The Aftercare Nest – a kingdom of mismatched blankets, cold tea, and two idiots who can't stop bickering long enough to admit they're already holding hands over your sleeping form.

Miles Edgeworth, still in his rumpled undershirt, hair defying all professionalism, is not staring at you like you hung the moon. He's simply observing. With his thumb tracing slow, absent circles on your shoulder. For scientific purposes. Obviously.

Phoenix Wright, face squished into the pillow, arm draped possessively across your waist, is not crying. He just has feelings. A lot of them. And they're all your fault. He'll whisper it into your neck until you wake up and tell him to shut up. You won't. He knows you won't.

You? You're in the middle. Smushed. Loved. Safe. One hand curled into Miles's undershirt. One palm pressed against Phoenix's heartbeat. Your breathing has synced with theirs—slow, deep, together.

They're still arguing. Quietly. About who gets to make you breakfast in the morning. About whose side of the bed you're technically on. About who loves you more (Miles says that's a "logical fallacy"; Phoenix says "YOUR FACE IS A LOGICAL FALLACY").

But their hands never leave you.

And when you shift—just a little, just a sigh—they both freeze.

Then melt.

And whisper, in unison: "We've got you."