Work Text:
It was late in the evening.
The sky outside Dot’s window had already shifted into deep indigo, the kind that looked like someone had spilled ink across the horizon and forgotten to clean it up. The neon glow of Levincia shimmered faintly in the distance, lights blinking and pulsing like a living circuit board, softened by the thin curtain she never fully bothered to close. The city felt far away tonight—distant, muted, like background noise filtered through layers of glass and thought.
Inside her room, however, there was anything but calm.
Dot was in her room, with her Pokémon: Quaquaval, Tinkaton, and Gholdengo.
The air was warm, faintly scented with electronics and fabric softener, and filled with quiet motion. Music played softly from her computer speakers—not something she had consciously chosen, just the same looping track she always used while editing. It was familiar enough to fade into the background, a steady undercurrent that helped her focus.
Quaquaval, however, did not fade into the background.
The Pokémon took the music as a personal invitation. With practiced elegance, he spun across the floor, movements fluid and graceful, like ripples across moonlit water. Each step landed with intention, every turn sharp yet smooth, feathers catching the light as if dusted with stardust. There was pride in his posture, confidence in the way he moved—an unspoken joy in simply being.
Gholdengo hovered nearby, golden body gleaming softly. It swayed side to side, clinking quietly as it attempted to mimic Quaquaval’s dance, arms raised in enthusiastic, if slightly uncoordinated, imitation. Every so often it spun a little too fast, wobbling before correcting itself, as if laughing at its own mistakes.
And Tinkaton—
“Tinka!”
The Pokémon launched herself onto Dot’s bed with reckless enthusiasm, bouncing like the mattress was a trampoline made just for her.
“Hey—!” Dot shot up halfway from her chair, heart jumping as her eyes snapped toward the bed. “I told you—no hammer on the bed!”
Tinkaton froze mid-bounce, suspended for a fraction of a second before landing with a soft thump. She blinked, then glanced innocently toward the floor. Her massive hammer lay there, propped neatly against the wall, exactly where Quaquaval had insisted it should be earlier.
Quaquaval crossed his wings with a proud little huff, chin tilted up as if to say I warned her.
Dot stared for a second longer, then exhaled slowly, the tension leaving her shoulders. She sank back into her chair, rubbing her temple. “Okay. Fine. Jumping is… acceptable. Hammer-free jumping.”
“Tinka!” Tinkaton cheered, pumping a tiny fist in victory before resuming her enthusiastic bouncing.
The bed creaked in protest, springs groaning as Tinkaton jumped again, the mattress rippling like a disturbed pond. Quaquaval returned to his dancing with an exaggerated flourish, clearly pleased with himself, while Gholdengo attempted a spin that went slightly off balance and sent it drifting dangerously close to Dot’s chair.
“Careful.” Dot muttered, nudging Gholdengo back with her foot without even glancing away from her screen.
She was seated at her desk, hoodie pulled up just a bit too high, sleeves covering most of her hands. Her fingers flew over the keyboard and mouse with practiced precision, movements sharp and exact. The timeline on her editing software stretched endlessly across the screen, clips stacked on top of one another like stubborn building blocks that refused to align the way she wanted them to.
Gurumin’s avatar stared back at her from the preview window, frozen mid-pose—energetic, confident, everything Dot pretended to be when she was behind the screen.
Just one more cut.
One more adjustment.
One more render.
She had thought she’d be done by now.
Dot sighed, leaning back in her chair until it creaked softly beneath her weight. She tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling for a brief moment. “Why is this taking so long…?” she muttered.
She scrubbed through the footage again, eyes sharp and critical as she watched herself—well, Gurumin—rant enthusiastically about the latest tech upgrades she’d been testing. The pacing felt off. The transition lingered a beat too long. The audio spike there—no, that wouldn’t do.
Every frame had to be perfect.
Every transition should be smooth.
Gurumin wasn’t allowed to be sloppy.
Dot pressed her lips into a thin line and made another adjustment.
At least her stomach didn’t ache anymore. That was something.
She was glad she had eaten dinner with the others earlier. The thought surfaced quietly, uninvited, and with it came memories she hadn’t meant to revisit just yet. Her focus wavered, and her mind drifted—unhelpfully—back to the dining room.
It was never quiet anymore.
“Mega yummy!” Ult had declared, his voice loud and unrestrained as he leaned over his plate, mouth already stuffed full with sweets. He barely bothered to swallow before shoveling in another bite of dessert, crumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth.
“Ult, slow down,” Liko said gently, half-laughing, half-scolding. “You’re going to choke.”
“I’m fine,” Ult replied around the mouthful, flashing her a thumbs-up that was smeared with cream. “This is just too good!”
Dot had stared at him from across the table, unimpressed. Her expression hadn’t changed in the slightest. “You know desserts don’t disappear if you eat them slower.”
Ult blinked at her, clearly processing that, then broke into a wide grin. “Yeah, but they disappear faster if I don’t.”
There had been sparkles in his eyes—actual sparkles, Dot was convinced, bright and unfiltered. She’d had to fight the urge to roll her eyes.
So she hadn’t.
She’d just stared at him, deadpan, unamused, letting the silence do the work.
So typical of him.
Roy, sitting nearby, had rolled his magenta eyes with an exaggerated groan. “You’re hopeless.”
“You’re just jealous.” Ult shot back instantly, not missing a beat.
Dot remembered noticing it then—the way Roy’s expression softened just a little after that, fondness sneaking in where annoyance pretended to live. It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t sharp. It was familiar. Comfortable.
The kind of thing that didn’t change.
Ever.
Dot hadn’t said much during dinner. She usually didn’t. She’d listened more than she spoke, watching the others interact like a quiet observer behind glass. But at one point, Ult had leaned closer to her, lowering his voice as if they were sharing a secret.
“Hey, Dot,” he’d whispered. “You okay? You’re quiet-er than usual.”
She’d stiffened slightly at the sudden attention, shoulders tensing. “That’s… saying something.”
He’d laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine. “True. But still.”
She’d shrugged, eyes flicking back down to her plate, fingers nudging her food around without much interest. “Just tired. Busy with editing.”
Ult had nodded then, expression shifting—losing its usual carefree edge. “Don’t push yourself too hard, okay?”
It had caught her off guard. Enough that she’d looked up at him before she could stop herself.
“I mean it,” he’d added quickly, cheeks pinking just a little, eyes flicking away for a moment. “Your videos are mega cool and all, but… you matter more.”
Dot had turned away before he could see her face, heat creeping up her neck. “You’re weird.”
He’d grinned, completely unbothered. “You’re welcome.”
The memory lingered now, soft and persistent, like a quiet echo that refused to fade as Dot sat at her desk, fingers hovering over her keyboard, the glow of her screen reflected in her eyes.
Now, back in her room, the memory lingered like an afterimage burned into her thoughts—faint but stubborn, the kind that stayed no matter how many times she blinked. It hovered at the edges of her focus, soft voices and warmth bleeding into the present like ink seeping through paper.
Dot shook her head slightly, short hair brushing against her cheeks as if physically trying to shake the feeling loose, and forced her attention back to her screen.
“Ugh. I have to finish this.” she mumbled to herself, voice low and rough with fatigue.
As if responding to her frustration, Quaquaval slid closer to her desk, footsteps light and deliberate. He leaned in to peer at the monitor, head tilting to one side, feathers shimmering faintly in the dim light cast by the screen. The glow painted soft highlights along his plumage, turning it into something almost unreal, like a figure caught between shadow and spotlight.
“You understand, right?” Dot said quietly, eyes never leaving the timeline. Her fingers hovered over the mouse, hesitant. “Editing isn’t exactly… my favourite thing to do.”
There was a pause, as if Quaquaval was considering her words seriously.
Then he struck a dramatic pose, chest puffed out, one wing extended as if presenting her struggle to an invisible audience. The sheer theatricality of it suggested deep sympathy—perhaps even shared suffering.
Dot let out a small huff, the corner of her mouth twitching despite herself.
On the bed behind her, Tinkaton finally seemed to run out of energy. With a last, content little sound, she flopped onto the mattress, limbs splayed in a way that suggested total, unapologetic comfort. The bed dipped slightly under her weight, springs sighing in relief. Gholdengo hovered closer to Dot’s shoulder, tilting upside down to watch the screen from her perspective—or perhaps just because it felt like it.
Dot reached out and adjusted the audio levels again, fingers tapping restlessly against the desk between clicks. The room was warm, alive with motion and quiet sound, yet her thoughts felt oddly distant. It was like she was submerged underwater, everything around her muffled and slowed, voices and music reaching her through a thick layer of static.
She paused the video.
The screen froze.
For a moment, she didn’t see Gurumin—the bright colors, the confident pose, the polished persona she presented to the world. She just saw Dot. Tired eyes behind glasses. Slumped shoulders. A girl sitting alone in a room lit by artificial light.
When had things gotten so loud?
Not just the Pokémon. Not just the ship. But people. Connections. Laughter echoing down hallways. Voices that called her name instead of leaving her alone with a screen and a keyboard. Voices that waited for her to answer.
She wasn’t sure when she’d stopped hating it.
The realization sat heavy in her chest, unfamiliar and unsettling, like a door she hadn’t meant to open creaking wide all on its own.
Later on, it was late in the night. And Dot was still working on it. The damn video.
The hours had slipped by unnoticed, time dissolving into a blur of edits and corrections. There were always little mistakes—frames that felt off by a fraction of a second, audio levels that weren’t balanced just right, transitions that didn’t carry the exact energy she wanted. Each time she fixed one flaw, another surfaced in its place, like an endless game of Whack-a-Mole designed specifically to wear her down.
She groaned quietly, leaning back in her chair and rolling her shoulders. A dull ache spread along her spine, deep and insistent, a physical reminder of how long she’d been sitting there. Her neck cracked softly as she tilted her head from side to side, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
“…I hate this.” she muttered, though the words carried no real venom. It was less anger and more bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that settled in slowly and refused to leave.
Dot looked away from her setup, blinking hard to clear the blur from her vision. The screen swam for a moment before her eyes refocused, drifting toward her bed—
—and she froze.
All three of her Pokémon were asleep together.
Tinkaton lay sprawled right in the middle, limbs loose and unguarded, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth even in sleep. Quaquaval lay beside her, wings gently draped over Tinkaton’s body like a carefully placed blanket, feathers rising and falling with each calm breath. His posture was instinctively protective, as natural as breathing. Gholdengo hovered just above the mattress, leaned in close, golden body tilted slightly as if it had dozed off mid-watch. Soft metallic clinks accompanied each slow movement, quiet and rhythmic.
They looked… peaceful.
Dot felt the tension drain from her shoulders, muscles loosening as if someone had finally cut the strings holding her upright. Her purple eyes softened as she took in the sight, warmth blooming quietly in her chest—slow, steady, like embers glowing beneath ash.
It was such a simple scene. And yet it felt heavy with meaning.
They trusted her room enough to sleep like that. Trusted her.
She really loved her Pokémon.
The thought came so easily it almost startled her—not as a sudden revelation, but as a truth that had been waiting patiently to be acknowledged. Steady. Unshakable. Through battles, through fear, through moments where she’d wanted nothing more than to disappear behind screens and avatars, they had stayed.
Always.
Her throat tightened as she swallowed.
She honestly couldn’t believe she had gotten this far. Not on her own. Never on her own. Every step forward had been supported, every stumble caught before it could become a fall. By her Pokémon. By her friends. By people who had slowly, quietly carved out a place beside her.
Somehow, they had gone from strangers on a ship to something closer. Something warmer.
Family.
“Sleep well, you guys.” Dot whispered into the quiet of the room.
Her voice was barely louder than the hum of her computer fan, fragile and sincere. Of course, none of them stirred. Quaquaval shifted slightly, wings tightening protectively around Tinkaton without waking. Gholdengo gave a soft metallic clink and settled more comfortably, hovering just a bit lower.
Dot allowed herself a small, fleeting smile—one that faded almost as soon as it appeared.
Then she turned back to her setup.
The chair creaked softly as she leaned forward again, fingers returning to the keyboard. Determination flickered behind her tired eyes like a candle stubbornly refusing to go out. She’d come this far. She wasn’t stopping now.
It was probably after midnight by now. The world outside her window was completely still, city lights dimmed, the sky stretched wide and dark like a deep ocean with no visible shore. Inside her room, only the quiet tapping of keys and the clicking of a mouse could be heard, rhythmic and steady, like a heartbeat keeping time.
Her purple eyes reflected the glow of the screen, shadows pooling beneath them like ink stains she couldn’t quite wash away. Every now and then, exhaustion tugged at her—eyelids drooping, thoughts slowing, focus slipping through her fingers—but she shook it off each time, drawing in a breath and anchoring herself back to the task.
“Only a little more,” she thought. “I can do this.”
She adjusted another transition. Rendered a short section. Watched it back.
Again.
And again.
…Too slow.
She fixed it.
Better.
Suddenly, there was a knock on her door.
The sound cut through the quiet like a dropped glass.
Dot startled so badly her mouse jerked in her hand, the cursor skidding violently across the timeline and knocking several clips out of place. Her heart leapt straight into her throat, breath catching painfully as she whipped her head toward the door, pulse roaring in her ears louder than the music still playing faintly from her speakers.
“…Huh?” she whispered, the word slipping out before she could stop it. Another knock followed—softer this time, hesitant, like whoever stood on the other side wasn’t entirely sure they were welcome.
Dot swallowed. Her mouth felt dry. “Uh—come in?” she said, though it came out uncertain, rising at the end, more question than permission.
The door opened slowly, hinges creaking just enough to make her tense again. Dot’s eyebrows rose instantly.
Ult stood in the doorway.
He was dressed in his sleepwear, clothes rumpled and clearly thrown on without much thought. His hair stuck out in uneven directions, as if he’d run a hand through it one too many times while half-asleep. He was wrapped in a green blanket that dragged slightly along the floor, clutched around his shoulders like a shield—either against the late-night chill or against sleep itself, Dot couldn’t tell.
The dim hallway light framed him for a moment, casting long shadows across the floor and outlining his figure in soft gold. For just a second, he looked unreal, like a dream that had wandered into the wrong room.
Then he stepped inside.
Dot immediately noticed his eyes.
They were tired. Not just sleepy, but exhausted—the kind of tired that sat heavy behind the pupils, dull and deep and impossible to hide. The kind that came from pushing yourself too far and refusing to admit it. That alone confused her, because—
“Ult?” she whispered sharply, instinctively lowering her voice. “Why are you awake?”
He blinked at her once, slowly, like his brain was buffering.
“Why are you awake?” Ult fired back just as quietly, squinting at her like the very sight of her sitting there offended him on a personal level.
Dot frowned, annoyance flaring despite her surprise. “That’s not—I asked first.”
Ult shuffled further into the room, blanket trailing behind him like a sleepy ghost. He gestured vaguely around them. “It’s after midnight, Dot.”
“So?” she shot back.
“So normal people are sleeping,” he said, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand. “Not… whatever this is.” He motioned toward her screen, where the editing software still glowed brightly, the timeline stretched out long and merciless, like an accusation she couldn’t escape.
“I’m almost done.” Dot said defensively, shoulders drawing in. “Go back to bed.”
Ult crossed his arms—or tried to. The blanket slipped immediately, sliding down his shoulders, and he had to fumble with it, readjusting with an irritated huff. “You said that several hours ago.”
Dot stiffened. Slowly, she looked at him. “You stayed up?”
“…Maybe,” he admitted, eyes flicking away for half a second before snapping back. “That’s not the point.”
She stared at him. Really stared. “Ult. You should be asleep.”
“And you shouldn’t be sitting like a Clauncher,” he countered, squinting critically at her posture. “Your back is gonna hate you.”
“That’s not your problem.” she snapped, though there was less bite than usual.
“Yes it is.”
Dot opened her mouth to argue—then paused. “…How.”
Ult yawned then. It was big and slow, jaw stretching wide as his shoulders sagged and his balance wavered just slightly. He swayed on his feet, catching himself at the last second.
Dot’s stomach twisted painfully at the sight.
“…Because,” he said after a moment, voice rough with sleep, words dragging like they were too heavy to lift, “I care.”
That shut her up completely.
She looked at him properly then. Really looked.
The way his shoulders sagged under the blanket’s weight. The dark shadows smudged beneath his eyes. The way he stood there on nothing but stubbornness and willpower alone, fighting gravity like it was an opponent he refused to lose to. A sudden, vivid fear struck her—that if she blinked, if she looked away for even a second, he might just topple over.
“…Ult,” she said more quietly, the edge in her voice dulling. “You’re exhausted.”
He shrugged weakly, one shoulder barely lifting. “So are you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
Dot clicked her tongue, frustration bubbling up. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he insisted, stepping a little closer. “You get this look. All intense and stubborn. Like you’re trying to win a fight that doesn’t exist.”
She scowled. “That’s not—”
“Dot,” he interrupted gently, her name softer in his mouth than she was used to hearing. “It’s late.”
She sighed, fingers tightening around her mouse until her knuckles ached. “I just need to finish this. Then I’ll sleep. I promise.”
Ult studied her for a second, eyes narrowing like he didn’t believe her at all.
Then she added, more quietly, almost pleading, “So go back to bed. Please. You can sleep properly. I’ll be quick.”
He didn’t respond.
Instead, Ult shuffled fully into her room and reached back to quietly close the door behind him, the soft click echoing far louder in Dot’s head than it should have.
Dot’s eyebrows shot up. “Hey—what are you doing?”
Ult didn’t answer.
He walked toward her, blanket dragging, another yawn tearing free as he stopped directly in front of her chair. He blinked down at her, unfocused, like he was trying to see her through thick fog.
“Ult,” Dot said warningly, heart starting to race. “You should not be—”
Too late.
He leaned forward.
Then climbed into her lap.
Dot froze.
Her brain completely shut down, every thought colliding at once and short-circuiting into nothing. Her hands lifted instinctively, hovering uselessly in the air as Ult shifted his weight and settled against her like this was the most natural thing in the world.
“U—Ult?!” she hissed, panic clawing up her throat.
He didn’t answer.
He simply adjusted himself, turning slightly so his shoulder pressed against her chest, his knees awkwardly tucked against the arm of the chair. The blanket slipped again, and without thinking, he pulled it back up, wrapping it around both of them, sealing them together in shared warmth.
Dot’s face felt like it was on fire.
“Wh—what are you doing?!” she whispered frantically, eyes darting toward her bed as if her Pokémon might wake up and witness this absolute disaster.
Ult mumbled something incoherent.
Then he shifted again—and buried his face into the crook of her neck.
Dot’s entire body locked up.
She could feel his breath—warm, steady—ghosting across her skin. His nose brushed her neck, his lips dangerously close, close enough that her thoughts scattered like startled rattata. She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from making a sound.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, wild and frantic, like it was trying to escape her chest.
“Oh no. Oh no no no—”
Ult snuggled closer, arms tightening just slightly as he wrapped himself around her fully. The blanket cocooned them together, trapping heat, trapping him, making Dot’s head spin like she’d lost her balance on solid ground.
“…Ult,” she whispered weakly. “This is not what I meant.”
No response.
His breathing evened out, slow and rhythmic, deepening with every second.
He fell asleep almost instantly.
On her.
Completely.
Dot stared straight ahead, eyes wide, posture stiff as a statue.
“…You have got to be kidding me.” she breathed.
Her face was burning. Her ears were burning. Everything felt overheated and hypersensitive. She was acutely aware of every point of contact—his weight anchoring her in place, his warmth seeping through layers of fabric, the steady rise and fall of his chest against hers.
Her heart was beating far too fast.
When she said he should sleep somewhere comfortable, she did not mean here.
“Oh god—oh Arceus—”
She swallowed hard, afraid to move even an inch. If she shifted, he might wake up. Or worse—fall.
Her thoughts spiraled wildly.
Okay. Okay. Calm down. He’s just asleep. This is fine. Totally fine. You’re just… holding him. Like a pillow. A very warm, very breathing pillow.
That did not help at all.
She glanced down at him carefully.
Ult’s expression was completely relaxed now, the usual stubborn tension smoothed away. His lashes rested softly against his cheeks, his face open and unguarded in a way she rarely saw. The sharp edges of him—the bravado, the confidence—were gone, replaced with something vulnerable and achingly human.
Dot’s chest tightened painfully.
“…Idiot.” she whispered, but there was no bite in it. Only fondness she wasn’t ready to name.
Her gaze flicked back to her screen.
The video.
She still needed to finish the video.
Her mouse was still under her right hand. Her left arm was trapped between Ult and her side, pinned by his weight. Moving it would be… difficult. Risky.
She stared at the timeline like it was mocking her.
“…I can still do this,” she muttered. “Probably.”
Very carefully—painfully slowly—she nudged the mouse, every movement measured. Ult hummed softly in his sleep, tightening his grip just a fraction.
Dot nearly short-circuited.
“Don’t move.” she whispered instinctively, even though he was already gone to the world.
She took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus.
Click.
Drag.
Adjust.
Her movements were stiff, limited, but she managed. The glow of the screen reflected in her wide purple eyes, tension coiled tight in her chest like a drawn wire ready to snap.
Behind her, her Pokémon slept on, unaware.
In front of her, the video timeline waited.
She reached to correct a tiny mistake—barely a frame off, barely noticeable to anyone but her.
And that was when Ult shifted.
Just a little.
Too much.
His weight tipped forward, balance slipping, his body beginning to slide off her lap.
Dot’s heart nearly stopped.
Her body moved before her thoughts could catch up.
“—!”
She caught him instantly, arms snapping around him, pulling him flush against her chest with a sharp inhale. The chair creaked softly under the sudden movement, but Ult didn’t wake. Not even a twitch.
Unbelievable.
He adjusted instinctively, settling closer, his forehead brushing her shoulder like that was exactly where he belonged.
Dot let out a sound somewhere between a defeated groan and a dying whine, slumping back once she was sure he was secure.
“…You have got to be kidding me.” she whispered again.
She stared down at him, incredulous.
Honestly.
Who fell asleep like this? On someone. In the middle of the night. And stayed asleep through that?
Her heart still raced, adrenaline buzzing in her veins, but as the seconds stretched on, something else began to seep in.
Something quieter.
She realized she was holding him tightly. Too tightly, maybe.
And she didn’t want to let go.
Her grip loosened just a little, melting into something gentler, more natural. Ult’s head rested against her collarbone now, his breathing warm and steady, a quiet rhythm she found herself unconsciously matching. His arms were still wrapped around her, loose but secure, like he trusted her completely without even realizing it.
Dot swallowed.
“…you Idiot.” she murmured again. There was no irritation left at all. Somehow—without her noticing when—it felt safe.
Secure.
The feeling settled into her chest like a warm weight, unfamiliar and aching in the best way. She wasn’t used to this. She was used to distance. To screens and walls and carefully controlled spaces where no one could get close enough to hurt her. Safety had always been something she constructed alone, piece by piece.
And yet—
Here she was.
Holding Ult.
Or being held by him. She honestly couldn’t tell anymore.
They were almost complete opposites. He was loud where she was quiet. Reckless where she was careful. He charged forward headfirst while she analyzed every step, every outcome.
And yet… the thought of a world without him in it felt wrong.
Unthinkable.
He was important to her. More than she could ever say out loud. More than she was ready to admit, even to herself.
Yes, he was annoying. Loud. Easily frustrated. Always itching for the next battle like standing still might physically hurt him.
But beneath the snark, beneath the arrogance, there was kindness. Real, genuine kindness. He cared about Pokémon with his whole heart, sometimes too much. He worried about people even when he pretended not to. He showed up—especially when he shouldn’t have had the strength to.
Like tonight.
Dot let out a quiet breath.
It was still kind of unbelievable that it had taken him so long to notice she was a girl. The thought almost made her huff softly. Typical Ult. Oblivious in the strangest ways. And yet, around women, he was shy. Easily flustered. Awkward in a way that clashed hilariously with his usual confidence.
Weird.
But… she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Dot’s gaze flicked back to her screen.
The video.
Still unfinished.
She stared at it for a few seconds. Then longer.
Her eyelids felt heavy, like gravity itself was pulling them down. The tension that had kept her upright for hours finally began to drain away, replaced by warmth and a bone-deep exhaustion she could no longer fight. Ult shifted slightly in his sleep, pressing closer, and that small movement was enough to tip the balance.
“…Just a minute.” she whispered, mostly to herself.
She turned away from the setup, careful and slow, and wrapped her arms fully around him—this time deliberately. Her chin rested lightly against his shoulder, his warmth soaking into her like sunlight after a long winter.
They were basically cuddling now. Her heart still beat fast, but it wasn’t panic anymore. It was something softer. Steadier.
Dot closed her eyes.
The last thing she registered was the quiet room—the soft hum of her computer, the gentle breathing of her Pokémon on the bed, and Ult’s presence grounding her like an anchor.
Sleep crept up on her before she could argue with it.
And for once, she didn’t fight it.
She drifted off, curled around Ult, safe and warm, held just as much as she was holding him.
The morning air inside the Brave Olivine felt different from the night before—lighter, warmer, filled with the soft hum of a ship fully awake. Sunlight spilled through the large dining room windows, dust motes drifting lazily in its glow as voices overlapped and cutlery clinked against plates.
And yet, something felt… off.
Liko was the first to notice it, really notice it.
She lowered her teacup slowly, her fingers still wrapped around the warm porcelain as her eyes drifted across the table again. Friede. Murdock. Mollie. Orla. Roy. Pokémon gathered close to their trainers, sharing food or simply basking in the calm of morning.
Two empty spaces lingered like gaps in a familiar rhythm.
“Hey,” Liko said softly, almost absently at first, before the thought fully formed. “Where is Dot?”
Her voice carried just enough to cut through the general chatter. Meowscarada’s ears flicked, Pagogo shifted closer to her side, and Hatterene tilted her head slightly as if sensing the change in Liko’s tone.
Roy looked up mid-sip, Skeledirge huffing out a small puff of warm air beside him. “Huh?” He blinked, then glanced around, as if Dot might suddenly materialize behind someone. “…Oh. Yeah. You’re right.”
He frowned.
“Ult isn’t here either,” Roy added, brow furrowing deeper. That alone was strange enough to be worth noting. “Which is… really weird.”
Unusual didn’t even begin to cover it. Ult missing breakfast was like the sun forgetting to rise.
Roy picked up his mug again, poured himself more hot chocolate, and took another enthusiastic sip—only to yelp immediately.
“Ack—hot!” He stuck his tongue out dramatically, Lucario letting out what might have been an amused huff while Kilowattrel chirped in alarm. Roy winced, shaking his head. “Ow… worth it.”
Liko smiled faintly despite herself, then looked thoughtful again.
“Maybe they’re still asleep?” she suggested, though there was uncertainty in her eyes.
Friede shrugged from behind his coffee. “Could be. Late night, maybe.” Cap nodded along, ears twitching.
“But that’s unusual for them,” Murdock pointed out calmly. “Dot’s usually up early if she’s working, and Ult…” He paused, lips twitching. “…well, he never skips food.”
Mollie hummed thoughtfully. “Dot might’ve been up late editing again.”
Orla nodded enthusiastically in agreement—though her mouth was full of fruit, so it came out as a muffled sound instead.
The room settled again, conversation flowing onward—but Liko couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was being overlooked. Her fingers tightened just slightly around her teacup.
She glanced at Roy.
He was already looking at her.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. It was one of those quiet, instinctive understandings that had been happening more often lately—unspoken, easy, like they were slowly learning how to read each other without trying.
Roy tilted his head toward the hallway. “We should check on them.”
Liko hesitated for barely a second. Then she nodded. “Yeah. Just in case.”
They stood together, chairs scraping softly against the floor. Meowscarada rose smoothly to her feet before Liko gently touched her arm. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “We’ll be back.”
Pagogo chirped quietly, settling near Hatterene. Roy gave Skeledirge a quick pat, Lucario offering him a knowing look that made Roy flush faintly before he turned away.
The hallway outside the dining room was quieter, bathed in morning light that filtered through narrow windows along the ship’s side. The gentle hum of the engines vibrated faintly beneath their feet, like a heartbeat.
They walked side by side.
For a few moments, neither spoke.
Roy shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels as he walked. “It’s kinda weird, right?” he muttered. “I mean… Dot’s not exactly a morning person, but Ult usually drags himself out of bed the second he smells food. Especially something sweet.”
Liko nodded. “Yeah. And Dot usually doesn’t miss breakfast either. She might eat quietly, but… she shows up.”
Roy glanced at her. “You worried?”
She paused, then answered honestly. “…A little.”
They turned a corner, footsteps echoing softly down the narrower corridor that led toward the crew’s rooms. The ship felt calmer here, like it was still stretching awake.
Roy scratched the back of his neck. “They were both acting kinda tired yesterday.”
Liko looked at him. “You noticed that too?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Ult was loud like always, but it felt… different? And Dot barely talked.”
Liko slowed her steps just a little, her pace faltering as the memory resurfaced with quiet clarity.
“Ult told her not to push herself too hard.” she said softly, voice lowered as if the walls themselves might be listening. Her fingers curled lightly around the strap of her bag, grounding herself in the texture as she remembered it—the way Dot had stiffened, the way she’d turned her face away like she didn’t quite know what to do with words like that. “He sounded really serious.”
Serious in a way that didn’t match his usual bravado. Serious like someone who meant it.
Roy blinked, surprise flashing across his face before it softened. His steps slowed to match hers. “Huh,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s… actually really sweet.”
There was no teasing in his voice this time. Just honest recognition.
Liko smiled faintly, the kind of smile that barely lifted her lips but warmed her chest all the same. “It is.” Like finding a quiet note in the middle of a loud song.
They walked on, their footsteps echoing gently through the hallway, the hum of the ship wrapping around them like a steady breath. Morning light filtered in through the narrow windows, casting pale gold bands across the floor that they stepped through one by one, like crossing invisible thresholds.
Roy’s shoulders relaxed a bit, and then—suddenly—he let out a soft laugh under his breath, the sound bubbling up before he could stop it.
“You know,” he said, glancing sideways at her, eyes bright with mischief that didn’t quite cross into mockery, “if they’re both asleep in the same room somehow, Friede’s never gonna let them hear the end of it.”
Liko froze mid-step.
Heat rushed to her face instantly, spreading fast, like she’d been caught standing too close to a fire she hadn’t noticed until it burned. “R-Roy!” she hissed, shoulders tensing. “You can’t just—!”
“I’m just saying!” He lifted his hands in surrender, grin wide but harmless. “It’d explain a lot.”
She shook her head, braid swaying gently against her shoulder. She tried to look annoyed—but the effort slipped through her fingers. A reluctant smile tugged at her lips anyway, betraying her. “You’re impossible.”
Roy bumped her shoulder lightly with his own, the contact brief but warm, like punctuation at the end of a sentence. “Hey,” he said, tone easy, almost fond. “You like that about me.”
She opened her mouth to argue. The words were already lined up—
Then they stopped.
Caught somewhere between thought and truth.
Her breath hitched, just barely. “…Maybe.” she admitted, the word slipping out quieter than she intended, like a secret she hadn’t planned on sharing.
Roy’s reaction was instant.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
His ears turned bright red.
“O-Oh,” he said quickly, staring straight ahead as if the hallway had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. “Cool. Uh. Yeah. Cool.”
Liko watched him for a second, heart fluttering strangely, before she looked forward again.
They had arrived.
Dot’s door stood in front of them, unassuming and closed, the nameplate catching the light faintly. The hallway around it felt different somehow—quieter, heavier. Like the air itself was waiting.
Liko slowed to a stop. The ship’s gentle hum faded into the background, replaced by the sound of her own heartbeat, steady but loud in her ears.
She lifted her hand, then hesitated inches from the door.
She listened.
Nothing.
No voices. No movement. No muffled sounds from inside. Just stillness—thick and fragile, like glass stretched thin.
Roy leaned closer, lowering his voice instinctively, as if even speaking too loudly might break something. “Do we knock?”
“…Yeah,” Liko replied softly. Her throat felt tight. “We should.”
She knocked gently. Once.
Then again.
The sound echoed faintly down the hallway, tapping against the walls like a question with no answer yet.
“Dot?” Liko called, keeping her voice low and careful. “You awake?”
They waited.
The silence stretched on, long enough to feel deliberate. Long enough for worry to seep in through the cracks, cold and unwelcome.
Roy shifted beside her, weight rocking from one foot to the other. His earlier lightness had faded, replaced by a crease between his brows. “Okay,” he muttered. “Now I’m actually worried.”
Liko nodded, fingers curling into the fabric of her sleeve. Her heart beat faster now, each thump pressing against her ribs. “Me too.”
She reached for the handle.
Her fingers brushed it—then stopped.
She glanced sideways at Roy, searching his face. “If she's just asleep…”
Roy met her gaze and offered a small, reassuring smile. It wasn’t loud or confident. It was quiet. Steady. The kind of smile that said I’m here.
“We’ll be quiet.” he said.
Together, they opened the door and—
There was a sight that they never ever expected to see.
They were sleeping, okay—but…
“No way…” Roy breathed.
The words slipped out of him before he could stop them, barely louder than a whisper, as if speaking any louder might shatter the moment like glass.
Liko froze in the doorway.
For a second, her brain refused to process what her eyes were seeing, like her thoughts were lagging behind reality.
Dot was in her chair.
Not slumped awkwardly. Not sprawled messily.
She was curled there, relaxed in a way Liko had never seen before, arms wrapped securely around Ult. Her head was tilted slightly, cheek resting against his hair, her expression soft—unguarded. The sharp edges she always carried were gone, smoothed away by sleep.
And Ult—
Ult was practically melted into her.
He was tucked against her chest, limbs loosely tangled with hers, his face buried comfortably against her collarbone. The green blanket was wrapped around them both, cocooning them together like they’d been folded into the same heartbeat. His arm was slung around her waist, possessive without being conscious, like his body had decided on its own that this was where he belonged.
They looked… peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Liko’s breath caught.
The room was quiet except for the faint hum of Dot’s computer and the soft, synchronized rise and fall of their breathing. Morning light spilled in through the window, painting the scene in pale gold, dust motes drifting lazily through the air like they were afraid to disturb them.
On the bed, Dot’s Pokémon were still asleep—Quaquaval’s wing draped protectively over Tinkaton, Gholdengo hovering nearby like a silent guardian. None of them stirred, as if even they understood this moment was delicate.
Roy’s jaw hung open.
“…Okay,” he whispered, leaning in just a fraction. “I thought I was joking.”
Liko didn’t answer right away.
Her hand hovered near her mouth, fingers trembling slightly. Her cheeks flushed—not from embarrassment, but from something warmer. Something that bloomed quietly in her chest like she was witnessing something she wasn’t supposed to, something private and sincere.
“They…” she started, then stopped, unsure how to finish the sentence.
They weren’t just asleep.
They weren’t just close.
They were holding each other like the world outside the room didn’t exist.
Like they were anchors keeping the other from drifting too far.
Roy glanced at Liko, then back at the pair, his expression slowly shifting from shock to something softer. “…Guess they really were tired.”
Liko nodded slowly.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “But… I think it’s more than that.”
She stepped just a little farther into the room, careful with each movement, like she was approaching a sleeping Pokémon that might startle if she moved too fast. Her gaze lingered on Dot’s face—the faint crease between her brows gone, her usual guarded tension completely absent.
Liko had never seen Dot like this.
Not during battles. Not during late-night talks. Not even during moments of relief.
This was different.
Ult shifted slightly in his sleep, his grip tightening just a bit, and Dot instinctively adjusted, her arms drawing him closer without waking. It was unconscious. Natural. Like breathing.
Roy sucked in a quiet breath through his teeth. “…Wow.”
There was awe in his voice now. No teasing. No jokes.
Just understanding.
“If Friede sees this—” he started.
Liko shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut steel.
He immediately zipped his mouth shut and nodded. “Right. Not a word.”
They stood there for another moment, letting the silence settle around them again.
It felt… sacred.
Like stumbling upon a rare Pokémon in the wild—something you didn’t chase, didn’t interrupt, just observed quietly with a full heart.
Liko gently reached out and, with the utmost care, nudged the door back toward its frame.
“Let them sleep.” she whispered.
Roy nodded, stepping back with her. “Yeah.”
The door closed with barely a sound.
In the hallway, they both stood still for a second, processing.
Then Roy exhaled slowly, rubbing his face. “…Okay. I did not expect that.”
Liko smiled—soft, knowing, warm. “Neither did I.”
They walked away quietly, leaving the room behind them, carrying the unspoken understanding with them like a shared secret.
Some bonds didn’t need words.
Some feelings spoke loudest when everyone else was asleep.