Mirio always found comfort in books.
The rustle of pages, the faint scent of ink, the quiet hush that came with sinking into another world—it was his favorite part of the day. Each evening, he curled into the corner of his couch with a cup of tea and a thick tome, usually something dense like Enchanting Through Theory or A Beginner's Guide to Passive Defensive Wardcraft.
Lily never interrupted.
She'd sit beside him, soft and still, like a living pillow made of cool slime, resting her cheek on his arm while his fingers turned pages. She never asked questions. Never tried to read over his shoulder.
Until one day, she reached out with a tentacle… and flipped the page for him.
He blinked.
She looked up at him, head tilted.
"You want to read?" he asked gently.
She nodded once.
Her green eyes sparkled.
That was how the lessons began.
---
They started slow.
He wrote single letters on parchment in big, bold strokes: A, B, C. She mimicked them by shaping her fingers into crude slime versions. Her gooey hand would extend, stretch, and then bend into the shape—sometimes successfully. Sometimes not.
One time, she made an "O" so round and perfect it floated off her fingertip like a soap bubble.
He laughed and caught it. "That's a better 'O' than mine."
She beamed.
Over the next few days, they moved to words: sun, hug, slime, Mirio. She loved that one. She practiced his name constantly, molding her hand into the letters and poking him every time she spelled it.
The real breakthrough came when she learned "you" and "me."
She'd tap his chest. "You." Then touch herself. "Me."
Then wrap both arms around him and whisper: "Mine."
He had to pause the lesson after that one.
---
One afternoon, Mirio returned home from the market and stopped dead in the doorway.
His walls were glowing.
Across every surface—cabinet doors, hallway stone, the back of the couch—were vivid, glowing drawings, sketched in glimmering lines of transparent, colored slime.
He dropped his bag.
"...Lily?"
She peeked around the corner, cheeks puffed with excitement, her entire body glistening with pride. A small book rested in her hands—a journal he'd given her a few days ago with blank pages.
She opened it slowly.
Inside were more drawings—stick figures of her and him, made of soft jelly and messy ink, holding hands, sharing the bath, cuddling under the stars. One page had a perfect sketch of him asleep, drooling slightly, with her resting as a blanket over his body.
He flipped another page.
Words.
Clumsy. Misspelled. Adorable.
"MiReo smel like tee."
"Lily lik cuddle."
"Today hug good."
"He read. I lisen."
"Love."
He looked up.
She stood before him now, tentacle-hair wiggling shyly. A small drop of purple had formed under one eye—embarrassment? Worry?
"Did you… draw all this?" he asked softly.
She nodded.
Then she stepped forward and extended one finger.
It elongated like taffy, glowing faintly green, and she drew a heart on his chest. The glow faded into his shirt, the outline staying just long enough for him to place his hand over it.
His throat tightened.
She reached up and gently touched his cheek. Then tapped her own chest—right over where her core shimmered beneath her translucent skin.
"You."
Then she opened her arms.
He didn't hesitate.
He stepped into the hug, and her body melted around him like warm honey, her arms forming a soft loop, her chest resting gently against his. Her heart beat against him—slow, soothing, steady.
He kissed her forehead.
"You're amazing," he whispered. "You didn't just learn letters. You told a story."
She blinked up at him.
"Us," she whispered.
He felt a warm sting in his eyes.
Then she slowly turned, raised her hands to the biggest stretch of open wall in the living room, and began to draw.
He watched as glowing trails of slime traced shapes in the air—his silhouette, small and simple, seated with a book. Then a larger, soft figure—her—molding around him. Then a heart over their heads.
Below it, she slowly, carefully, wrote the words:
"Lily + Mirio"
Then she turned around, stepped back into his arms, and quietly whispered:
"I Love You."