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The first time Miles Edgeworth ever stole something—truly stolen, not out of survival or strategy, not because it was necessary to feed a crew or barter for repairs, but from a quiet, unmistakable impulse to take something simply because he wanted it—he was twenty-seven years old. A fact that, on its face, sounds almost absurd. Especially when one considers he had been living as a pirate for nearly three years by then, sailing under a banner most civilised ports would recognise as a death sentence, were they not “pirate-friendly”. He had crossed borders under false names, fired on imperial ships, and helped smuggle fugitives through enemy waters. And yet, never once had he stolen for himself. He had always seen theft as a means to an end, not the end itself.
That was true of Phoenix’s and his crew, too. For all their “unruly appearances” and “loose moral codes”, as the Navy soldiers once described them, they didn’t steal for sport. There was a purpose to their rebellion. Intent behind the chaos. Food, medicine, liberty—things worth fighting for, worth claiming. Not trinkets. Not baubles. Certainly not for the sake of possessing something beautiful—something useless—simply because it caught the light in the right way and made the heart leap for reasons too quiet to explain.
So last night, when Miles found himself lingering too long at an abandoned market stall just past the square—its table half-collapsed, cloths faded from sun and salt, but still dotted with forgotten wares—he was startled by his own hesitation. By the odd pull of it. There was no one nearby, no merchant shouting deals, no guards patrolling. The harbour town had long since emptied, its people driven inland by conflict or called back to sea. And yet, as he passed by, something small and golden caught his eye. He didn’t even register what his fingers were doing until the weight of it settled in his palm—cool, delicate, inconspicuous enough to disappear into the pocket of his coat.
He hadn’t even fully seen it. He’d just taken it. One smooth movement, thoughtless and swift, like the body acting before the mind could intervene. His heart had pounded furiously as he walked away, steps a little too fast, face warm with something like shame and exhilaration tangled together. It wasn’t until much later, when he turned the objects over in the privacy of the captain’s quarters, that he realised how unnecessary the flush of guilt had been. The vendor’s stall had been abandoned for months. No one had owned it. No one had claimed the jewellery left behind. It had been left to the elements, to dust and time and indifferent passersby. And yet Miles had “stolen” it anyway, as if he were some reckless boy swiping sweets from a windowsill.
Now, standing in the doorway of the balcony, he feels the pair of small, polished rings like an anchor in his pocket. Heavy not because of their size or weight, but because of what they mean. There is something thrilling about it—yes, even now. Not the thrill of danger, but of certainty. Of knowing, without question, what he wants. The theft itself had been impulsive, but the reason behind it had been sitting in him for a long time. Miles had known, for months if not longer, that Phoenix Wright is the person he wants to share his life with. It had snuck up on him gradually, then all at once—somewhere between the arguments that turned into laughter, the long nights keeping watch together, and the way Phoenix offered comfort without fanfare or pity when Miles had none to give himself.
It should’ve been impossible. Phoenix, with his admirable infuriating optimism, the endearing annoying mess on his head he dares to call hair, his stubborn insistence on finding good in people who didn’t deserve it. The same man who, three years ago, Miles had nearly run through with a blade on the shore of a remote island—strangers, enemies, then reluctant allies in a world that seemed to have forgotten them for over a week. Phoenix had stood firm even then, daring to call a truce, daring to suggest that they had a better chance of surviving together. Miles, to his own amazement, had listened. And he’d been listening ever since.
He had listened when Phoenix rambled endlessly over the fire, his voice jumping from loud and energetic to quiet and sentimental, almost melancholic. He had listened when Phoenix told him to get onto his ship all the while promising his crew— their family now—that he would watch his every move if it meant that he gets to stay and help them win. He had listened when Phoenix threw the most ridiculous idea at him and continued listening, even though reluctantly and with a few sarcastic comments, when he explained the plan in detail. Miles went much further than just listening then; he took part in it.
Before he truly realised it, Miles had found himself hunched over navigational charts alongside Phoenix, Godot, and Simon—occasionally even Lana joining their ranks—poring over strategies and routes, weighing the most effective points of attack. He shared what he knew: the Navy’s blind spots, the cracks in its formation, and, most importantly, the intimate weaknesses of General von Karma—insights only someone with the misfortune of close proximity could offer. Meanwhile, Kay’s reports arrived daily, her coded messages sketching out the shifting situation in the Kingdom with admirable clarity.
He became part of the machinery. Somehow, seamlessly, Miles Edgeworth went from being an outsider to standing on the deck in full view, commanding attention as he instructed the crew in the art of disciplined warfare. He showed them how to read an opponent, how to use the Navy’s rigidity against it, and how to fight with precision rather than force. The transformation, to most, seemed sudden—but to Miles, it was long overdue.
The first time he called the Queen’s soldiers the enemy, there had been a moment of silence. Not dramatic—just still. The kind that presses into your chest like a held breath. Even Phoenix had faltered, his expression flickering with something unreadable. No one had expected Miles to cast away the life he’d been raised in so decisively. But he had. Without protest. Without regret. And with that single word, everything shifted. Not just between him and Phoenix, but between Miles and the entire crew. He was no longer the former officer to be eyed with caution or tolerated with suspicion. From that moment on, he was theirs. And somewhere deep in his marrow, Miles knew: this was where he truly belonged.
And so, when the first attack came, they were ready.
In fact, Miles had the audacity to believe they were several steps ahead of General von Karma himself—and he was right. That small truth, petty and satisfying, settled in his chest with a bitter kind of triumph. Even now, the memory of it stirs a childish spite, sharp as a knife. But victory did not come without a price. Complications arose, as they always do, in the moments one can least afford them.
That von Karma would stoop to dishonourable tactics was no surprise. It had always been his way—subterfuge, deception, cruelty masquerading as order.
And yet nothing prepared Miles for the moment he stood before him—accuser to executioner—shouldering every wound, every betrayal, every lie. The murder of Gregory Edgeworth. The slave trades Miles had unknowingly authorised aboard his own ship. The years of manipulation and eroded self-worth. And still, von Karma’s cruelty extended further. He lashed out with words aimed to gut. He insulted the crew, Phoenix, the memory of his father—and Franziska, too, the girl who was as much the man’s daughter as she was Miles’ sister, weaponised now like one more shard of glass Miles was expected to swallow.
Miles focused on him with a deadly calm, his gaze sharpened by grief and intention. This was it—the reckoning. The justice long denied. What he failed to notice, in his singular resolve, was von Karma’s subtle hand signal. What he noticed even less was the soldier who moved in behind him with perfect, silent precision.
By the time Miles turned, the blade was already in his side.
The pain was sharp and immediate, a blooming fire beneath his ribs. The force of it knocked him to the ground with a sickening thud, the breath stolen clean from his lungs. He remembered very little of what followed—just flickers, disjointed. The taste of blood. The pale blur of sky. But he remembers Phoenix—his voice breaking into ragged desperation, roaring with fury and grief, arms wrapped tightly around him, trembling hands pressing at the wound in vain. There had been screaming. Not just shouting, but a raw, strangled sound that bordered on wailing. And Phoenix had held him close as if trying to anchor him to life itself.
The next three weeks passed in fog. He had been spirited away to von Karma’s private clinic—an ironic kind of sanctuary—by Franziska herself. She had hesitated, yes, but when faced with the truth of her father’s crimes laid bare in blood and bone, she chose him. Without a word of protest. Even if her eyes never quite stopped mourning the man she thought she knew.
That month was the longest and most agonising of Miles’ life—not only because of the pain, but because of the silence. He knew nothing of Phoenix, of the crew, of the war. Had they survived? Had the Queen struck back with brutal, imperial force? Had his betrayal been in vain? Had hope been crushed beneath the gleam of the Crown’s polished heel?
It was a quiet agony, the not-knowing. And when Franziska finally declared him fit to rise, he barely recognised the words. She tossed him a bundle of fresh clothes—simple, clean, unfamiliar—and instructed him with her usual clipped authority to meet her at the harbour just before sundown. “Not earlier, and not later,” she added, the steel in her voice leaving no room for argument.
Their journey there was quiet. No words passed between them, but none were needed. Franziska understood Miles’ choice, even if she didn’t agree. Perhaps she never would. Still, she insisted on speaking with Phoenix herself—negotiating new terms, drafting a new understanding, forcing her way into the future Miles had chosen. Her approval, apparently, came with conditions.
The moment they reached the ship, Miles knew Phoenix hadn’t been told.
He spotted him on the deck—worn down by the wind, deep in conversation with Franziska’s troops, his shoulders loose with fatigue or distraction—and the sight of him made Miles ache. The resignation on Phoenix’s face, the tiredness in his stance, said everything. He wasn’t expecting Miles. Had perhaps given up hoping.
Which made it all the more satisfying when Miles crept up behind him, ghost-quiet, and pressed the dull side of his blade gently to his throat. “When will you learn to never let your guard down, Phoenix?”
Miles had never seen someone spin around so fast in his life.
And he had never seen anyone look at him with so much unfiltered longing, so much stunned relief and love and sheer joy. He had no time to brace himself. Phoenix surged forward and crashed their mouths together in a kiss that was all teeth and heat and urgency, two calloused hands cupping his jaw like he might break apart otherwise. The force of it nearly knocked him over.
But the moment he caught up—when his mind finally stopped reeling—everything inside him gave way. The dam burst. Another pair of hands, pale and shaking, clawed at the back of Phoenix’s waistcoat, and for a moment, there was no crew, no harbour, no war—just the two of them, held together by breath and memory and the impossible relief of reunion.
The embarrassment came later. Apparently, they’d given quite the show—not just to the crew, but to Franziska’s troops as well. And still, if given the choice, Miles would do it all again. That humiliation, fleeting and warm and very human, was proof that it had all been real.
And tonight as he thinks back to that moment with fondness, his opinion remains unchanged. Especially when the man responsible for it stands just a few feet away, leaning against the railing of the balcony with an absent smile, seemingly unaware of what he has done to him. The moonlight, accompanied by the faint glow of the lantern from inside the Captain’s quarters, catches in Phoenix’s black curls, silvering it at the edges as if the shine it already gives his eyes—half-lidded and soft with exhaustion of the day—isn’t disarming enough.
At last, Miles pushes away from the doorframe, slow and careful, making sure not to startle the man he’s been quietly watching. He doesn’t announce his presence with words at first; instead, he crosses the short distance with the steady, deliberate grace that comes so naturally to him now—fluid movements softened by years of shared space and a quiet understanding that no gesture needs to be rushed. When he finally reaches him, he places a hand at the small of Phoenix’s back, gentle in its weight, like the touch itself is an offering. “Phoenix,” he murmurs, a greeting as much as a reassurance.
Phoenix doesn’t turn to look at him, not immediately. He remains as he is, forearms folded along the balcony railing, gaze still cast over the dark stretch of horizon where the sea meets the stars. His voice, when it comes, is low and amused, laced with that teasing tone Miles has long since learned to interpret as affection. “Took you long enough.”
Miles blinks. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve been standing in the doorway for a while,” Phoenix snorts, not bothering to conceal the smirk that ghosts across his face. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. You’re terrible at being subtle—or discrete, for that matter.”
“Ngh, I wasn’t trying to…” Miles stumbles, briefly flustered, caught between the truth and the sharp awareness that Phoenix sees through him far too easily these days. The hand at Phoenix’s back tightens slightly, a reflexive tug, affectionate and grounding. “It’s not something I’ve been subtle about for a long time, or so I’m told.”
Finally, Phoenix turns his head, just enough to meet his eyes. That gaze—familiar and warm as sun-drenched wood—draws toward Miles the way sunflowers lean toward the light. “Oh, trust me,” he replies softly, a playful edge to his voice even beneath the exhaustion that lines his features. “Even I know that.”
A silence slips between them, easy and companionable, until Phoenix yawns, jaw cracking with the motion, and without missing a beat Miles follows suit, his own yawn pulled from him by some sympathetic thread neither of them can resist. He sees the corner of Phoenix’s eyes crinkle just slightly, and already Miles knows—knows that whatever Phoenix says next will be some deliberately infuriating remark designed to needle him, simply because he can.
“Tired already?” Phoenix murmurs, grinning. “Thought you’d hold out for a little longer.”
“Oh, please,” Miles huffs, though there’s no real heat behind it—just the familiar rhythm of banter, the cadence of something they’ve rehearsed into perfection. “There’s no such thing as tired for me. I’d have thought you knew me better by now.”
“Are you sure? Because you look pretty tired to me,” Phoenix quips, that cheeky grin never faltering, eyes dancing in the dim starlight like he’s said something truly clever.
“I’m positive, ” Miles retorts, rolling his eyes with theatrical disdain. “If anyone here looks tired, it’s the captain himself. What an appalling example you set for the crew.”
“Now, now, General,” Phoenix says, dragging the title out with mock formality as he leans forward, head resting on his folded arms, voice rich with teasing warning. “I advise you to watch your words. I could have you walking the plank before sunrise.”
“You wouldn’t,” Miles replies simply, a statement offered with the full weight of certainty behind it.
“Oh?” Phoenix raises a brow. “You sound awfully confident about that.”
“That’s because I am. Unlike someone, I’m not one for bluffing,” Miles says with a low chuckle, earning himself a sharp jab to the shoulder. He returns it almost immediately, pushing back just as hard until he can hear a soft laugh leave Phoenix’s lips. The back and forth doesn’t last for too long though, the exhaustion turning them much too docile for their usual antics. Instead, they stay like this, side to side and leaning into each other as they bask in their shared warmth and the calm of the night. “Not only are you far too fond of me to do something so drastic, but I’m fairly certain the crew would mutiny on the spot.”
Phoenix doesn’t bother denying it. Instead, he lets out a laugh—unguarded and loud, wheezy at the edges, the kind that always manages to bubble up from somewhere deep in his chest. He instinctively lifts a hand to cover his mouth, muffling the sound out of habit more than necessity, likely out of consideration for the crew sleeping below. A few years ago, Miles might have found the sound undignified—too loud, too unrefined, too human. But now, it’s one of his favourite things. One of those rare sounds that grounds him instantly, reminds him that all this—the ship, the stars, the war behind them and the life ahead—feels real because Phoenix is in it.
“Phoenix…” Miles breathes his name like it’s something precious, the sound barely carried on the night wind. His fingers trace the soft, worn fabric of Phoenix’s waistcoat, running in slow, rhythmic strokes up and down, as if memorising it by touch alone. There’s a swell in his chest, something too large and full to contain for long. He doesn’t think he can contain it tonight.
“You’ve been really liking my name tonight,” Phoenix murmurs, his voice gentler now, teasing in the same way one might nudge a sleeping cat—fondly, carefully, with the unspoken understanding that what lies beneath is something cherished. “Yeah? What’s up?”
Miles takes Phoenix’s hand with the gentleness of someone handling something beloved and long-lost, his thumb moving in slow, thoughtful patterns over the faded scars that cross the skin like old cartography—each line familiar, each mark quietly cherished. The callouses there have become a part of him, as intrinsic to Phoenix as the laugh that curls from his throat or the furrow of his brow when deep in thought. “You know I love you more than life itself, don’t you?” He asks, voice low, the words slipping out with a quiet vulnerability that makes them feel as fragile and precious as breath in winter air.
Phoenix’s response is immediate, but no less surprised. His eyes widen, those animated brows launching skyward in disbelief, as if the very idea of Miles needing to ask such a thing is unthinkable. “What? Of course I do,” he says, and the words fall from his lips with such natural ease and clarity of feeling that Miles’ heart stutters, caught for a moment in that warm, overwhelming pulse of joy. There’s no hesitation in Phoenix’s tone—only fondness, amusement, and that unwavering trust that always makes Miles feel like the most fortunate fool on earth. “Is everything alright, dear?”
“Certainly,” Miles murmurs, a little too quickly, but he steadies himself with the contact between them. “You are very dear to me,” he continues, voice softening into something more reverent. “You’ve been dear to me since the moment I met you, even if I couldn’t admit it— wouldn’t admit it. In fact, it terrified me. The strength of what I felt for you that day we got stranded on the island… It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I didn’t know how to bear it.” His eyes stay fixed on their joined hands, his thumb still tracing the lifelines that have guided them both here. “It took time before it stopped being frightening. Too much time. And I could’ve lost you—almost did —more times than I can count.”
Phoenix swallows, his voice suddenly caught in his throat, unable to interrupt. “Miles?” he whispers, breathless. There’s something different in the air now, something delicate and electric. A change in the wind.
Miles inhales slowly, as though to anchor himself. “I don’t want to wait anymore,” he says, more firmly now, his voice taking on a clarity that makes Phoenix’s heart pound. “Not because I’m afraid. Not because it’s too soon or too uncertain. Especially not because the future is unclear,” he breathes, suddenly feeling that there isn’t nearly enough air out there for him. “I want you, Phoenix Wright. I want you even when the world is shifting under our feet. I want my devotion to be something that exists regardless of whether tomorrow will come.” He pauses, drawing Phoenix’s hand upward and slowly turning it palm-up, the motion reverent, almost ceremonial. And then, as the moonlight catches it, he presses something small and cold into Phoenix’s hand—a glint of polished gold, unassuming yet impossibly heavy with meaning. “Will you do me the honour of becoming my husband?” He asks, quiet and hopeful, his voice just barely above a whisper.
Phoenix doesn’t answer—not right away. For a long, staggering moment, he simply stares, eyes darting from the ring in his palm to the man in front of him, as though trying to reconcile the surreal with the real. The tears come suddenly, pouring over his cheeks before he even notices them, carving hot trails down skin already flushed from emotion. His lips part, but no words rise to meet the moment. It’s too much. All of it. The weight of the question, the beauty of the gesture, the look on Miles’ face—hopeful and uncertain and so terribly in love—it strangles his voice in his throat.
“Phoenix?” Miles says again, a note of panic entering his tone, as if fearing he’s misread something fundamental. His hand twitches where it holds Phoenix’s, unsure whether to pull away or cling tighter.
Phoenix finds himself beating Miles to it, squeezing the hands grasping his tightly and pulling them to the centre of his chest. “Y-you’d have me?” Miles asks, eyes wide and shining now, the vulnerability in his expression cutting straight through Phoenix’s heart. “Is that a yes?”
Phoenix nods. Frantically. Eagerly. Over and over again, as though each motion is an attempt to scream what his mouth still cannot articulate. Yes. Yes. Yes. He squeezes the ring tight in his fist, the little band warm now from the heat of his skin, and in the next instant, he’s moving—without thought, only instinct. One arm loops around Miles’ neck, pulling him down with a fierce desperation, the other hand cupping his cheek with a gentleness that borders on worship, like Miles is something breakable and holy all at once.
Their lips meet in a kiss that is anything but graceful—messy and breathless and tinged with the rawness of too many emotions colliding at once—but it’s real. It’s theirs. Miles is already leaning in before Phoenix even fully pulls him down, as if he, too, understands the language of trembling hands and choked-up silence. Their mouths press together in a kiss so tight and urgent it leaves them breathless.
“Yes,” Phoenix gasps when they finally pull apart, his voice trembling, mouth red and parted, face soaked with tears and glowing with something that can only be called joy.
But before Miles can utter a single word in reply, Phoenix surges forward again, catching him in another kiss—deeper, fiercer, more open. This one is wild with emotion, almost uncontainable, and Miles is certain Phoenix means to steal every last breath from his lungs, replacing it with the only truth that matters. Every press of his lips seems to speak what words still struggle to say: I love you. I love you, oh, how I love you.
And Miles, breath stolen and heart full, lets himself be devoured by it.