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quiet hours.

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Miles Edgeworth doesn't sleep in very often.

In fact, he could probably count the number of times something like that happened on two hands, not counting the first few months when he’d “chosen death.”

So when he finds himself staring at an alarm clock reading “9:37 A.M.” it's a little disorienting.

Even more disorienting when he rolled over and realized he isn't in his bed, but rather, Phoenix’s bed.

Without Phoenix.

His side of the bed isn't very warm, indicating that his partner left a while ago, although he can see that his pillow is still slightly stained with drool. Miles groans and reaches for his glasses on the nightstand beside him with one hand, and uses the other to rub at his tired eyes and scratch at growing stubble--he needed to shave.

But first, he’d have to get up.

So he does, a small part of him wants nothing more than to bundle up and fall back asleep, but he can’t just lay there being useless, even if he promised his boyfriend he wouldn’t go into work that day.

Miles yawns and slowly shuffles towards the kitchen, cold floorboards quietly creaking underneath his weight, if either of the Wrights saw him in such a state, they’d laugh at him and call him a zombie… speaking of…

He could faintly hear voices in the kitchen, some sort of light hearted bickering between the two of them--though he couldn’t quite make out what was being said by either one of them, even when he stood, unnoticed, in the doorframe, quietly taking the scene in front of him in.

Trucy’s hair is wild and messy as she is speaks animatedly to her father about who knows what, gesturing wildly over a stack of pancakes much too tall for a child her age to be able to finish (then again, she is a growing girl, still), it’s likely an argument on whether or not she should be allowed to do a dangerous trick, he thinks.

His eyes wander over to Phoenix, he’s still in his pajama bottoms, but he’d chosen to put on a shirt before going to make breakfast, it looks like. His hair is mussed up as well and he definitely needs to shave (though Miles understood why he hasn’t really been keeping up with the razor for about a year). His boyfriend is smiling and laughing at his daughter, before moving over to where she was sitting to nuzzle her cheeks and she giggles, trying to push him away while complaining that his face feels all scratchy like sandpaper.

Without even realizing it, Miles smiles despite his groggy, half-awake state. Watching his little family as if they didn’t have the tremendous baggage they both carried--

My family…?

The realization wakes him up faster than any cup of coffee or caffeinated tea ever could. It’s past 9:40 A.M. and Miles Edgeworth is smiling, watching his partner and his daughter in the kitchen without any stress or worry in their minds, sunlight languidly drifting through parted curtains, highlighting flying dust, their smiles, sticky syrup and butter slowly drifting off of pancakes, and the lights in his life full of joy and happiness and affection.

The family he’d chosen, all on his own.

Not one given and then suddenly taken away from him, not one he was suddenly thrust into with only one person actually giving a damn about him while the other used and manipulated him, but a family that he could hold onto fiercely, love as openly as was possible for him, and not want anything back, but recieve it anyway. Two people he could trust and lean on and always support in turn.

With this secret knowledge, in his mind, Miles nearly starts crying. Instead, he quickly controls his emotions and steps lightly into the kitchen, joining Phoenix’s attack on poor little Trucy, who’s giggles become so loud it fills the entire space of the apartment as she screams that they both tickle from their facial hair, and then when they finally cease their onslaught, Miles leans over and kisses his partner, soft and lingering.

God. Phoenix’s smile was far more bright and beautiful than any sun in any possible universe.

“Good morning, Miles.”

“Good morning, Dear.”