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Chapter Text

The bell chimed for the next round, and Anaxagoras looked up from his notepad with the weary resignation of a man who'd already endured four conversations about favorite vacation destinations. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses as a woman in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit approached Table 12.

"Good evening," he said, rising with academic formality. "Dr. Anaxagoras Hartwell, medieval literature and philology." He sat with the careful precision of someone accustomed to ancient library chairs.

The woman settled across from him, her posture perfect, her dark eyes already studying him with an intensity that made him oddly self-conscious. "Aglaea Chen. I own Chen & Daughters Bespoke Tailoring." She tilted her head slightly, examining his jacket. "That's an Oxford weave, isn't it? 1970s cut?"

Anaxagoras blinked, glancing down at his tweed jacket as if seeing it for the first time. "1973, actually. It was my father's." He looked back at her with genuine surprise. "You have a remarkable eye."

"Fabric is my language, Professor." A hint of amusement touched her lips. "The way you probably read... what, Old English manuscripts?"

"Middle English, primarily." He found himself leaning forward, his usual speed-dating discomfort forgotten. "Chaucer, the Pearl Poet. Though I confess, the accuracy required in your work is similar to textual analysis. Every stitch must be careful."

Aglaea's expression shifted, something like recognition passing across her face. "Every word in a medieval text must be too, I imagine. One misplaced thread ruins the entire garment. One mistranslation ruins the meaning."

"Precisely!" Anaxagoras heard the enthusiasm in his own voice and tried to moderate it, but couldn't quite manage. "The craftsmanship is parallel. Tell me, when you construct a suit, do you consider the historical evolution of the form?"

"Always." She spoke with quiet conviction. "A proper three-piece suit carries centuries of tradition. Each element has purpose and history." She studied him with that assessing gaze again, and he had the distinct impression she was seeing far more than his jacket. "You understand permanence. Quality over trends."

"In my field, we measure relevance in centuries, not seasons." He adjusted his worn leather watchband, a nervous habit. "Though I admit, I've worn the same three jackets for fifteen years."

Aglaea's eyes tracked to his elbow, and she winced almost imperceptibly. "I noticed. That elbow patch is coming loose."

Anaxagoras twisted to examine his sleeve, genuinely surprised. "Is it? I hadn't..." He touched the fraying edge. "I suppose I'm more attentive to deteriorating manuscripts than deteriorating wool."

"Bring it to my shop." The offer came without hesitation. "I'll repair it properly. No charge. Think of it as professional courtesy for someone who respects craftsmanship."

He looked up at her, startled by the gesture. "That's... extraordinarily kind." He hesitated, then added with careful hope, "Perhaps I could bring my copy of the Canterbury Tales? The marginalia discusses medieval clothing in fascinating detail."

Aglaea raised an eyebrow, and for a moment Anaxa thought he'd overstepped.

Aglaea asked. "You want to show me a 600-year-old book about fabric construction?"

"When you phrase it that way, it sounds rather presumptuous—"

"I'd like that very much." Her smile was genuine. "Tuesday afternoon? My shop is quiet then."

Anaxagoras reached for his pen, writing with the careful script of someone who still composed lecture notes by hand. "Tuesday. 2 PM? I have office hours until 1:30."

"Perfect." Aglaea watched him write, and she noticed he had ink stains on his fingers. "And Professor? Wear the jacket. I'll need to assess the full damage."

The bell rang, signaling the end of their seven minutes. Anaxagoras stood, suddenly reluctant to leave. "This has been unexpectedly... enriching."

"Agreed." Aglaea rose as well, smoothing her jacket with practiced hands. "It's rare to meet someone who understands that some things are worth preserving."

He fumbled with his notepad as he gathered his things, and it slipped from his fingers. Aglaea caught it before it hit the table. For a moment, their fingers touched over the worn leather cover, and neither moved.

Then she handed it back to him, her eyes warm. "Tuesday, Professor."

"Tuesday," he agreed, and found himself smiling as he walked to Table 13, already counting the days.

Chapter Text

Save for the soft hiss of thread through linen and the sporadic groan of Aglaea's chair, the shop was silent. It was long after midnight on December 20th, and she really ought to have gone home hours before. The streetlights outside cast long shadows through the front windows, illuminating the bolts of fabric lining the walls like some sort of textile library.

Aglaea held the bookmark up to the light, her eyes checking her work with the critical gaze usually reserved for wedding suits and bespoke waistcoats. The linen was cream-colored, heavy enough to take years of use, yet soft enough to avoid abrading delicate pages. She'd selected it expressly for that fact—Anaxagoras handled his books with the same respect with which she regarded fine cloth.

She set another stitch, her needle moving with thirty years' practice. The design had taken her three evenings to plan: a border of intertwining vines in deep green silk thread, and at the center, carefully rendered in gold, an open book with a threaded needle lying across its pages. The symbolism felt almost too obvious, but when she'd sketched it, something had felt right about the image.

His world and hers, intersecting.

"You're overthinking it," she muttered to herself, but her hands didn't cease their motions.

It had been seven months since that speed dating evening. Seven months of Tuesday afternoons that had gradually expanded to include Thursday dinners and Sunday morning coffee. Seven months of him appearing at her shop with books tucked under his arm, settling into the chair by her workbench while she sewed and he read aloud, sometimes Chaucer in Middle English, which made her laugh at the strange sounds, sometimes modern poetry, which made her stop sewing to listen.

Last month, he'd brought her a first edition of The Tailor of Gloucester by Beatrix Potter that he'd found at an estate sale. "I thought of you immediately," he'd said, almost shy about it. She'd kept it on her desk ever since, touching the worn cover between clients.

Aglaea stopped, flexing her fingers. The gold thread was tricky to work with, tended to tangle, but she had wanted something that caught light when he used it. She could imagine him sliding it between the pages of one of his precious manuscripts, the bookmark falling against vellum and medieval ink.

Would he understand what she was trying to say, that she saw his work as beautiful, as worthy of preservation as he saw hers? That the care he took with words moved her in ways she hadn't expected?

She set another stitch, then another. The needle's rhythm was meditative and familiar. This was how she thought best—with her hands occupied, her mind free to wander.

He had fallen asleep, three weeks ago, in her shop's armchair while she finished a commission, his head tilted back and his glasses slightly askew. She had covered him with the cashmere throw she kept for cold evenings and worked in silence, glancing up every now and then to watch the rise and fall of his breathing. When he'd woken an hour later, disoriented and apologetic, she'd simply handed him tea and told him he was welcome to stay as long as he liked.

He'd looked at her then with such open warmth that she'd had to turn away, busying herself with organizing thread spools that didn't need organizing.

The bookmark was all but complete now. She stitched the last stitches of the border, tugged the thread tight and snipped it with her smallest scissors. Then she reached for the backing fabric, a deep burgundy silk that would protect the embroidery and add weight. She'd pre-cut it to size; now she pinned it, carefully matching the edges precisely.

As she began to attach the backing with invisible stitches, she thought about the scarf he'd worn last week-fraying at the edges, the color faded from years of use. She'd already purchased the wool to make him a new one, a deep charcoal gray that would complement his tweed jackets. That would be next week's project.

But this... this bookmark felt more important somehow. More personal. It was small enough that he might not feel overwhelmed by the gesture, but meaningful enough that he would understand she'd been paying attention. That she knew how he handled his books, how he marked his place with whatever was at hand-scraps of paper, old receipts, once even a dried leaf.

Aglaea stitched the last stitch and held up the bookmark, turning it slowly in the light of the lamp. The gold thread gleamed against the cream-colored linen, and the backing gave it a satisfying weight. It was some of her best work, she decided with quiet satisfaction.

She placed it in a small box lined with tissue paper, then hesitated. Should she include a note? But what would she say that the gift itself didn't already express?

In the end, she wrote simply: For your books, which you've so generously shared. —A.

She set the box on her desk, beside the Beatrix Potter volume, and finally allowed herself to smile. Tuesday was Christmas Eve. They were having dinner at his apartment. He'd promised to cook, though she'd insisted on bringing wine and dessert. She would give it to him then, in the warm lamplight of his book-lined study, and perhaps she would finally find the courage to tell him what these months had meant to her. But for now, she turned off the lamp and locked the shop, the gift safe in her bag, her hands still tingling with the memory of careful stitches and the weight of something precious, finally complete.

Chapter Text

The snow had started falling around four in the afternoon, and by the time Aglaea arrived at Anaxagoras's apartment building, the street was in white cover. She stood in the lobby, shaking snowflakes off her coat, a bottle of wine clutched under one arm and a carefully wrapped box clutched in her bag.

His apartment was on the third floor of an old brownstone, the kind with creaking stairs and radiators that clanked in the winter. When he opened the door, she was struck by how different he looked. He was wearing just a soft gray sweater and dark slacks, his glasses slightly fogged from the warmth inside.

"You made it," he said, stepping aside to let her in. "I was worried about the snow."

"I've walked through worse," Aglaea replied, handing him the wine. "Besides, you promised dinner. I wasn't going to miss that."

His apartment was just as she'd imagined it: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining each wall; a worn leather armchair by the window, its headrest creased from years of use; and a small, tasteful dining table set for two. The air smelled of roasted herbs and something sweet, like cinnamon, maybe, or cloves.

"I hope you like lamb," Anaxagoras said, leading her to the kitchen. "It's a recipe my father used to make. I'm not sure I've done it justice, but—"

"It smells great," Aglaea said, interrupting her and putting her bag on the counter. "And I bring dessert. Tiramisu from that Italian bakery you mentioned."

He smiled- that soft, honest smile that made her chest tighten. "You remembered."

"I remember everything you tell me," she said quietly.

They ate by candlelight, the snow falling steadily outside the window. Anaxagoras talked about his research—a new manuscript he'd discovered in a university archive, the marginalia filled with notes from a 14th-century scribe. Aglaea listened, watching the way his eyes lit up when he spoke about his work, the way his hands moved as he described the delicate process of translation.

"You love it," she said as he fell silent. "The way I love fabric. It's not just work for you."

He looked into her face, his eyes contemplative. "No. It's. it's a way of preserving something that would otherwise be lost. Every word matters. Every detail."

"Like every stitch," Aglaea said.

"Exactly like every stitch."

Over dinner and afterwards, they made their way into the living room, sitting down with glasses of wine on the couch. The fire in the small fireplace crackled softly, casting warm shadows across the room. Aglaea felt the weight of the gift in her bag, her heart beating a little faster.

"I have something for you," she said, reaching for the box.

Anaxagoras' face showed surprise. "Aglaea, you didn't have to—" 

"I wanted to," she said, handing it to him. "Open it."

He opened the box carefully, as if the wrapping paper were itself something precious. When he lifted the lid and saw the bookmark lying there, his breath caught.

"Aglaea," he whispered, lifting it gently from the tissue paper. The gold thread gleamed in the firelight, the embroidered book and needle catching the light. "This is. this is extraordinary."

"It's for your books," she said, "The ones you've been lending me. I was hoping that it would show I have been paying attention." 

He peered at her, his eyes bright behind his glasses. "You made this?"

She nodded. "Every stitch."

He said nothing for a moment. Then he laid the bookmark carefully on the table, leaned to his own bag, and retrieved a small, wrapped package.

"I have something for you too," he said, his voice unsteady. "I hope. I hope it's not too presumptuous."

Aglaea unwrapped it slowly, with trembling hands. Inside was a leather-bound journal, its cover embossed with a delicate pattern of thread and needle. With every turnout, she opened it and saw on the first page:

For Aglaea, who taught me that some things are worth preserving, including this.

Beneath the inscription was a pressed flower— the same kind of wildflower that had been growing outside her shop the first time he'd visited.

"Anaxagoras," she breathed, tracing the embossing with her fingers. "This is beautiful."

"I thought you might like to sketch your designs," he said. "Or write down your thoughts. I know you prefer working with your hands, but sometimes. sometimes words help too."

She looked up at him, and for the first time in months, she felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. "You've been paying attention too."

"Every detail," he whispered.

A few moments passed, staring into space, the fire crackling, the snow falling outside. Then Aglaea set the journal down and reached for his hand.

"Anaxagoras," she called softly into his chest, thick with emotions, "These past months. they've meant more to me than I know how to say."

He squeezed her hand gently. "They've meant everything to me."

She looked at him, the way the firelight caught in his eyes, the way he carefully held her hand, as if it were something fragile and precious. And then, without thinking about it, she leaned forward and kissed him.

It was soft and thoughtful, like the first stitch in a new piece of embroidery. But the way he kissed her back, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, it felt like something that had been waiting to happen for a long time.

When they finally drew apart, Anaxagoras leaned his forehead against hers, his breath sweet and warm on her skin.

"I've wanted to do that for weeks," he admitted.

Aglaea smiled, her hand still in his. "So have I."

They stayed that way for a while, wrapped in the warmth of the fire and each other, the snow falling softly outside. For the first time in a very long time, Aglaea felt that she'd found something worth preserving, not just in the careful stitches of her work, but in the quiet, steady presence of the man sitting next to her.

Later, with the striking of midnight and the beginning of Christmas Day, Anaxagoras read to her from a manuscript of his favorite works. Aglaea leaned against his shoulder, half-closing her eyes, the bookmark laying on the table beside them.

"Merry Christmas, Aglaea," he whispered.

"Merry Christmas, Anaxagoras," she replied.

And in that instant, the books and the thread and the soft light of the fires, it was all there, just so.

Chapter Text

The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of olive blossoms and distant sea salt. Aglaea and Anaxagoras walked along the hillside path, their third proper date since the speed dating event that had brought them together.

Anaxagoras had been unusually quiet, which worried Aglaea. Normally, he'd be halfway through a lecture about the composition of clouds or the mathematics of spiral shells by now.

"Are you alright?" she asked, touching his arm gently.

"I've been thinking," he said, stopping abruptly and turning to face her. "About language. Middle English, specifically."

"Of course you have," she said with an affectionate smile.

"No, listen," he continued, his words tumbling out faster. "Middle English is this beautiful, chaotic transition. It's Old English colliding with Norman French, creating something entirely new. Words, grammar, and meanings changing over time. There's an order to linguistic evolution, Aglaea. A beautiful, inexorable order."

"Where are you going with this?" she asked, though her heart had begun to beat faster.

He took both her hands in his. "And then there's the chaos of it. The unpredictable mutations. Like how 'lufu' became 'love.' Like how two completely different linguistic traditions merged into something neither could have predicted. Like the way you challenge my ideas instead of simply accepting them. Like the way you make me forget about etymology because I'm too busy looking at you."

"Anaxagoras—"

"I've studied the probabilities," he interrupted, his voice shaking slightly. "The likelihood of two people meeting at precisely the right moment, speaking the same linguistic and emotional language. It's extraordinarily rare. And yet, here we are."

He reached into his tunic and pulled out a simple silver ring, engraved with tiny words in Middle English around its circumference: "Min herte is youres" — My heart is yours.

"Aglaea," he said, his usual confidence replaced with endearing nervousness. "I don't believe in fate. I believe in patterns and evolution, cause and effect. But I also believe that some combinations of words, of people, are so perfect, so improbable, that they deserve to be permanent."

She was already crying, her hands trembling in his.

"What I'm trying to say—very poorly, apparently—is that you are my favorite linguistic anomaly. The word I didn't know I was searching for. And I would very much like to spend the rest of my life studying the grammar of us. Will you marry me?"

Aglaea laughed through her tears. "That was possibly the worst proposal I've ever heard."

His face fell. "Oh. I—I can try again. Perhaps with less philological metaphor—"

"Yes," she said, pulling him close. "Yes, you ridiculous, brilliant man. Of course I'll marry me."

He slipped the ring onto her finger, his hands still shaking. "Really? Even though I compared you to Middle English?"

"Especially because you compared me to Middle English," she said, kissing him. "Only you would propose by explaining linguistic evolution."

He grinned, relief flooding his features. "I also prepared a backup speech about the etymological roots of the word 'love,' but—"

"Don't," she laughed, pressing a finger to his lips. "You've already won. Let's quit while you're ahead."

They stood there on the hillside as the sun set, two improbable words that had somehow found each other in the vast chaos of language.

And for once, Anaxagoras had no theories to offer. He simply held her, watching the stars emerge one by one, grateful for whatever linguistic accident had brought them together.

Chapter Text

The venue was a small, intimate garden in the heart of the city, surrounded by twinkling fairy lights and soft music drifting from a nearby speaker. The guests were a mix of old friends, family, and a few colleagues who had somehow managed to escape the chaos of their own lives for the occasion.

Anaxagoras stood at the edge of the garden, adjusting his tie with a nervous fidget. His best friend, Pericles, stood beside him, offering a steady hand.

"Stop adjusting your tie," Pericles said, his voice low. "You look fine."

"Fine?" Anaxagoras hissed back. "This fabric is clearly woven with an uneven thread count. The asymmetry is disturbing."

"It's your wedding day. Try to focus on something other than textile construction."

Before Anaxagoras could respond, the music changed, and the guests turned toward the entrance.

And then Aglaea appeared.

She wore a simple white dress, elegant but not overly formal, just like her. Her hair was loose, cascading down her back, and her eyes sparkled with barely contained laughter. She looked beautiful, and Anaxagoras forgot how to breathe.

As she walked toward him, accompanied by her father, he felt his carefully prepared speech evaporating from his mind. All those eloquent phrases about language and love, gone.

When she reached him, she whispered, "You're staring."

"I'm... observing," he managed. "Empirically."

"Of course you are," she said, smiling.

The officiant began the ceremony, asking the guests to quiet down. Anaxagoras tried to pay attention, but he kept getting distracted by the way the light caught in Aglaea's hair, creating what he could only describe as "a diffraction pattern of exceptional beauty."

"Anaxagoras," the officiant said pointedly. "Your vows?"

He blinked, suddenly aware that everyone was staring at him. "Right. Yes. Vows."

He cleared his throat. "Aglaea, I have spent my life studying the fundamental nature of reality. I have contemplated the etymological origins of every word in three languages."

Someone in the crowd coughed. Pericles groaned quietly.

"But none of that prepared me for you," Anaxagoras continued, his voice softening. "You are the one phenomenon I cannot explain, the one equation I cannot solve. And I've realized... I don't want to. Some things are meant to be experienced, not analyzed."

Aglaea's eyes glistened with tears.

"You make me laugh when I'm too serious. You challenge me when I'm too certain. You hold my hand when I'm lost in thought, and you bring me back to earth when I'm floating among abstract concepts." He took her hands in his. "I promise to love you and listen to you, even when you tell me I'm wrong."

The crowd laughed. Aglaea wiped her eyes, grinning.

"My turn?" she asked the officiant, who nodded.

"Anaxagoras," she began, "when I met you at that speed dating event, I thought you were the strangest man I'd ever encountered."

More laughter from the guests.

"But then I realized something. You weren't just talking at me. You were inviting me into your world, a world of wonder and curiosity and endless questions. You saw beauty in things others overlooked. You found poetry in theories."

She squeezed his hands. "You are brilliant and infuriating and absolutely impossible. And I love you for all of it. I promise to be your partner in this grand experiment called life. I promise to laugh at your theories, to debate your conclusions, and to remind you to eat when you're too absorbed in your studies."

The officiant smiled. "By the power vested in me, and with the blessings of love, I pronounce you husband and wife."

Anaxagoras pulled Aglaea close and kissed her, to the cheers and whistles of their guests. When they finally broke apart, he whispered, "Did you know that the word 'kiss' derives from—"

"Anaxagoras," she laughed, pressing her forehead against his. "Not now."

"Right," he said, grinning. "Later."

---

The celebration lasted well into the night. There was music, dancing, and inevitably, wine. Lots of wine.

By midnight, Anaxagoras was holding court in the corner, explaining to a captive audience why wedding cakes were "structurally fascinating examples of architectural engineering."

Aglaea watched from across the garden, shaking her head fondly. Pericles appeared beside her, offering her a glass of wine.

"You know what you've gotten yourself into, right?" he asked.

"Oh, I know exactly what I've gotten myself into," she replied, watching her new husband gesticulate wildly while describing the load-bearing properties of frosting.

"And you're still happy?"

She smiled. "Deliriously."

Pericles raised his glass. "Then here's to a lifetime of philosophical debates."

Aglaea clinked her glass against his. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Across the garden, Anaxagoras caught her eye and waved enthusiastically, nearly spilling his wine. She waved back, her heart full.

Yes, she thought. This was exactly where she was meant to be.

Chapter Text

The morning after their wedding, Aglaea woke to the sound of Anaxagoras muttering something about "the curvature of the Earth" and "the physics of sleep." She smiled, already used to the way he could turn even the simplest moments into a philosophical debate.

. 

. 

. 

She rolled over, expecting to find him beside her, but instead, she found the bed empty. A note was propped up against the headboard:

"Dearest Aglaea,

I have gone to the garden to observe the morning sun and its relationship to the horizon. I have also brought coffee, which I believe is a necessary component of any proper honeymoon. Please do not worry, I have not forgotten our vows. I will return shortly.

— Anaxagoras"

Aglaea chuckled, slipping out of bed and making her way to the garden. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a golden glow over the dew-covered grass. Anaxagoras was sitting on a bench, sipping coffee and scribbling in a notebook.

"Good morning," she said, leaning against the bench beside him.

"Ah, my beloved," he said, not looking up from his notes. "I was just calculating the angle of the sun's rays relative to the horizon. It's approximately 42 degrees, give or take a few minutes of observation."

She raised an eyebrow. "And what does that mean?"

"It means," he said, finally looking up at her, "that the sun is rising beautifully. Just like you."

Aglaea laughed. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, you married me," he said, grinning. "I believe that is the highest compliment I could ever receive."

They sat in silence for a while, watching the sun rise. The world felt different now—lighter, brighter, as if everything had been rearranged to fit their new reality.

Later that day, they took a walk through the city, hand in hand. Anaxagoras was still talking about everything and nothing, about the way the wind felt against his skin, about the way Aglaea's laughter made his heart feel like it was going to burst.

They stopped at a small café, where Anaxagoras insisted on ordering a "philosophical latte," a coffee with extra foam, because "the foam represents the froth of human thought."

Aglaea laughed, but she didn't argue. She had learned long ago that arguing with Anaxagoras was like trying to explain gravity to a child. It was futile, and it was also kind of fun.

That night, they returned to their hotel room, exhausted but happy. Anaxagoras sat on the edge of the bed, still talking about the "infinite possibilities of the universe."

Aglaea sat beside him, brushing her fingers through his hair. "You know," she said softly, "I don't need you to explain the universe to me. I just need you."

He looked at her, his eyes full of something deep and beautiful. "Then I will never explain the universe to you. I will just be here with you, and I will never stop being amazed by the fact that we are here at all."

She leaned in and kissed him, and for once, he didn’t have a theory to offer. He just held her, and let the silence speak for itself.

Chapter Text

The alarm clock buzzed at 6:30 AM, shattering the peaceful silence of their bedroom. Aglaea groaned, reaching over to silence it, while Anaxagoras remained motionless beside her, still lost in sleep.

"Anaxagoras," she mumbled, poking his shoulder. "Time to get up."

"Five more minutes," he muttered, pulling the blanket over his head. "I'm in the middle of a dream about the syntactic evolution of Proto-Indo-European verb conjugations..."

"You're dreaming about grammar?" Aglaea said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "That's... actually not surprising."

She dragged herself out of bed and headed to the bathroom, already mentally preparing for her day at the design studio. She had three client meetings scheduled, a fabric delivery to inspect, and a mountain of sketches to finalize for the spring collection.

By the time she emerged, dressed in a crisp white blouse and tailored pants, Anaxagoras was still in bed, now sitting up with his laptop balanced on his knees, furiously typing.

"What are you doing?" she asked, applying her makeup in the mirror.

"Responding to an email from a colleague who insists that Middle English vowel shifts were influenced primarily by Norman French, completely ignoring the Scandinavian substrate layer," he said indignantly. "It's preposterous."

"Anaxagoras, you have a lecture in an hour."

He blinked, looking up from his screen. "I do?"

"Yes. Monday mornings. Introduction to Historical Linguistics. Remember?"

"Ah." He glanced at the clock, then back at his laptop. "I have time."

"You're still in your pajamas."

He looked down at himself, as if noticing for the first time. "So I am."

Aglaea sighed, walking over and closing his laptop. "Shower. Now. Or you'll be late."

"But the email—"

"Can wait," she said firmly. "Go."

He grumbled but obeyed, shuffling toward the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, he emerged in a rumpled button-down shirt and khakis, his hair still damp and sticking up in odd directions.

"Better?" he asked.

"Marginally," Aglaea said, straightening his collar. "Do you have your notes?"

"Notes?" He looked panicked. "I... may have left them at the office."

"Anaxagoras!"

"I'll improvise!" he said defensively. "I've been teaching this material for five years. I know it by heart."

She kissed his cheek. "Just try not to go off on a tangent about the etymology of 'breakfast' again. Your students complained last time."

"That was one time," he protested. "And it was highly relevant to understanding compound word formation!"

---

Anaxagoras arrived at his lecture hall with three minutes to spare, clutching a travel mug of coffee and a stack of hastily printed handouts. His students were already seated, chatting amongst themselves.

"Good morning," he said, setting his things down on the desk. "Today we'll be discussing the Great Vowel Shift, a phenomenon that fundamentally altered the phonological landscape of English between the 15th and 18th centuries."

He turned to write on the whiteboard, then paused. "But first, does anyone know why we call it 'breakfast'? Because it's quite fascinating, you're literally breaking your fast from the night before, which tells us something important about meal terminology and—"

A student in the front row raised her hand. "Professor, didn't you promise not to do this again?"

Anaxagoras blinked. "Did I?"

The class laughed.

"Right," he said, clearing his throat. "The Great Vowel Shift. Let's begin."

---

Aglaea's morning was equally chaotic. Her first client, a wealthy socialite named Helena, had arrived fifteen minutes early and was already complaining about the fabric samples.

"This silk is too shiny," Helena said, holding up a swatch with disdain. "I want something more... understated."

"That's raw silk," Aglaea explained patiently. "It has a natural sheen. If you want something matte, we could look at linen or cotton blends."

"Linen wrinkles," Helena said dismissively.

"Yes, but that's part of its charm—"

"I don't want charm. I want elegance."

Aglaea took a deep breath, reminding herself why she loved her job. "Let me show you some other options."

By lunchtime, she was exhausted. She sat at her desk, eating a salad and scrolling through her phone. A text from Anaxagoras popped up:

Anaxagoras: "I may have accidentally spent twenty minutes explaining the etymology of 'vowel.' The students looked confused. Send help."

Aglaea laughed, typing back:

Aglaea: "You're hopeless. How's the lecture going otherwise?"

Anaxagoras: "Brilliantly, I think. Though one student asked if the Great Vowel Shift was 'like when you accidentally hit Caps Lock.' I didn't know how to respond."

Aglaea: "Just smile and nod. You'll be fine."

Anaxagoras: "I miss you. Can we have dinner together tonight? I promise not to lecture about anything."

Aglaea: "I'll believe it when I see it. But yes, dinner sounds perfect."

---

They met at a small Italian restaurant near their apartment. Anaxagoras was already seated when Aglaea arrived, a glass of wine in hand and a slightly frazzled expression on his face.

"Rough day?" she asked, sliding into the seat across from him.

"One of my students asked if Middle English was 'just Old English with typos,'" he said, taking a long sip of wine. "I didn't know whether to laugh or cry."

Aglaea smiled. "What did you say?"

"I gave a fifteen-minute explanation of linguistic evolution, phonological change, and the Norman Conquest." He paused. "They looked more confused afterward."

"Of course they did," she said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. "How about you? How was your day?"

"Helena hated every fabric I showed her, my intern accidentally cut a pattern two sizes too small, and I spilled coffee on a sketch I'd been working on for three days." She sighed. "But I survived."

"That's the spirit," Anaxagoras said, raising his glass. "To surviving our respective professional disasters."

"To surviving," Aglaea echoed, clinking her glass against his.

They ordered pasta and spent the rest of the evening talking not about work, not about linguistics or fashion, but about everything else. About the book Aglaea was reading. About the documentary Anaxagoras wanted to watch. About the trip they were planning for next summer.

And as they walked home together, hand in hand under the streetlights, Aglaea realized something: no matter how chaotic their days were, no matter how many difficult clients or confused students they faced, they always had this. Each other. And that was enough.

"Hey," Anaxagoras said suddenly, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. "Did you know that the word 'home' comes from the Old English 'hām,' which is related to the Proto-Germanic 'haimaz,' meaning—"

"Anaxagoras," Aglaea interrupted, laughing. "You promised no lectures."

"Right," he said sheepishly. "Sorry."

She kissed him. "I love you anyway."

"I love you too," he said, grinning. "Even if you don't appreciate the beauty of etymological history."

"I appreciate you," she said. "That's enough."

And together, they walked home.

Chapter Text

Anaxagoras had consumed far too much wine at the dinner. Aglaea had warned him about mixing philosophical debate with Dionysian enthusiasm, but he'd insisted on "lubricating the mind."

"Oh, look at the stars, Ursa Major... So beautiful!" he slurred, gesturing wildly upward. "You see, Aglaea, the celestial sphere rotates at a fixed rate of— hic— approximately one degree per seventy-two years due to axial precession, which means that in thirteen thousand years, Vega will be our pole star instead of—"

"We're inside," Aglaea interrupted gently, steadying him by the elbow. "Those are just ceiling lights."

Anaxagoras blinked slowly, his wine-addled brain struggling to process this information. He squinted at the oil lamps hanging from the ceiling beams.

"Ah, but you see," he continued, undeterred, "the principle remains the same! Light, whether from celestial fire or terrestrial flame, travels in straight lines according to— what did Empedocles say? — the theory of emanations, though I personally believe—" He swayed dangerously. "—that light is composed of infinitesimally small particles that—"

"Anaxagoras," Aglaea sighed, guiding him toward a couch. "You're lecturing the furniture again."

"The furniture," he mumbled, collapsing onto the cushions, "deserves to understand cosmology too..."

Within moments, he was snoring, still muttering about planetary orbits in his sleep.

Aglaea stood over her snoring husband, shaking her head with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. She'd known Anaxagoras for three years now, ever since they'd met at a speed dating event.

"Madam?" A servant appeared in the doorway. "Shall I prepare medicine?"

"Yes, thank you, Philon. And bring water—lots of water. He'll need it when he wakes."

As Philon departed, Anaxagoras stirred, his eyes fluttering open. "The moon," he mumbled, "doesn't produce its own light, you know. It merely reflects... reflects the sun's brilliance, like a polished bronze mirror..."

"I know," Aglaea said softly, sitting beside him. "You've told me seventeen times."

"Have I?" He tried to sit up, failed, and settled for turning his head toward her. "You actually listen to my theories?"

"Someone has to. Otherwise you'd just be shouting at the cosmos alone."

"A lopsided smile crossed his face. "The cosmos doesn't judge me for being drunk."

"No," Aglaea agreed, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "But it doesn't bring you water and make sure you don't choke on your own philosophical proclamations either."

"Aglaea," he said, suddenly serious despite his intoxication. "Do you think I'm mad? Everyone else does. They say my ideas are dangerous. Impious."

She considered this carefully. "I think you see the world as it is, not as people wish it to be. That's not madness. That's courage."

His eyes began to close again. "You're far too kind to a drunk fool..."

"Perhaps," she whispered. "But you're my drunk fool."

By the time Philon returned with the water, Anaxagoras was asleep again, this time with a peaceful smile on his face. Aglaea remained beside him, gazing up at the ceiling lights he'd mistaken for stars.

Maybe, she thought, there wasn't so much difference between the two. Both illuminated the darkness. Both helped you find your way.

She just hoped Anaxagoras would remember this conversation in the morning. Knowing him, he'd probably wake up with a new theory about the nature of memory and wine-induced amnesia.

She smiled. She wouldn't have it any other way.

---

The next morning, the sun filtered through the window, casting golden rays across the room. Anaxagoras awoke with a groan, his head pounding as if the cosmos itself had decided to beat him with a celestial mallet.

"Aglaea," he mumbled, squinting at the ceiling. "Why is the sky so... bright?"

Aglaea, already dressed and preparing breakfast, turned from the hearth with a gentle smile. "You’re in the house, not the sky, my love. And you’ve been drinking again."

"Ah," he said, rubbing his temples. "I must have been... celestial last night."

She laughed, the sound warm and familiar. "You were quite the philosopher, though. You even managed to confuse the ceiling lights for stars."

"Did I?" He blinked slowly, then grinned. "I prefer to think of it as a poetic interpretation of the cosmos."

Aglaea rolled her eyes, but there was affection in her tone. "You’re impossible."

"Yet you married me," he replied, sitting up with a wince. "So I must be somewhat tolerable."

She walked over and sat beside him, brushing a hand through his hair. "You’re more than tolerable. You’re my favorite kind of impossible."

Anaxagoras reached for her hand, his eyes still a little unfocused. "Do you remember our first official date?"

She smiled. "How could I forget? You were drunk, you were talking about the moon, and you made me laugh for the first time in a long time."

"Ah, yes," he said, a soft smile on his face. "I was trying to convince you that the moon was a mirror of the sun, and you laughed at me."

"And then you talked about the stars, and I realized you were brilliant and charming and... well, I fell in love."

He looked at her, eyes full of wonder. "And I fell in love with the woman who didn’t run from my drunken theories, but instead listened, and laughed, and stayed."

She leaned in and kissed him gently. "You’re still a drunk fool, you know."

"And you’re still my brilliant wife," he said, pulling her closer. "And I wouldn’t have it any other way."

Outside, the sun continued its slow journey across the sky, just as it had for thousands of years, and just as it would for thousands more. And inside, two people sat together, illuminated not by the stars, but by the love they had built.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun streamed into their home, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Aglaea, perched on a stool, meticulously stitched a sleeve onto a tunic, her brow furrowed in concentration. Beside her, Anaxagoras sat on a low bench, surrounded by a chaotic pile of fabric scraps, thread spools, and measuring tools. He looked utterly bewildered.

"Are you sure this is necessary, dear?" he asked, holding up a length of crimson wool with a dubious expression. "Surely, the properties of wool can be better understood through observation and dissection, not manipulation with a needle."

Aglaea sighed, not looking up from her work. "Anaxagoras, we’ve been over this. My seamstress is ill, and I need a new tunic for the upcoming symposium. You promised to help."

"I promised to assist," he corrected, adjusting his tunic with a flourish. "There’s a subtle difference. Assistance implies a contribution of intellectual value. I’m not entirely sure how threading a needle qualifies as such."

"Just thread the needle, please," Aglaea said, her voice laced with weary patience. She handed him a spool of linen thread and a needle.

He examined the needle as if it were a newly discovered celestial body. "Remarkable," he murmured. "Such precision in its construction. One can almost imagine it piercing the very fabric of reality..."

Aglaea resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Just thread it, Anaxagoras."

He squinted at the thread, then at the needle's eye. "The aperture is... surprisingly small. It requires a delicate application of force, balanced with a precise understanding of tensile strength... " He fumbled with the thread, muttering about angles and friction.

"Here," Aglaea said, taking the needle and thread from him. She threaded it effortlessly. "See? It’s not rocket science."

"But it is a fascinating problem of mechanics!" he insisted. "Consider the way the thread coils—"

"Anaxagoras!" Aglaea interrupted, her voice rising slightly. "I need you to cut these fabric squares. Precisely. According to this pattern." She slid a piece of parchment across the bench.

He peered at the pattern, his brow furrowing. "These lines... they represent the boundaries of the fabric, yes? But how do we account for the inherent irregularities of the weave? Shouldn't we factor in the the texture?"

Aglaea pinched the bridge of her nose. "Just cut the squares, Anaxagoras. Straight lines. No philosophy."

He sighed dramatically. "Very well. But I maintain that a more holistic approach—"

He began to cut, but his cuts were anything but straight. The squares were lopsided, jagged, and utterly unusable.

Aglaea stared at the pile of misshapen fabric. "Anaxagoras Hartwell," she said, her voice dangerously calm. "What happened here?"

He looked at his handiwork with a puzzled expression. "I believe I may have underestimated the… the resistance of the fabric. It seems to possess a certain... will."

Aglaea burst out laughing. "The fabric has a will? You’re telling me the wool is rebelling against being cut into squares?"

"It’s a perfectly reasonable hypothesis," he said defensively. "All matter possesses inherent properties. Perhaps this wool simply doesn’t wish to be a tunic."

She wiped a tear from her eye. "Alright, alright. Let's try something else. Can you at least hold the fabric taut while I stitch?"

He nodded enthusiastically. "An excellent suggestion! A stable foundation is crucial for any structure, be it a tunic or a cosmological model."

And so, Anaxagoras, the renowned professor, became Aglaea’s fabric-holding assistant. He held the fabric with surprising diligence, occasionally offering unsolicited commentary on the properties of linen and the ethical implications of shearing sheep.

As the afternoon wore on, and the tunic slowly began to take shape, Aglaea found herself smiling. It was chaotic, frustrating, and utterly absurd. But it was also lovely.

"You know," she said, glancing at him. "You’re surprisingly good at holding things taut."

"It’s all about understanding the forces at play," he said proudly. "A principle applicable to both fabric and the cosmos."

Aglaea shook her head, laughing. "Only you, Anaxagoras. Only you."

Chapter Text

The university auditorium was packed. Aglaea sat in the third row, her phone on silent, watching her husband pace behind the podium as the moderator introduced him.

"Dr. Anaxagoras Hartwell will present his controversial paper on the vernacular revolution in thirteenth-century manuscripts and the democratization of knowledge beyond Latin."

Anaxagoras adjusted his glasses nervously. Aglaea caught his eye and gave him a subtle thumbs-up. He exhaled and smiled.

"Thank you for coming," he began. "I know my theories have been... divisive. But today, I want to show you why the shift to vernacular languages wasn't a degradation of scholarship—it was its salvation."

The slides showed illuminated manuscripts, Middle English texts, and Old French poetry. Some audience members leaned forward; others crossed their arms skeptically. Professor Whitmore from Oxford was already frowning.

"You're romanticizing illiteracy," Whitmore interrupted. "Latin was the language of serious thought. These vernacular texts were mere entertainment for the uneducated."

Anaxagoras faltered. Aglaea sat straighter, willing him strength.

"Entertainment, yes," Anaxagoras said slowly, finding his footing, "but also revolution. When Dante chose Italian, when Chaucer chose English, they didn't abandon beauty—they expanded it. My wife taught me that accessibility and elegance aren't enemies."

He clicked to the next slide showing a page from The Canterbury Tales. "Look at this language. It's raw, it's alive, it's gorgeous. The medieval scribes who copied these texts weren't destroying culture—they were transforming it, making it breathe."

The room erupted in debate, but Anaxagoras held his ground, his passion for forgotten languages filling the space. Aglaea's heart swelled with pride.

---

Two hours later, they met outside by the campus fountain, away from the lingering arguments in the hall.

"That was brutal," Anaxagoras groaned, loosening his tie. "Whitmore practically called me a philological heretic."

"Whitmore's stuck in the nineteenth century," Aglaea said, wrapping her arms around him. "You were brilliant. Especially that part about me."

He laughed, pulling her close. "I meant it. Remember one time? You were in that gallery event, and I was droning on about paleography. You asked me if I ever actually felt the words I studied."

"And you looked at me like I'd suggested burning the archives," she added with a grin. "But then you read me that passage from Sir Gawain in Middle English, and your whole face changed. You made those ancient words sing."

"You gave my work grace," he murmured. "Made me see that these weren't just linguistic artifacts. They were human voices, reaching across centuries."

Aglaea tilted her head up to kiss him. "And you taught me that beauty has history, that every flourish in those manuscripts represents someone's careful hand, someone's choice. You made me see the elegance in scholarship."

"Even when I go on too long about verb conjugations?"

"Especially then," she teased. "Your nerdy passion is adorable."

They both laughed, the tension of the symposium dissolving into the evening air.

"So," Aglaea said, linking her arm through his, "celebratory dinner? That Italian place? Seems appropriate after defending Dante."

Anaxagoras hesitated. "I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to go out. I’m still buzzing from the debate."

Aglaea smiled. "Then we’ll cook. I’ll make my grandmother’s pasta al pomodoro—the one you love. And you can make your famous bolognese sauce. We’ll have a real medieval feast."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "I know you hate cooking."

"I love cooking with you," she said. "And I want to celebrate you, not just your work, but the man who made me fall in love with Middle English."

Anaxagoras’s eyes softened. "You know, I once wrote a paper on how the Vita Sancti Gildae used metaphor to describe the soul’s journey. I never thought I’d find someone who could understand the poetry in my work."

"Because you’ve always seen the poetry in everything," she said. "Even in your equations."

They walked back to their apartment, holding hands, the city lights glowing like ancient manuscripts on parchment.

In the kitchen, Aglaea chopped tomatoes while Anaxagoras simmered the sauce. The scent of garlic and basil filled the air.

"We had this date," Aglaea said, stirring the sauce. "where you were explaining the difference between dolce and dolcezza—sweet and sweetness."

"I thought you were going to walk out," he said, laughing. "You looked so serious."

"I was trying to understand the difference between sweet and sweetness," she said. "Just like you taught me to see the difference between text and meaning."

They clinked their wine glasses together.

"To the vernacular," Anaxagoras said. "And to the language of love."

Aglaea smiled. "To the language of us."

They ate at the small table by the window, the city lights flickering like candlelight in a medieval hall. The conversation flowed about the Canterbury Tales, the Song of Roland, and the way a single word can change the meaning of a thousand lines.

Chapter Text

On their way home, Anaxagoras paused outside a small arcade tucked between a coffee shop and a vintage bookstore. The neon sign flickered: "Lucky 7 Games – 25¢ per try."

Aglaea, still pale and wrapped in a scarf despite the mild evening, leaned against him. "What is it?" she asked, nodding toward the machine.

Anaxagoras glanced at the claw machine. Inside, dozens of plush toys sat stacked. Each a soft, oversized figure of a droma, a dinosaur-like creature with a long neck, fluffy body, and big, curious eyes. It looked like a cross between a dragon and a sauropodomorph, with protruding scales along its spine and a long, swaying tail.

He’d never seen one before. But he recognized the name. In his research on paleo-linguistics and ancient mythologies, he’d come across references to the droma—a mythical dinosaur-like creature from a lost prehistoric tradition, said to have lived in the shadowed forests of a forgotten world, where time moved slower and the bones of the earth whispered secrets.

"Look," he said, half to himself. "The droma. In some old texts, it’s described as a gentle predator—fast, intelligent, and deeply connected to the rhythms of the earth. It’s said to have walked on two legs, hunted with precision, and carried knowledge in its bones."

Aglaea squinted. "A dinosaur?"

"Not quite," he said. “But something like it. A creature of myth and memory. Some scholars think it’s a metaphor for the lost wisdom of the ancients. Something that once roamed the world but was forgotten."

She turned to him, her feverish eyes bright with curiosity. "Then maybe it’s a sign."

He raised an eyebrow. "A sign?"

"Of course," she said. "You gave a brilliant talk today. You spoke truth, even when it was hard. You fought for what you believed in. That’s what the droma does. Walks fast, carries wisdom, and never forgets."

Anaxagoras stared at the machine. The claw hovered above the plushies, waiting. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a few coins, and dropped them in.

"Why not?" he said. "I’ve got a wife who believes in me. And a dinosaur that believes in truth. What’s the worst that could happen?"

He pressed the button. The claw descended, gripped a plush droma, and lifted it, just as the lights above the machine flickered and died.

"Ah," Aglaea said, "it’s a sign. The machine doesn’t want to give it up. It knows you’re not ready to let go."

Anaxagoras laughed. "Or it knows I’m not ready to let go of it." He fed another quarter into the machine. The claw swung again, but this time, the droma slipped through its grasp.

He tried again. And again. Each attempt ended in the same frustrating result—the claw closing on the plushie, lifting it tantalizingly, then releasing it back into the pile.

Aglaea watched, a mixture of amusement and concern on her face. "You're obsessed," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder.

"It's a challenge," he insisted, dropping another coin. "A test of perseverance. A metaphor for the pursuit of knowledge."

He tried a few more times, adjusting his strategy, angling the claw differently, but nothing worked. Finally, with a sigh, he reached for his wallet. He had a small pile of quarters now, and a growing sense of absurdity.

"Maybe it’s not meant to be," Aglaea said softly.

He looked at her, then back at the droma, its feathered head tilted at a curious angle. He smiled. "Nonsense."

He fed the machine one last quarter, took a deep breath, and focused. He visualized the precise angle, the perfect grip. The claw descended, closed around the droma, and this time, it held. The machine whirred, and the plushie was deposited into the prize chute.

"Yes!" Anaxagoras exclaimed, grabbing the droma. "I told you!"

Aglaea laughed, swatting his arm playfully. "You’re ridiculous."

He held up the plushie, grinning. "Ridiculously triumphant. Now, we can go home and I can study its anatomy."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was warm. "Only if you let me name it."

"Deal," he said, looping his arm around her. "What shall we call our droma?"

"Dromie," she said promptly. "Because it’s adorable."

He chuckled, holding Dromie close. "Dromie it is."

They walked home, Anaxagoras clutching the plush dinosaur, a silly grin on his face. The city lights seemed a little brighter, the air a little warmer. He’d won a silly prize, but more importantly, he’d proven that even the most stubborn machines could be conquered with persistence and a little bit of faith.

---

That night...

Anaxagoras sat on the edge of the bed, Dromie, the plush droma, resting in his lap like a relic from a forgotten age. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the faint sound of Aglaea’s breathing from the other side of the bed.

He traced the protruding scales along Dromie’s back, running his fingers over the soft fabric. It wasn’t just a toy. It was a symbol of persistence and the absurdity of trying to win something that didn’t want to be won.

He’d been studying it like a scholar. He’d examined the stitching, the placement of the eyes, the way the tail curved. He’d even measured the length of the limbs, just to see if it matched the proportions described in the Liber Bestiarius he’d read in grad school.

"Dromie," he whispered, "you are a paradox. A dinosaur that may never have existed, yet you’re real to me now. You’re the prize I didn’t know I needed."

He smiled, then set Dromie gently on the nightstand beside his phone. He turned off the light, pulled the covers up, and lay down.

But the next morning, Aglaea woke to find him still in bed, one arm wrapped around the plushie like a child clutching a favorite toy. Dromie was pressed against his chest, its head resting on his shoulder, as if it were the only thing keeping him from floating away.

She sat up, blinking in the early sunlight. "Anaxagoras?"

He stirred, eyes still closed. "Mmm?"

"You’re hugging a dinosaur."

He didn’t open his eyes. "It’s not a dinosaur. It’s a droma. And it’s... comforting."

She laughed. "You’re not even awake."

"I’m not," he mumbled. "But I had a dream. I was teaching a class on prehistoric mythologies. And Dromie was the star of the lecture. It had a PhD in paleo-linguistics."

Aglaea rolled her eyes, but she smiled. "You’re ridiculous."

"Only when I’m sleepwalking," he said, still holding Dromie tight.

She reached over and gently patted the plushie’s head. "Well, Dromie, you’ve made it into the family. Welcome to the research team."

Anaxagoras smiled, still half-asleep, and tightened his grip. "We’ll study you together," he murmured. "You and me. Dromie."

And as the sun rose over the city, the three of them —husband, wife, and Dromie—lay in bed contentedly.

Chapter Text

The sun slanted through the studio window, casting warm light over the worktable where Aglaea stood, a measuring tape looped around her neck like a sash. She was taking Anaxagoras' measurements for his new academic robe. A custom-tailored, he'd insisted, to match the dignity of his scholarly life.

"Left shoulder to right waist," she said, circling him with the tape. "And... hold still. You’re fidgeting like a leaf in a gust of wind."

Anaxagoras stood stiffly, arms at his sides. "I'm not nervous."

"Then stop moving," she said, tugging the tape across his chest. "I need to get this right."

She stepped back, squinting at the numbers. "You've gained a half-inch since last year. Probably from all that late-night reading."

"Or the weight of existential dread," he muttered.

She laughed. "Either way, you’re getting a new coat. It’s time."

She reached for the fabric swatch—a deep indigo with subtle gold thread. She held it up against his coat.

"Wait," she said. "That’s not right."

Anaxagoras looked down. His current coat, a well-worn navy wool, had seen better decades. The collar was frayed, the cuffs slightly faded, and one of the buttons was missing.

"Is it that bad?" he asked.

"It's not just bad," she said, frowning. "It's miserable. You've been wearing this since your first tenure review. It’s seen more symposiums than I've had hot meals."

He shrugged. "It's comfortable. And it's me. I like the way it fits."

"But it's not you anymore," she said. "You've become a full professor. You deserve something that reflects that. Something that doesn't look like it’s about to fall apart in a strong breeze."

Anaxagoras hesitated. "I don't want to spend a lot. I'm not a fashion person."

"Then I'll pay for it," she said firmly. "You've been teaching, writing, defending your theories—this is a gift. From me to you."

He looked at her, surprised. "You'd do that?"

"Of course," she said. "I'm not just your wife. I'm your partner. And if you're going to wear a robe that looks like it came from a 14th-century monastery, then I'm going to make sure it's the best one."

She reached out and gently touched the worn fabric near his shoulder. "This coat has served you well. But it's time to let it go."

Anaxagoras looked down at the coat, then at her. Her eyes soft, her hand warm on his arm. "You know," he said, "I once wrote a paper on how clothing reflects identity. I never thought I'd be the one being told to change."

She smiled. "Then you're ready."

He nodded. "Alright. But I want the robe to be simple. No frills. Just a good cut, and a deep color—something that says 'I know what I'm talking about, but I don't care about being flashy.'"

Aglaea laughed. "I can do that. And I'll make sure the lining has a little something extra, maybe a hidden inscription."

He raised an eyebrow. "And what's with the hidden inscription?"

Aglaea's smile faltered for a moment. "Oh, that. I just thought it would be a nice touch. A little something to remind you of me."

Anaxagoras's expression softened. "You're always doing that, you know. Leaving little reminders of yourself in my life. It's one of the things I love about you."

Aglaea's face lit up with a smile. "I love you too."

They stood there for a moment, the sunlight catching the edges of the fabric swatch, the tape measure dangling from her fingers.

"Alright," Anaxagoras said. "Let's make it happen."

Aglaea smiled. "Good. Because I've already ordered the fabric."

He looked at her. "You didn't even ask me what color I wanted."

"I already know," she said. "It's you. And you're indigo."

Chapter Text

Aglaea sat at the sewing machine in their spare bedroom, the soft whir of the needle puncturing fabric filling the quiet afternoon. Deep indigo wool lay draped across her lap—Anaxagoras's coat, not for winter, but for his academic uniform. He wore it every day to the university: over a crisp white shirt, a navy tie, and his signature tweed blazer. It was his uniform, his identity in the lecture hall, the office, the faculty meetings.

She'd been working on it for weeks, wanting to surprise him before the semester ended. He'd been complaining about the fraying cuffs and the broken button on the left side. "It’s a minor aesthetic issue," he’d said, but Aglaea knew it was more than that. It was a symbol of his weariness, of long hours grading papers and defending theses.

She paused to adjust the collar, but as she reached for the pins, a wave of dizziness washed over her. The room tilted slightly.

"Just tired," she muttered, pressing her palm against her forehead. It came away clammy.

She tried to continue, but her hands trembled as she guided the fabric. Another wave hit, stronger this time, accompanied by a churning in her stomach. The pins scattered across the floor as she gripped the edge of the table.

"Dear?" Anaxagoras's voice drifted from downstairs. "You want tea?"

She opened her mouth to answer, but only managed a weak, "Anaxa..."

Footsteps thundered up the stairs. The door swung open, and Anaxagoras appeared, still in his reading glasses, a red pen tucked behind his ear. His expression shifted instantly from casual to concerned.

"Hey, what's wrong?" He crossed the room in three strides, kneeling beside her chair.

"I don't know. I just—everything's spinning." Aglaea leaned into him, grateful for his steadiness.

His hand found her forehead, and she noticed the ink stains on his fingers, always there during midterms. "You're burning up. How long have you felt like this?"

"Just now. I was fine a minute ago."

"Come on." He helped her stand, supporting her weight as they moved toward their bedroom. "Let's get you lying down."

"But the coat—I'm almost done with the collar—"

"The coat can wait, Aglaea. You can't." His voice had that firm, professorial tone he used when a student tried to argue about a deadline. "I'm more interested in you not collapsing."

She sank into the pillows with a sigh. "You weren't supposed to see it yet."

Anaxagoras pulled the blanket over her, a soft smile crossing his face despite his worry. He removed his glasses, setting them on the nightstand. "I'm surprised. And touched. And also calling the doctor."

"It's probably just a—"

"Humor me." He was already reaching for his phone. "Besides, you've been working yourself too hard on that thing. When's the last time you took a break?"

Aglaea closed her eyes, the room still swaying slightly. "Maybe... a few hours?"

"A few hours." He shook his head, dialing. "You're as stubborn as my students insisting they can write a twenty-page paper the night before it's due."

"Did you fail them?"

"Every single one." He pressed the phone to his ear, then reached down to squeeze her hand. "Hello, yes, I need to speak with someone about my wife..."

As he talked to the nurse, describing her symptoms with the same methodical precision he used in his lectures, Aglaea watched him through half-closed eyes. His brow was furrowed with concentration, his thumb absently stroking the back of her hand.

When he hung up, he sat on the edge of the bed. "They said it sounds like flu. Rest, fluids, and monitor your temperature. If it gets worse, we go to urgent care."

"Okay," she whispered.

"I'm getting you water and some medicine. And canceling my office hours tomorrow."

"Dear, you don't have to—"

"I absolutely do. My students can survive one day without me explaining the difference between correlation and causation for the hundredth time." He smiled. "You're more important than their statistical anxiety."

"Anaxagoras?"

He paused in the doorway. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry about the coat. I wanted it to be perfect for when you're walking across campus in the cold."

His expression softened completely. "Are you kidding? My wife is making me a coat with her own hands. That's already the best gift I've ever gotten, finished or not." He grinned. "Though I have to say, indigo's a good choice. Very distinguished. Very 'tenured professor.'"

Despite feeling miserable, Aglaea smiled. "I knew you'd peek."

"I didn't peek. I just happened to walk by and observe—purely academic curiosity." He winked. "Now rest. Doctor's orders and husband's orders, which supersede even departmental mandates."

As he disappeared downstairs, Aglaea pulled the blanket closer, already feeling better just knowing he was there. The coat could wait. Some things were more important than surprises.

Chapter Text

Three days passed, and Aglaea didn't get better.

The fever broke on the second day, but the dizziness lingered. Worse, the nausea arrived like clockwork every morning, sending her stumbling to the bathroom before Anaxagoras even woke up. She tried to hide it, but on the fourth morning, he caught her.

"That's it," he said, standing in the bathroom doorway with his arms crossed. "We're going to the doctor. This isn't the flu."

"I'm fine—"

"Aglaea, you just threw up for the third morning in a row. You're not fine."

She couldn't argue with that.

---

Dr. Patel's office smelled like antiseptic and lavender. Aglaea sat on the examination table, the paper crinkling beneath her as Anaxagoras paced near the window.

"So the flu test was negative," Dr. Patel said, reviewing her chart. "But given your symptoms—the dizziness, nausea, fatigue, and the timing..." She looked up with a knowing smile. "When was your last period?"

Aglaea blinked. "I... I don't know. A while ago? I've been so focused on finishing Anaxagoras's coat, I wasn't really paying attention—" She stopped mid-sentence as the realization hit her.

Anaxagoras stopped pacing. "Wait. Are you saying...?"

"I'd like to run a test," Dr. Patel said gently. "Just to be sure."

---

Fifteen minutes felt like fifteen hours.

Aglaea sat on the examination table, gripping Anaxagoras's hand. He'd pulled a chair close, his knee bouncing nervously.

"What if it's positive?" she whispered.

"Then it's positive," he said, though his voice shook slightly. "We'll figure it out."

"We haven't even talked about—I mean, we said someday, but—"

"Hey." He squeezed her hand. "Look at me."

She met his eyes.

"Whatever that test says, we're okay. You and me. We're okay."

A knock at the door made them both jump. Dr. Patel entered with a smile that told them everything before she even spoke.

"Congratulations," she said warmly. "You're pregnant."

The room went silent except for the hum of the fluorescent lights.

Aglaea stared at the doctor, then at Anaxagoras, whose mouth had fallen open. "I'm... we're...?"

"About six weeks along, by my estimate," Dr. Patel continued. "That explains all your symptoms. The dizziness, the morning sickness—completely normal for the first trimester."

"A baby," Anaxagoras said, his voice barely above a whisper. Then louder, with growing wonder: "We're having a baby."

Aglaea felt tears prickling her eyes from shock, joy, and the overwhelming enormity of it all. "I thought I had the flu."

"A very common misconception," Dr. Patel said with a chuckle. "I'll give you two a moment. Then we'll discuss prenatal vitamins and schedule your first official appointment."

When the door closed, Anaxagoras let out a breathless laugh. "A baby. Aglaea, we're having a baby."

"I know. I'm terrified."

"Me too." He stood, cupping her face in his hands. "But also... I'm really happy. Are you happy?"

She searched his face—the man she'd married, the man she'd been making a coat for because she loved the way he looked in indigo wool, the man who'd held her hair back three mornings in a row without complaint. "Yeah," she said, tears spilling over. "I'm really happy."

He kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her lips. "Our kid's going to have the coolest mom. She makes coats and everything."

Aglaea laughed through her tears. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Never. Though you might want to make it a little bigger."

"Why?"

He grinned, placing a hand gently on his still-flat stomach. "Dad bod's coming. I'm going to need the extra room."

She swatted his arm, laughing. "You're impossible."

"And you love me anyway."

"I really do."

As they sat there, holding each other in the sterile examination room, Aglaea thought about the unfinished coat waiting at home. She'd been so worried about completing it and making something perfect for him.

But now they were making something together—something far more important, far more terrifying, and far more wonderful than any coat could ever be.

"Anaxagoras?"

"Yeah?"

"I might need help finishing that coat. My hands are going to be pretty full soon."

He pulled back to look at her, eyes shining. "Our hands. Our hands are going to be full."

"Our hands," she agreed, and kissed him again.

Chapter Text

Twelfth week.

Aglaea stood in front of the bathroom mirror, turning sideways. Still nothing visible, but she could feel the difference—a subtle fullness, a tenderness that hadn't been there before.

"You're staring again," Anaxagoras called from the bedroom.

"I'm not staring. I'm observing."

"You've been 'observing' for ten minutes." He appeared in the doorway, holding up the indigo coat. "Look what I found."

She smiled. "I'd forgotten about that."

"Liar. You've been eyeing it every time you walk past the sewing room." He held it against himself. "I tried it on. The collar's perfect, by the way."

"It's not finished—"

"So finish it with me. This weekend. We'll make it a project." He draped it over his arm. "Besides, you need something to do besides googling 'is it normal to cry at dish soap commercials.'"

"That was one time!"

"It was three times. Different commercials."

She threw a towel at him, laughing despite herself.

---

Sixteenth week.

"There." Dr. Patel moved the ultrasound wand across Aglaea's barely-rounded belly. "Hear that?"

The room filled with a sound like galloping horses—fast, strong, impossibly alive.

Anaxagoras's hand tightened around Aglaea's. "That's...?"

"That's your baby's heartbeat," Dr. Patel confirmed.

Aglaea couldn't speak. She stared at the grainy black and white image on the screen, at the tiny form that was somehow both abstract and utterly real. Their baby. Moving, living, and growing inside her.

"Everything looks perfect," Dr. Patel said. "Good size, strong heartbeat. Would you like to know the sex?"

Aglaea and Anaxagoras looked at each other. They'd discussed this a dozen times, changing their minds with each conversation.

"No," they said in unison, then laughed.

"We want to be surprised," Aglaea added.

"More surprised than we already were," Anaxagoras said, earning another laugh.

In the car afterward, Aglaea held the ultrasound photos like they were made of glass. "It's real now," she whispered. "Before, it was just... feeling sick and tired. But now it's real."

"It was always real, Aglaea." He reached over, placing his hand on her stomach. "But yeah. Now it's really real."

---

Twentieth week.

"I can't reach the pedal anymore."

Aglaea sat at the sewing machine, the indigo coat finally spread out before her. Her bump—no longer subtle—pressed against the table's edge.

"Here." Anaxagoras pulled the chair back, adjusting the height. "Better?"

"A little." She guided the fabric through, completing the final seam on the lining. "There. Done. After five months, your coat is officially finished."

He lifted it, examining her work. The collar sat perfectly, the seams were straight, the lining smooth. "It's incredible, dear. Really."

"Try it on."

He slipped it over his shoulders. It fit perfectly—tailored, elegant, exactly as she'd envisioned. "How do I look?"

"Distinguished. Handsome." She smiled. "Like someone's father."

His expression softened. He knelt beside her chair, eye level with her bump. "Hey in there. Your mom made me this coat. She's pretty talented. You're lucky, you got the good genes."

"Stop." But Aglaea was laughing, running her fingers through his hair.

"I'm serious. I can barely sew a button. You're going to have to teach this kid everything."

"We'll teach them together."

A flutter rippled across her belly, distinct and unmistakable. Aglaea gasped, grabbing Anaxagoras's hand and pressing it to the spot. "Did you feel that?"

They waited, barely breathing. Then another flutter, stronger this time.

"Oh my God," Anaxagoras whispered. "That's them. That's our baby."

Aglaea nodded, tears streaming down her face. "They're saying hello."

He stayed there, kneeling, hand on her belly, until the movements stopped. When he finally stood, his eyes were wet too.

"Best coat fitting ever," he said, voice thick with emotion.

---

Twenty-eighth week.

"I look like I swallowed a basketball."

Aglaea stood sideways in front of the mirror, her belly now unmistakably round. She'd had to buy new clothes—soft, stretchy things that accommodated her changing shape.

"You look beautiful," Anaxagoras said from the bed, where he was assembling a crib. "Also, does this piece go here or here?"

"Here. And I look like a whale."

"A beautiful whale."

She threw a pillow at him, but she was smiling. The truth was, she felt beautiful. Tired, yes. Her back ached, her feet swelled, and she had to pee every twenty minutes. But there was something miraculous about it too—carrying life, feeling the baby move throughout the day, watching Anaxagoras's face light up every time he felt a kick.

"Done!" He stood back from the crib, looking proud. "One baby bed, fully assembled."

"You put the side on backward."

"...I did not."

"Anaxagoras."

He looked closer. "Okay, I did. But I'll fix it!" He grabbed the instructions again, muttering about unclear diagrams.

Aglaea lowered herself into the rocking chair they'd bought last week—slowly, carefully, one hand supporting her belly. The nursery was coming together. Pale yellow walls, white furniture, a mobile with little stars hanging above the crib.

On the shelf sat the indigo coat, folded carefully. She'd insisted Anaxagoras keep it in here.

"Why?" he'd asked.

"So the baby knows you before they even arrive. They'll see it, smell you on it, know you're here."

He'd kissed her then, long and soft, one hand cradling her belly.

Now, watching him struggle with crib instructions, she felt a kick against her ribs—strong, insistent.

"Someone's awake," she said.

Anaxagoras abandoned the crib immediately, crossing to kneel beside her chair. "Hey, troublemaker. Taking after your mom already, huh? Keeping me on my toes?"

Another kick, right where his hand rested.

"They know your voice," Aglaea said softly.

"Good. I want them to know I'm here. That I'm ready." He looked up at her. "I mean, I'm terrified. But I'm ready."

"Me too."

---

Thirty-sixth week.

"I can't see my feet."

"You have very nice feet. Trust me."

"I can't tie my shoes."

"That's what I'm here for." Anaxagoras knelt, tying her sneakers with ease. "Anything else?"

"I can't sleep. I can't get comfortable. I have heartburn constantly. And I'm pretty sure this baby is training for the Olympics in there."

He stood, pulling her into a gentle hug, or as much of a hug as her belly allowed. "Just a few more weeks."

"Four weeks. Twenty-eight days. Six hundred and seventy-two hours."

"But who's counting?" He kissed her temple. "Come on. Let's walk. Dr. Patel said it helps."

They walked through the neighborhood slowly. Aglaea's hand resting on her belly. The autumn air was crisp, leaves crunching underfoot. Anaxagoras wore the indigo coat, finally getting use out of it as the weather turned cold.

"I was thinking," he said, "about names."

"We've been through a hundred names."

"I know. But I keep coming back to—" He paused. "Actually, never mind. We'll know when we meet them."

"When we meet them," Aglaea echoed. It still felt surreal, even now. In a few weeks, they'd be parents. Their baby would be here, real and tangible, no longer just kicks and ultrasound photos.

A sharp twinge made her stop walking.

"You okay?" Anaxagoras asked immediately.

"Yeah. Just Braxton Hicks. Dr. Patel said they'd get more frequent." She breathed through it. "I'm fine."

But as they walked home, Aglaea couldn't shake the feeling that "fine" was about to change—that everything was about to change.

And she was ready.

Scared, exhausted, excited, overwhelmed, but ready.

They both were.

Chapter Text

Thirty-ninth week, 2:47 AM

Aglaea woke to wetness and a dull ache low in her back.

For a moment, she lay still, disoriented. Then another sensation, a tightening across her belly, unmistakable and insistent.

"Anaxa." Her voice came out steady despite her racing heart. "Anaxa, wake up."

He stirred, mumbling something incoherent.

"Anaxagoras." Firmer now.

His eyes snapped open. "What? What's wrong?"

"My water broke. And I'm having contractions."

He sat bolt upright, suddenly wide awake. "Okay. Okay. This is—okay." He scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over his own feet. "The bag. Where's the hospital bag?"

"Closet. By the door."

"Right. Closet." He grabbed it, then turned back to her. "How far apart are the contractions?"

"I don't know. I just woke up."

"Okay. We time them. Dr. Patel said—what did she say? Five minutes apart? Or was it seven?"

"Five minutes, lasting one minute each, for one hour." Aglaea swung her legs over the side of the bed, breathing through another contraction. "But Anaxa? I think we should go now."

"Now? But the timing—"

"Now."

Something in her voice made him move. "Okay. Now. Let me help you."

---

3:15 AM - In the Car

Anaxagoras gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, driving exactly the speed limit despite the empty roads.

"You can go faster," Aglaea said, breathing through another contraction.

"I'm not getting pulled over while you're in labor."

"I'm not going to have the baby in the car—" She gasped, gripping the door handle. "Okay, maybe drive a little faster."

He pressed the accelerator.

"I'm scared," she admitted quietly, between contractions.

His hand found hers. "Me too. But we've got this. You've got this."

"What if something goes wrong?"

"Nothing's going to go wrong. Dr. Patel said everything's perfect. The baby's perfect. You're perfect." He squeezed her hand. "And in a few hours, we're going to meet our kid."

Another contraction hit, stronger this time. Aglaea squeezed back, hard enough to make him wince.

"Almost there," he said, pulling into the hospital parking lot. "Almost there, Aglaea."

---

4:30 AM - Labor and Delivery

"You're at six centimeters," the nurse said, checking the monitor. "Good progress. Dr. Patel's on her way."

Aglaea nodded, too focused on breathing to respond. The contractions were coming faster now, each one a wave that demanded her complete attention.

Anaxagoras stood beside her, letting her grip his hand, murmuring encouragement. He'd changed into scrubs, looking both ridiculous and endearing.

"You look like a real doctor," she managed between contractions.

"I feel like I'm going to pass out."

"Don't you dare."

"I won't. Promise." But his face was pale.

Dr. Patel arrived, calm and efficient. "How are we doing?"

"It hurts," Aglaea said through gritted teeth.

"I know. You're doing great. Let's check your progress."

---

7:15 AM

"I can't do this anymore."

"Yes, you can." Anaxagoras wiped her forehead with a cool cloth. "You're the strongest person I know."

"I'm serious. I can't—" Another contraction cut her off.

"You're at nine centimeters," Dr. Patel said. "Almost there, Aglaea. Almost time to push."

"I don't want to push. I want to go home."

"Little late for that," Anaxagoras said gently, earning a glare.

"If I wasn't in labor, I'd hit you."

"I know. You can hit me later. I'll let you."

Despite everything, she almost laughed.

---

8:42 AM

"Okay, Aglaea," Dr. Patel said, positioned at the foot of the bed. "Next contraction, I need you to push. Big push, as hard as you can."

Aglaea nodded, exhausted beyond words. She'd been pushing for over an hour, and every muscle in her body screamed in protest.

"You've got this," Anaxagoras whispered, his arm around her shoulders. "One more. Just one more."

The contraction built, peaked. Aglaea pushed with everything she had left.

"Good! I can see the head!" Dr. Patel's voice was excited. "One more push, maybe two. Your baby's almost here."

"Almost here," Aglaea repeated, finding strength she didn't know she had.

Another contraction. Another push.

And then—

A cry. High, indignant, absolutely perfect.

"It's a girl!" Dr. Patel announced, lifting a tiny, squirming baby. "You have a daughter."

Time stopped.

Aglaea watched through tears as they placed the baby on her chest—impossibly small, impossibly real, covered in vernix and blood and absolutely beautiful.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "Oh my God, Anaxa, look at her."

Anaxagoras was crying openly, one hand gently touching their daughter's tiny head. "She's perfect. Dear, she's perfect."

The baby's cries softened as she felt her mother's warmth, her tiny fist curling against Aglaea's skin.

"Hi, sweetheart," Aglaea murmured, her voice breaking. "Hi. We've been waiting for you."

---

10:30 AM

The room was quiet now, cleaned up, peaceful. Aglaea lay propped against pillows, their daughter—seven pounds, four ounces, twenty inches long—swaddled and sleeping in her arms.

Anaxagoras sat beside the bed, still in his scrubs, unable to take his eyes off them.

"She has your nose," Aglaea said softly.

"She has your chin."

"She's perfect."

"She really is." He reached out, stroking the baby's cheek with one finger. "Have you thought about names?"

They'd debated for months, never settling on anything that felt right. But now, looking at their daughter's face, Aglaea knew.

"Eucleia," she said. "It means 'good glory.'"

Anaxagoras tested it. "Eucleia." A smile spread across his face. "It's perfect. She's Eucleia."

As if hearing her name, the baby stirred, making a small sound.

"Hey, Eucleia," Anaxagoras whispered. "Welcome to the world, little one. I'm your dad. That's your mom. And we love you so much already."

Aglaea felt fresh tears sliding down her cheeks—happy tears this time. "I can't believe she's here. After all those months of wondering, worrying, waiting... she's actually here."

"She is." He leaned over, kissing Aglaea's forehead, then Eucleia's. "Our family."

"Our family," Aglaea echoed.

Through the window, morning sunlight streamed in, painting everything gold. Somewhere at home, an indigo coat hung in a nursery, waiting. But here, now, they had everything they needed.

Their daughter. Their love. Their beginning.

Eucleia yawned, a tiny, perfect yawn, and settled deeper into sleep.

"Thank you," Anaxagoras said suddenly.

"For what?"

"For her. For this. For being you." His voice was thick with emotion. "I know it wasn't easy—"

"It was worth it." Aglaea looked down at Eucleia, at the tiny miracle in her arms. "Every second was worth it."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching their daughter sleep, marveling at her tiny fingers, her rosebud mouth, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath.

Outside, the world continued on. But in this room, time stood still.

A family of three, just beginning their story.