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here.
Good. Phoenix felt the same.
“Why are you even here?” Phoenix asked, quieter now, but sharper. “Did you think it’d be some enlightening detour on your way back to whatever European court you’re dazzling this week?”
“I came because you asked me to.”
“Well. That was a mistake.”
They stared at each other. The space between them filled with too many years and not enough honesty.
“You look at her,” Phoenix said, voice catching. “Like you’re afraid she’s going to explode. Or worse—like she’s going to become you.”
Edgeworth flinched. Just a flicker. But Phoenix saw it. It made something ugly curl in his chest.
“You’re terrified of kids because your father got shot in an elevator and your next parent was a psychopath. But guess what?” Phoenix stepped closer. “She’s not your father. And I’m not your teacher. And this—” he gestured around the apartment, cluttered and warm and lived-in, “—this is mine. She’s mine.”
Edgeworth’s voice was a low scrape. “I never said she wasn’t.”
Phoenix’s jaw clenched. “But you don’t want to be part of it.”
“Don’t twist my words.”
“I’m not twisting anything. You show up for a weekend and start critiquing her schedule like you’ve got some gold standard—”
“I’m not trying to be her father!”
Silence.
Edgeworth’s face was drawn tight, color high on his cheekbones. “I’m not trying to be her father,” he repeated, quieter. “I… I don’t know how.”
Phoenix stood there. Breathing hard. The anger was still there, but now it had nowhere to go. Just fire burning in a locked room.
Edgeworth looked away first.
“I left my career behind for her,” Phoenix said, voice thin with exhaustion. “I could’ve fought harder to get it back. Maybe. But I didn’t. Because I couldn’t do both. I couldn’t defend the world and raise a little girl who thought magic tricks were real medicine. And you—” He laughed, but it was bitter. “You still get to be the noble one.”
Edgeworth opened his mouth, then closed it. He set down his briefcase on the floor—gently, like any sudden move might shatter something between them.
“You were right earlier,” he said finally. “About why I don’t come back more often.”
Phoenix said nothing.
“I thought I was doing the responsible thing. Putting distance between us so we wouldn’t…” He paused. “So I wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t what?”
Edgeworth’s hand curled at his side. “Feel like this.”
A beat.
Then, like an afterthought, like a line he forgot to cut from his script: “I love you.”
The silence afterward wasn’t peaceful. It cracked the air like glass.
Phoenix didn’t move.
Edgeworth looked suddenly unsteady. “I didn’t come here for a scene, Wright. And I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“Yeah,” Phoenix said hoarsely. “That makes two of us.”
Neither of them spoke. The room was too full.
Then Phoenix stepped forward. Grabbed Edgeworth by the lapels—rough, thoughtless—and kissed him.
Not sweet. Not tidy.
Just desperate.
Like a confession. Like a collapse. Like a truth they couldn’t argue their way around anymore.
When they pulled apart, Phoenix didn’t let go.
Edgeworth didn’t step back.
The fire between them didn’t die. But it stopped burning them alive—for now.
—------------
The phone rang twice before Franziska picked up.
“I’m in court in ten minutes,” she said crisply. “This better be about an international legal emergency or a fool whose existence I may legally erase.”
There was a pause.
“Miles?” she prompted.
He cleared his throat. “Yes.”
More silence. Franziska sighed. “Did you pocket-dial me again?”
“No.”
“Then why are you breathing like a guilty dog?”
He straightened. “I’m not—breathing like—any sort of animal.”
“You’re brooding.”
“I am reflecting.”
“That’s what I said.”
Miles pinched the bridge of his nose. His tie was still sitting on the back of the chair. He hadn’t put it on. Somehow that was worse than waking up in someone else’s bed—it made the room feel unfinished. Like he was still somewhere in between.
“I saw Wright yesterday,” he said, finally.
A beat.
“Ah,” Franziska said. “So it’s one of those calls.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“You want to talk about your feelings without admitting you have them.”
“Franziska.”
“I’m listening.”
He stood and crossed the room, phone pressed tight to his ear. The curtains were half-drawn, sunlight cutting a bar across the carpet. He watched the dust float in it. “It was—unexpected.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
Franziska hummed. “Did you fight?”
“Of course.”
“Then did you make up?”
He hesitated. “You could call it that.”
There was a smug silence on the other end of the line.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He turned toward the window and let the light hit his face, eyes squinting against it. “It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t planned. He said—he said some things. And I…” His voice trailed off.
“Let me guess,” Franziska said dryly. “You panicked.”
“I confessed.”
There was a pause.
“You?” she said. “Miles Edgeworth, prosecutorial automaton, told someone you loved them out loud?”
“I said it quietly.”
Franziska laughed. She actually laughed. “God, I hope you looked like you were in physical pain when you did it.”
“I might have.”
He could hear her flipping papers. The sound grounded him. Like a metronome back to his old life.
“So,” she said. “What are you calling me for, Little Brother?”
Miles opened his mouth. Closed it.
After a moment, Franziska said, more gently, “You don’t know what to do now.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed. His voice was low. “It’s not just him. It’s her. Trucy. That child is… bright. And strange. And loud. She puts ketchup on miso soup.”
“She’s twelve.”
“She asked if I’d help her build a secret compartment in the piano for smuggling rabbits.”
“Sounds practical.”
“I told her she was being ridiculous and she made a sad face and then winked. I don’t know what that means.”
Franziska didn’t respond immediately.
He went on. “I can’t go back to Europe and pretend this didn’t happen. But I also can’t just—stay. I can’t give up my work. I’ve spent so long building it, shaping it into something that matters.”
“So did he.”
That stopped him.
Franziska continued, matter-of-fact. “He gave up the courtroom for her. For that child. And he’s still standing.”
“He shouldn’t have had to.”
“No,” she said. “But he did. And now he’s asking if you can stand beside him, even if it’s messy. Even if you’re terrified.”
Edgeworth exhaled. It felt like he’d been holding his breath since last night.
“I’m not good at this,” he said.
“No one is.”
“I don’t know how to be what he needs.”
“Maybe he doesn’t need anything but you showing up.”
He looked down at his shoes. Still polished. Still untouched by the dust of the night before.
After a pause, Franziska added, “You were never as good at being alone as you pretended, Miles. Try not to ruin this one.”
Then, before he could respond, she hung up.
He stayed sitting there for a long time. Then he stood, slowly, and reached for the tie.
It was time to go home. Whatever that meant now.
—--------------------
Set one week after the kiss. Phoenix hasn’t heard from Edgeworth—until he gets a plane ticket.
Phoenix stared at the email on his phone like it had personally offended him.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Case Assistance Invitation — Lyon, France
Attachment: Flight Itinerary, Case Brief (Encrypted)
No greeting. No message body. Not even a passive-aggressive “Regards.” Just files and silence.
Trucy peeked over his shoulder. “Ooooh, fancy Euro-case. Is he asking you to be his sidekick?”
“It’s not that kind of case.”
“You sure?” she said, poking at his arm. “Sounds like a romantic getaway with a corpse.”
Phoenix muttered something that might’ve been a curse or a prayer.
Two Days Later — Lyon, France
The briefing room was all glass walls and brushed steel. Miles looked like he belonged there—sharp suit, tablet in hand, foreign legalese on his tongue. Phoenix, on the other hand, was wearing the same wrinkled blazer he’d worn to Trucy’s last school play.
The tension was immediate.
Edgeworth tapped the screen. “It’s a cross-jurisdictional fraud case. The suspect has dual citizenship and conflicting alibis on both sides of the border. I need someone who thinks like a defense attorney.”
Phoenix crossed his arms. “You don’t need me. You could’ve hired a local.”
“I didn’t want a local.”
“No, you wanted me to see how important your life is now. That it has… structure.”
Edgeworth looked up, jaw tightening. “I invited you because I value your insight.”
Phoenix laughed, sharp. “No, you invited me to see what I’m not.”
Edgeworth’s hands curled slightly at his sides.
“And what exactly are you not, Wright?”
Phoenix stepped in. “I’m not someone who wears imported cologne and eats lunch on rooftop terraces with people who quote Latin. I’m not a prosecutor. I’m not… a clean slate.”
The words hung between them, colder than the metal in the walls.
“I’m not asking you to be any of those things,” Edgeworth said, measured. But there was a crack under it.
“Then what are you asking?”
Silence.
Edgeworth looked away. “I thought if you saw what my life actually was… you’d understand why I can’t just drop everything.”
Phoenix’s jaw clenched. “I do understand. I understand better than you think.”
He turned to leave.
Then—
“I wake up in cold sweats thinking I’ll ruin her.”
Phoenix froze in the doorway.
Edgeworth’s voice was low. “Trucy. She’s bright. She’s sharp. She sees everything. And she has no idea what kind of man I come from.”
Phoenix turned slowly.
“She trusts people,” Edgeworth went on. “Believes in them, just like you do. Just like you taught her to. And I don’t want to be the shadow in her life that teaches her otherwise.”
“Is that what you think this is?” Phoenix asked. “You being in her life would ruin her?”
Edgeworth didn’t answer.
Phoenix stepped forward again. “You’re terrified she’ll turn out like you. But she won’t, Miles. Because she already has something you didn’t. She has love. She has space to mess up. She has people who show up.”
He stopped in front of him. Closer than Edgeworth liked. Closer than Phoenix could help.
“You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to stay.”
Edgeworth was shaking, just barely.
“I don’t know if I can,” he whispered.
Phoenix took a breath. “Then let me remind you.”
Edgeworth blinked. “How?”
“Let me work the case with you. For real. Not to test me. Not to show off. Let’s just… see what happens.”
Edgeworth searched his face like it might disappear.
Finally—finally—he nodded. Once.
“I can do that,” he said. “I can try.”
Phoenix relaxed—only a little. “Good. But I’m not wearing a tie.”
Edgeworth actually smiled, small and crooked. “God forbid.”
—-----------------
Day three of the Lyon case. Late night, hotel room. Rain taps against the windows like a clock ticking too fast.
They’d been reviewing statements all day. The suspect—a young woman charged with wire fraud—had confessed to something she hadn’t done to protect someone she cared about.
“It was my idea,” she said. “I can take the fall. He has kids. I don’t.”
The words had hit Phoenix harder than they should’ve.
Now, back in the hotel, Phoenix sat slumped on the edge of the bed, fingers digging into his hair like he could pry something loose from behind his eyes.
Edgeworth stood at the desk, going over their notes. He hadn’t noticed Phoenix had stopped answering.
“—and the discrepancy in the email timestamp suggests she couldn’t have sent it. That might be enough to disprove the confession entirely—”
“I keep thinking he’s going to find me.”
Edgeworth paused. “What?”
Phoenix didn’t look up. “Kristoph. Sometimes I wake up and think I’ll see him sitting across from me. Just… waiting. With that smug, still face.”
Edgeworth turned slowly.
Phoenix went on, voice flat. “Even after all this time. I still feel like I’m being watched. Like if I say too much or look too closely at the wrong thing, it’ll all unravel again.”
Edgeworth didn’t speak.
Phoenix laughed once, empty. “Isn’t that crazy? I built my whole career on catching people’s lies, and I still let him in.”
He looked up, eyes wet and red-rimmed. “I let him near Trucy.”
Edgeworth’s face went still—not blank, just stripped down.
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have,” Phoenix snapped. “I should’ve seen it. I should’ve felt it. But I didn’t. And the bar took one look and said: 'well, guess you’re done.' No trial. No second chance. Just gone.”
He wiped at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. “And I’m still scared I’ll miss something else. That I’ll fail her. Again.”
Edgeworth crossed the room and sat beside him, careful but close.
“When I left for Europe,” he said, quietly, “it was supposed to be temporary. A year, maybe. Then I blinked, and it was five.”
Phoenix didn’t answer.
“I kept telling myself it was noble. That I was doing something worthwhile. But the truth is...” He hesitated. “The truth is I didn’t know where else to go. There was no one waiting for me anywhere. No home I could return to.”
Phoenix looked sideways at him. “So you stayed away.”
Edgeworth’s mouth twisted. “I thought it would hurt less.”
Phoenix was still for a long moment.
Then he said, voice barely audible, “I missed you. Even when I hated you.”
Edgeworth swallowed. “I missed you more when I didn’t let myself think about it.”
Outside, the rain pressed against the windows like it wanted to get in.
Phoenix let out a shaky breath. “You know what’s worse than being afraid? Being afraid alone.”
Edgeworth nodded, silent.
“And I think…” Phoenix blinked hard. “I think I’m done doing that.”
Edgeworth turned toward him.
Phoenix gave him a crooked, watery smile. “So. What now? You want me to move to France? Learn the legal system all over again? Buy a scarf?”
Edgeworth shook his head. “No.”
Phoenix froze.
Then Edgeworth said, “We go home. Together. Wherever that ends up being.”
Phoenix stared at him. “You sure?”
“No.” A pause. “But I want to be.”
That, somehow, was enough.
Phoenix exhaled. The tension in his shoulders slowly, finally, uncoiled. He didn’t stop crying—but this time, it wasn’t grief. It was release.
And Edgeworth, awkward and uncertain and so terribly himself, reached out. Rested a hand on his back.
They sat like that for a long time.
—-------------
“Okay, so you’re absolutely not allowed to tell your dad I let you eat three popsicles for lunch,” Maya said, sprawled across the office couch with a magazine draped over her face.
Trucy, sitting upside-down in the armchair, legs flung over the back, grinned. “Deal—if you show me how to do that spirit-channeling trick.”
“That’s not a trick, it’s sacred!”
“So is the popsicle stash. And I didn’t see you asking permission.”
Maya peeked over the magazine, smirked, and tossed a pillow at her.
Somewhere in the back room, Apollo sneezed violently and then coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously performative.
Trucy called out, “Bless you!”
“Thanks!” came the muffled reply.
Maya shifted to sit upright, brushing crumbs off her hoodie. “So how are you doing? I mean, with your dad out of town playing sidekick to Miles ‘Edgey-no-fun’ Edgeworth.”
Trucy shrugged, too casual. “It’s fine. He left some poker money and stocked the freezer. You guys have seen worse.”
Maya smiled, but it faded a bit around the edges. “You miss him.”
“Of course I do. But… he needed to go.”
Maya tilted her head. “That’s very mature of you.”
“I am mature. I do taxes. With glitter pens.”
Maya snorted.
There was a moment of silence as Trucy folded herself upright, suddenly still. She drummed her fingers against the arm of the chair. “So, like… is it just a case he’s helping with, or…?”
Maya paused. A second too long.
Trucy’s eyes narrowed. “Maya.”
Maya opened her mouth, tried to backpedal, then gave up. “Okay. Look. I might’ve gotten a text from your dad last night that included a very cryptic but very emoji-heavy message.”
“What kind of emojis.”
“Uh... French flag, gavel, wine, broken heart, house, then… one of those new ‘face holding back tears’ ones?”
Trucy blinked. “...Wow.”
Maya threw her arms up. “I don’t know either! But I know your dad, and I know Miles, and if they’re in the same city for more than 48 hours without one of them slamming a door dramatically, it’s something.”
Trucy’s eyes widened slowly. “Wait.”
Maya held her breath.
“Wait. Wait. Oh my God.”
In the next room, Apollo fumbled something with a loud clatter. Then: a very stiff, “I’m fine!”
Trucy ignored it. She stood up, hands on her head, pacing in a tiny circle. “They did it, didn’t they?”
“I mean, I’m not technically authorized to say—”
“They finally kissed!”
There was a thump from the back office. Possibly Apollo running into a wall.
Trucy clapped her hands to her face. “I knew it. I KNEW IT! You don’t just fly to France for closure. That’s not a thing!”
Maya grinned. “They’ve been circling each other for a decade. This was basically a public service.”
Trucy collapsed onto the couch. “My dad’s dating Edgeworth. I’m going to need a top hat for the wedding.”
“Too soon,” Maya said, pointing a finger. “This is a slow burn. We’re talking glacial. They still might talk themselves out of it.”
“Nope,” Trucy said. “This is happening. I’m manifesting it. I’ll magic up a dress code. Apollo!”
From the back: “I am not involved in this conversation!”
Trucy smirked. “Yeah you are.”
A pause.
Apollo: “Do I… need to file something with HR?”
Maya laughed so hard she had to cover her face with a pillow.
Trucy grinned wide, almost giddy. “He’s going to come back and pretend nothing happened. Bet you ten bucks.”
“I don’t take bets I know I’ll lose,” Maya said. “But I will help you plan a ‘Welcome Back, Totally Not a Date’ dinner.”
Trucy sat back with a sigh. Her eyes were soft, bright. “He deserves something good, you know?”
Maya’s smile turned quiet. “Yeah. He really does.”
From the back room, Apollo coughed again. “I’m not crying, if anyone’s asking!”
No one was. But they all knew.
—-----------------------
He opened the door expecting the usual: a room half-lit by dying lightbulbs, Trucy’s magic props scattered like traps across the floor, maybe Apollo doing paperwork with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.
What he got instead was ambiance.
Low lights. Tablecloth. Scented candles.
And Trucy standing dead-center in the living room, hands on her hips, dressed like a magician-host hybrid and grinning like the damn Cheshire Cat.
“Welcome home, Monsieur Wright!”
Phoenix froze.
Maya popped her head out of the kitchen. “You’re just in time—dinner’s ready! Trucy, grab the sparkling cider, we are doing this!”
“What... is this?” Phoenix asked, still holding his suitcase in one hand, his passport poking out of his hoodie pocket.
“Dinner,” Trucy said sweetly. “Not a big deal. Very casual. Just food. With people. Who care about you.”
“Uh huh.”
Apollo stepped out of the back room wearing a button-down shirt that was definitely too formal and a look of pure guilt. “I had no part in planning this.”
“You peeled carrots,” Maya said.
“I was manipulated!”
Trucy tossed him a wink. “With love.”
Phoenix slowly closed the door behind him, the latch clicking too loud in the silence. “So this is what betrayal feels like.”
“Sit down,” Maya said, waving a spoon threateningly. “You’re jet-lagged and emotionally repressed. It’s a deadly combo. I made tofu.”
Phoenix hesitated, then sat. His chair had a folded napkin on it.
A folded napkin.
Trucy poured him a glass of sparkling cider with ceremony. “So,” she said brightly, sliding into the seat across from him. “How was France?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Very… French.”
“Did you have fun with Mr. Edgeworth?”
Phoenix blinked.
Across the table, Maya gave a cough that sounded suspiciously like “poker face.”
Apollo made a strangled noise and took a very loud sip of water.
Phoenix set down his glass slowly. “What do you know?”
“Not much,” Trucy said innocently. “Just, you know… emojis. Long silences. Dad going off to Europe in the middle of a slow month for ‘a case’.”
Maya chimed in helpfully, “You said 'house' and 'broken heart' in the same sentence. I was emotionally invested.”
Phoenix buried his face in his hands.
Apollo cleared his throat. “For the record, I didn’t hear anything. I am a professional.”
“No one believes that,” Trucy said.
“I BELIEVE THAT,” Apollo shouted, voice cracking.
Maya passed him the bread basket like a peace offering.
Phoenix sat up slowly. His eyes flicked around the table—three sets of eyes on him, three different flavors of affection and expectation and terrible poker faces.
“You guys are all insane,” he muttered.
Trucy grinned. “And you love us.”
Phoenix stared at her for a long second. His expression shifted—just a flicker—but it softened, broke a little around the edges.
“Yeah,” he said. “I really do.”
She beamed.
“So,” Maya said, sitting back with a satisfied grin, “you and Edgeworth. Is it official?”
Phoenix reached for the cider again. “You’re all unbearable.”
“That’s not a no,” Trucy sing-songed.
Apollo stood up suddenly. “I need to—file something. In… the other room. With my ears closed.”
“Coward,” Maya called after him.
Phoenix exhaled through a tired smile and looked around the table again. For all the chaos, all the noise, all the unwelcome honesty—it felt good. Solid.
Like coming home and realizing the lock still fits the key
—-------------------
Edgeworth hadn’t meant to stay long.
Just a few weeks. Enough to see a few familiar faces, tie up some old threads, and—perhaps—observe. Not participate. Not involve himself emotionally. Not risk anything.
Then he saw Phoenix on the courtroom monitor, halfway through giving Apollo a brutal but brilliant critique during a recess.
“If you’re going to take on the contradiction,” Phoenix was saying, arms crossed, “you need to lean into it. Don’t hedge. Own it like the witness is already halfway to confessing.”
Edgeworth stood in the gallery aisle, arms folded, heart betraying him.
It was too familiar. That low, calm voice; that dangerous little smirk Phoenix didn’t even know he made when his brain kicked into overdrive. He was supposed to be done with courtrooms—but in that moment, he looked exactly like the man Edgeworth used to battle, admire, lose to, and fall in love with, all in the same breath.
And then Phoenix glanced toward the gallery—half instinct, half something more—and saw him.
The smile was small, almost private. Just for a second.
And it ruined Edgeworth’s day.
Later, they met in the narrow hallway outside Courtroom No. 4.
“I thought you said you were ‘not getting involved,’” Phoenix said, mock-stern, dropping his briefcase against the wall beside them.
“I wasn’t. I’m on leave. Observing. Not practicing.”
“You glared at the prosecutor’s argument like he insulted your cravat.”
“It was structurally incoherent.”
Phoenix smirked. “God, I missed you.”
Edgeworth’s breath hitched. “Don’t say things like that.”
Phoenix leaned against the wall, watching him. “Why not?”
“Because I’m still trying to convince myself this isn’t real.”
Phoenix was silent a moment. Then: “You want real?”
He stepped in.
Edgeworth tried, tried to hold his ground—but there was something devastating in how gently Phoenix’s hand came to rest at the side of his neck. Like he wasn’t trying to steal anything—just hold it steady, just keep him from running again.
The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t clean or practiced or sweet.
It was hungry.
It was exhausted.
It was years of god, I wish I had said it sooner poured into a mouth that didn’t know how to say it with words anymore.
Edgeworth kissed back like he was losing ground in a trial—gracefully, stubbornly, and absolutely against his better judgment.
Phoenix’s hand curled in the fabric of his coat. Their teeth bumped. Breath hitched. There was nothing dignified about it.
And it was everything.
When they finally pulled apart, Edgeworth kept his forehead against Phoenix’s, breathing uneven.
Phoenix said, quietly, “Still think this isn’t real?”
Edgeworth swallowed. “No. But I still think it’s dangerous.”
“Since when has that ever stopped you?”
Edgeworth was about to reply—something scathing, surely, something self-protective and clever—when a voice rang out behind them.
“Well, this is a surprising development.”
They both jumped like teenagers caught behind the bleachers.
Klavier Gavin stood down the hallway, holding a case file, eyebrows arched in amused disbelief.
Edgeworth stepped back so fast he nearly tripped over Phoenix’s briefcase. “Gavin.”
Phoenix straightened his hoodie like it might absorb him.
Klavier tilted his head. “Should I file a witness report or just… offer my congratulations?”
Phoenix muttered, “We’re keeping it quiet.”
“Oh yes,” Klavier said, smiling. “Very quiet. Like an electric guitar in a cathedral.”
Edgeworth cleared his throat. “This is inappropriate conduct in a courthouse.”
“So is making out in a courthouse hallway,” Klavier said cheerfully.
Edgeworth narrowed his eyes. “Do not speak of this to anyone.”
Klavier made a zipped-lips motion, but his grin didn’t falter. “Of course, Herr Edgeworth. Your secret is… safe.”
He turned to walk away and called over his shoulder, “You two are adorable, by the way.”
When he was gone, Phoenix looked at Edgeworth.
Edgeworth closed his eyes, exhaled, and said, “We are never doing that again.”
Phoenix smiled. “Liar.”
Edgeworth didn’t respond. Just kissed him again—faster this time, messier—and pulled away before Phoenix could gloat.
Then, very softly: “Let’s go home.”
And this time, neither of them asked what home meant.
—-------------------------------
The party had long since unraveled into chaos.
Trucy had turned the kitchen into a magic stage, Maya had taken control of the playlist (mostly Steel Samurai remixes), and someone—probably Klavier—had smuggled in champagne under the guise of “holiday cheer.”
Phoenix had disappeared into the back room to get a replacement speaker cord. Or maybe to escape.
Edgeworth stood near the makeshift drink station, arms folded, watching Apollo attempt to explain punch etiquette to Klavier like it was a matter of national security.
Across the room, Maya and Franziska had commandeered the couch.
“I’m just saying,” Maya said, sipping from a plastic cup with a paper umbrella in it, “they think they’re being subtle.”
Franziska smirked. “It’s charming. Like watching two pigeons cohabitate on a ledge and pretend it’s platonic.”
Maya giggled. “One of them definitely cries after sex.”
“Don’t be crude.”
“You know which one I mean, though.”
Franziska raised her glass. “Touché.”
A few feet away, Apollo leaned toward Klavier, whispering behind his hand. “They haven’t told anyone, right?”
Klavier raised an eyebrow. “Mein Freund, he has started visiting on weekends. He uses the same toothbrush. They are in love, and also incredibly bad at logistics.”
Apollo sipped his soda with the practiced stoicism of someone deeply emotionally invested but pretending otherwise.
Across the room, Trucy was climbing onto a stepstool to adjust a dangling streamer.
“Careful,” Edgeworth called automatically, halfway through refilling a cup.
“I got it!” she chirped.
The streamer slipped. So did the stool.
Edgeworth didn’t think—he just moved.
In two long strides, he was across the room, arms catching her under the arms as the stool tilted and she yelped. It wasn’t graceful—he nearly tripped on a fold-out chair—but he caught her.
The entire party paused for a breath.
“Whoa,” Trucy laughed nervously, clinging to his sleeve. “Thanks, Mr. Edgeworth.”
He steadied her. “Don’t balance on unstable objects in socks.”
“Daaad,” she drawled in the tone only teenagers and stage performers could master.
Edgeworth blinked.
Trucy blinked back.
He set her down gently and stepped away. “I believe Apollo wanted you to help with—punch?”
Trucy gave a sly grin. “You’re a softie.”
“Go.”
She bounded off, and the party resumed like nothing happened.
But Franziska saw.
Later, when the crowd had thinned and the music had softened into background noise, Edgeworth stood on the balcony alone, coat draped over his shoulders.
Franziska joined him, a glass of wine in hand.
“She’s not afraid of you,” she said.
He didn’t look at her. “No.”
“You didn’t flinch when she called you that.”
“I didn’t.”
Franziska took a sip. “So. What are you going to do with that terrifying swell of human emotion you’ve been repressing for twelve years?”
Edgeworth exhaled slowly. “I’m staying.”
Franziska didn’t respond right away. Then: “Permanently?”
“Yes.”
“Have you told him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He finally turned to look at her. “Because it’s not a declaration. It’s a choice. A quiet one. For once, I don’t want it to be fireworks and defense tables. I just want to be there. When he needs me. When she needs me.”
Franziska stared at him. Her expression was unreadable, which meant she was feeling more than she wanted to admit.
“You’ve changed,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not enough. But maybe enough to try.”
She clinked her glass against his without smiling. “To foolish men making unspoken commitments.”
He raised his cup. “And the people patient enough to see them through.”
Inside, Phoenix had returned. Trucy was halfway into telling him a joke about a magician and a broken stereo. He laughed—too hard—and pulled her into a half-hug.
Edgeworth watched from the balcony, invisible in the dark.
But somehow, it still felt like he was right where he belonged.
—--------------
The train station is nearly empty, except for the sound of rain slanting hard against the roof. Miles leans against a bench, jacket damp, hair stuck to his forehead. Phoenix is crouched in front of the vending machine, grumbling quietly at the button panel.
“Dinner of champions,” Phoenix mutters, holding up a crinkling bag of peanut M&Ms.
Miles lifts an eyebrow. “Nutritious.”
Phoenix tosses the bag his way. “You’re welcome.”
They sit in silence for a while, legs stretched out toward the puddles forming near the door. The flickering light above them buzzes like a wasp, and somewhere outside, a train rattles by without stopping.
Eventually, Miles speaks. “You ever worry you're not... built for this?” His voice is low, the question more to himself than to Phoenix.
Phoenix doesn’t look over. “Define ‘this.’”
Miles exhales. “Being close to people. Being depended on. Every time things feel steady, I find myself waiting for the part where I ruin it.”
Phoenix leans back, letting the words sit between them.
“You haven’t ruined anything,” he says. “You’re just aware of how easily things break. That’s not the same as being the one to break them.”
Miles doesn’t answer right away. He reaches for his phone instead, idly scrolling through messages. One from Franziska catches his eye—sent hours ago, before the storm started:
Stop preparing for disaster. You’re better than you think.
He snorts softly. “Franziska’s getting irritatingly good at pep talks.”
“That’s how you know she means it,” Phoenix says.
Another message pops up, this time from Trucy. Just a single emoji: 🌧️, followed by:
Hope you’re staying dry, Dad!
Miles smiles despite himself.
“She still calls me that,” he says, not looking up.
Phoenix glances over. “Because you are.”
They lapse into quiet again. The vending machine clicks once, randomly, like it’s considering spitting out a second snack.
Phoenix shifts beside him. “It’s not perfect. We’re not perfect. But I like being here. Even when it’s weird or hard or confusing.”
Miles looks over, then nods slowly. “So do I.”
Phoenix smirks. “Even in rural France, soaked through, eating M&Ms for dinner?”
A pause. Then Miles laughs—really laughs, caught off guard. “Especially then.”
No declarations, no grand promises. Just a small, good moment between two people who know each other well. The rain keeps falling. They stay where they are.
And for now, that’s enough.