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When you’re born, no one tells you what your future holds. It’s all just regular living— school, scraped knees, birthday parties, heartbreaks— until it isn’t.
See, in this world, you don’t really know who your soulmate is, then it hits you like a cinematic sledgehammer to the brain. One look, one sound, and your whole body locks up as every alternate life you could’ve lived with that person floods your mind.
Like a kaleidoscope of pasts and futures snapping into place. Versions of you in love, in pain, in possibility.
Stanley Pines hates it.
Well, hated and loved it.
He wanted it, desperately .
Even when he was six, curled up in his dinosaur pajamas with crumbs on his cheeks and cartoons paused on the iPad, he would stare outside and wonder if his soulmate was doing the same thing somewhere. Eating cereal, laughing at the same dumb joke.
Waiting, just like he was.
He would glance at strangers on the street through the living room window.
Could it be that person? Or that one?
He didn’t even understand what a soulmate was back then, just that it was something people talked about like magic, like lightning in your chest.
Almost every night, he’d crawl into the kitchen while his Ma was finishing up dinner.
“Ma, how’d you know Pa was the one?”
Caryn Pines would smile that soft, thoughtful smile, wipe her hands on her apron.
“We looked at each other, and then we knew.”
Stan would blink up at her with wide brown eyes. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she’d say, tapping his nose with her finger. “But in that moment? It felt like the whole world changed. We saw every version of us in the blink of an eye. Like watching a whole life happen at once.”
“But… how do you know it’s real?”
“You just do.”
She said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “In that one second, we saw everything. Every fight, every laugh, every version of us that could ever be.”
“Like a movie?”
“Exactly like a movie.”
It wasn’t a satisfying answer. Not for a curious, hungry kid like Stan but he'll ask the same question the next week.
And the week after.
And the month after that.
Always hoping her answer would change.
That she’d say, Here’s how to find them.
Here’s what to look for.
Here’s the secret .
Meanwhile, Stanford— his twin, his opposite— was curled in a corner with books taller than he was, grumbling every time Stanley brought up the soulmate thing.
“Soulmates aren’t scientific.”
Ford would say, not even glancing up from his astrophysics workbook. “It’s probably just neurological pattern recognition based on vocal resonance and facial symmetry.”
Stan would throw a pillow at him. “You just sayin’ that ‘cause you haven’t found yours yet.”
“I’m saying that because I’d rather win a Nobel Prize than spend my life waiting for some magical eye-zap moment.”
“You’re just scared your soulmate’s ugly.”
“I’m not scared!”
They bickered, as all siblings do, but underneath Stan’s teasing was a little kernel of fear that maybe Ford was right. What if it wasn’t real? Or worse, what if it was, but his soulmate never showed up?
By the time he was twelve, he had started secretly keeping a journal.
Not a diary.
A journal.
Full of observations. Half-doodles of people’s faces he thought looked familiar. Names of cashiers or classmates. A barista once complimented his shirt and he felt his whole chest clench, but nothing happened. Just a compliment, just polite.
The journal filled up. Page after page of Maybe.
Nothing too dramatic, just sketches, random notes. Names of people he passed in stores. Snippets of overheard conversations. Any time he thought he might be feeling it, he wrote it down.
But nothing ever came of it.
No flashes, no visions.
No soulmate.
Stan kept it hidden under his bed.
Ford found it once, flipped through it, and didn’t say anything for a long moment
“You really believe in this stuff,” Ford said finally.
Stan looked away. “Yeah. Don’t you ever… want it?”
Ford was silent. “No. Wanting something doesn’t make it real.”
Stan had never wanted to punch his twin so much.
At fifteen, he was still asking. Less frequently, less hopefully.
One summer night, Stan sat on the back porch in silence, watching the stars flicker like they knew secrets. He clutched a mug of cocoa in both hands like it was the only warmth left in the world.
Caryn came out quietly and sat beside him. “You haven’t asked me in a while,” she said, voice soft.
Stan shrugged. “Didn’t wanna bug you.”
“You never bug me, Stanley, not even once.”
He stared into the mug. “I think maybe… maybe I’m broken,” he whispered.
Caryn's heart cracked. She wrapped an arm around him, held him tight. “You’re not broken, sweetie. You’re just waiting. Some stories take longer to start and that doesn’t mean they won’t be good ones.”
“But I see other people get it. They don’t even try, and they get the flashes. Me? I’ve been looking.”
“I know, baby.”
Stan wiped his eyes. “Do you think maybe mine just… doesn’t exist?”
Caryn didn't answer right away. “I think... maybe yours is just a little further away, or they’re just not ready yet. You'll know that when the time is right, they're there.”
He nodded into her shoulder.
Behind them, the porch light flicked on with a snap.
Filbrick Pines, tall and stiff in a tank top and socks with sandals combo, stepped outside with a grumble and a thermos. “You two still out here whining about soulmates?”
Stan groaned. “I’m having emotions, Pa.”
“Well don’t get any on the porch, I already cleaned it.”
Caryn shot him a look. Filbrick sighed, stepping down beside them.
“Stanley, son. This whole soulmate thing, it’s not always perfect, but it ain’t a fairytale.”
“Thanks, Pa. That helps a lot.”
Filbrick huffed again. “Listen. I used to think it was crap, but your Ma? I saw her, and everything stopped. We didn’t even speak, I just knew . Scared me so bad I dropped an entire box of engine parts on my foot.”
Caryn snorted softly.
Stan looked at him. “You got the flashes?”
“Yeah,” Filbrick muttered. “Didn’t want ‘em. Didn’t ask for ‘em. But I got ‘em. And I stayed.”
“Why?”
Filbrick met his son’s eyes. “Because I’d be a fool not to. I saw what life could be like with her. And I wasn’t gonna let that slip away.”
It was one of the few times Stan ever saw vulnerability in his father's face. Real, unfiltered truth. It wasn’t poetic, It wasn’t soft.
But it's there.
And the years kept ticking by.
High school passed in a blur. No flashes, no soulmate.
His friends started finding theirs, one by one. With a glance in biology class, a chance encounter at a gas station, one kid tripped over their soulmate’s dog leash. Just like that, everyone had someone.
Everyone but Stan.
He stopped talking about it.
He stopped asking.
Ford, ever brilliant, left for university at seventeen.
Stan stayed behind, floundered through community college, dropped out after a year and a half.
It wasn’t that he’d stopped dreaming, he just redirected it.
“ If I can’t find ‘em ,” he muttered one night over beer and sea salt fries, “ I’ll sail to ‘em .”
He took out a loan, enrolled in maritime school, and buried himself in sea charts and weather systems. He learned to tie knots faster than he could do math. He worked odd jobs on fishing vessels and shipping boats, soaked in the language of sailors.
He even got a compass tattooed on his bicep.
A reminder.
Keep going. Keep looking.
By 2023, nearly ten years later, he had risen through the ranks.
Captain Stanley Pines .
Commanding the H.H. Mystery Horizon.
A clunky, stubborn old cargo ship that always veered two degrees left and refused to be renamed. She wasn’t sleek, but she was steady. And she was his.
He had a crew who respected him. A bunk that always smelled like engine oil and home. A life that kept him moving.
But still…no soulmate.
And still, that ache in his chest refused to leave.
When Ford finished one of his many, many PhDs— this one in something Stan could barely pronounce— he messaged him out of the blue.
Ford: Hey. I’ll be in port next week. Want to meet up?
Stan hadn’t even blinked before replying.
Stan: Hell yes. I’ll bring the sandwiches.
Ford sent a thumbs-up emoji followed by a very uncharacteristic gif of a raccoon giving a peace sign.
Stan chuckled. Maybe the nerd was learning humor after all these years.
They picked a train station halfway between the port and the university hosting Ford’s latest guest lecture. Stan arrived early, real early. He leaned against a cool metal pillar near the schedule board, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, boots scuffed against the tile floor.
The crowd moved like a wave, commuters, students, tourists, luggage rolling behind them like tails. Phones in hands, voices rising and falling.
Stan wasn’t thinking about soulmates.
He's not, he promise.
He’d mostly given up on that long ago. Focused on the sea, on purpose, on living a life that didn’t require another person to complete it. That was the mantra, anyway.
But then he heard a laugh.
It wasn’t just any laugh. It was soft, bubbling, like soda fizz on a summer night, sweet and fleeting and somehow…familiar. Even though he’d never heard it before, it tugged at something behind his ribs.
Stan turned his head on instinct.
And the world stopped turning.
A man stood across the crowd, not twenty feet away, facing slightly sideways as he read a folded transit map. His sandy blond hair was a little windswept, soft curls falling just under his ears. He wore round glasses and a worn denim jacket with a tool pouch strapped over one shoulder.
Slim, but sturdy, compact, quietly composed.
There was something about the way he stood, hands gently adjusting the strap of his bag, his brows furrowed with concentration, that made Stan's lungs seize.
And then, they looked at each other.
Their eyes met, just for a second.
Stan’s breath vanished. The world dropped away.
And it hit.
His chest lit up, every nerve fired at once. His knees nearly gave out as images slammed into his brain like a cosmic film reel unraveling. It lit up like a projector jammed with every reel of every movie that had ever been about love. Time and space collapsed inward, folding around the two of them.
A thousand lives. A thousand thems .
One in which they danced under flickering neon lights in a cosmic jazz bar while comets streaked across the stars outside.
One where they fought ghosts in an abandoned town.
Him and the man sitting cross-legged in a dusty garage, grease on their hands, laughing over a half-built machine.
Them again, older now, sitting on a couch, a book open between them, the stars above impossibly close.
The two of them in lab coats, trading jokes in some parallel future.
And there's another one where Stan's in the lab coat. Crossed fate with his soulmate who's shining, like a cosmic being ready to grace his soul.
The two of them in a wooden cabin, dancing slowly in the kitchen, barefoot on creaking floorboards.
On a spaceship.
On a porch.
In a lab.
In a boat.
Alive, In love. across every version of time.
It wasn’t just a vision, it was truth .
Stan felt it in his bones.
This is him .
This was the person the universe had etched into his soul.
He stepped forward, slow and dazed like he was moving through water. The noise of the crowd dulled around him. His heartbeat roared in his ears, there were no words, just the overwhelming pull.
My soulmate .
But the man looked away.
Because just then, a child— maybe four, maybe five— sprinted up to him, arms wide.
“Dad!”
Stan’s feet locked in place.
The man knelt down and caught the kid mid run, swinging him into a warm, practiced embrace.
Stan watched, frozen.
The man smiled. Bright, soft and real.
And then she walked up.
A woman. Pretty, casually putting one hand on the man’s shoulder, the other gently brushing hair from the child’s face. They talked, they laughed.
They look like a family.
Stan’s vision didn’t blur, didn’t fade, it shattered.
No. No, no, no, this isn’t— this can’t be—
Gone.
Gone before Stan could say a single word, gone before the world stopped spinning.
Stan’s lungs refused to draw air, his fists clenched without meaning to, his mind reeled.
Was I too late?
Did I see wrong?
Was that even possible?
Was it a glitch?
A cruel cosmic misfire?
A dream?
His lungs wouldn’t work, his chest ached. Not in the way heartburn did after spicy chili, in the way it does when something has been ripped out of you.
The flashes hadn’t lied, but the scene in front of him felt like betrayal.
Stan turned, and ran.
He didn’t stop until the cold air hit his face, it hurts to think or even breath. His knees trembled below him, throat dry from the chilly wind ruthlessly passing by. It all sounds like a joke now where Stan couldn't laugh at. He leaned against the side of the station wall, hands on his knees, gasping.
People walked past, unaware.
He looked down at his trembling hands, tears prickling from the corner of his eyes.
It’s painful, why?
“ Fuck …”
Stan hadn’t even remembered Ford was coming until he saw the familiar trench coat and hair defying gravity stride up from the escalator, tablet tucked under one arm.
“There you are,” Ford said. “I thought I’d have to scan the place for radiation signatures just to find— uhm, Stanley, are you okay?”
Stan was sitting on a bench near the front of the station. Slouched, pale, and eyes puffy like he’d been wiping his eyes furiously.
Worry overcame Ford, dropped his suitcase and jogged over.
“Stanley?”
Stan didn’t look up. Ford sat beside him, awkwardly at first, then with more concern.
“What happened? You look like someone told you they canceled sandwiches forever.”
Stanley huffed out something between a laugh and a sob.
His brother's voice was gentle. “Talk to me.”
Stan stared at the station floor. “I saw him.”
Ford blinked.
“Who?”
“My soulmate.”
That shut Ford up.
Stan looked up at him finally, eyes bloodshot. “It happened, Ford. The flashes, the lives. It was him, saw everything and such, I felt everything.”
Ford slowly took off his glasses and wiped them, stalling. “Wow. Uh… okay. That’s… a big thing to drop before lunch.”
He gave a small, bitter laugh.
His twin tucked his glasses back on. “So what’s wrong? You found him.”
Stan’s voice broke. “He had a kid, and a wife, or... someone. A family.”
Ford’s brows pulled together.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”, They sat in silence for a minute.
Finally, Ford leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’re sure it was him?”
Stan nodded immediately. “No doubt. I’ve never felt something that real, it wasn’t like a daydream, tt was like... everything suddenly made sense.”
“And now?”
Stanley sighed. “Now I feel like the universe handed me a winning lottery ticket just to watch me get hit by a bus.”
Ford made a face. “That’s... graphic.”
Stan dropped his head into his hands again. “It’s not fair, Ford. I waited, I believed, I wanted this more than anything.”
His brother was quiet for a long moment.
“Do you think… he saw you?”
“I don’t know, he was too focused on the kid.”
Ford rubbed his chin. “Maybe you saw him first. That can happen, right?”
Stan shrugged. “I guess.”
Ford hesitated. “What if you talk to him? Just to be sure?”
He scoffed in response. “I'm the guy who got emotionally steamrolled by fate while you were holding a juice box, and you want me to talk to him ?”
Ford didn’t laugh, he turned serious. “You always believed in this soulmate stuff, Stan, and I teased you for it. But... if what you felt was real, then don’t run from it. Find out the truth.”
Stan looked up, weary. “You believe me?”
Ford nodded. “Yeah, I do.”
That stunned Stan more than anything.
Ford cracked a small smile. “I’ve been wrong before. Once, in 2008. It was a dark time.”
Stan chuckled weakly.
“Come on,” Ford said, standing and grabbing his suitcase. “Let’s go get lunch. You’re not gonna get closure on an empty stomach.”
Stan stood, eyes still distant. “Closure or heartbreak.”
Ford slung an arm around his shoulder. “Either way, you won’t be alone.”
The image of the man holding that child and smiling at a woman who clearly wasn’t just a friend played on repeat in Stan’s head like a cruel home movie.
Over and over again.
Every flash, every alternate life, every beautiful, aching possibility that had danced through his mind when they’d nearly locked eyes now felt like a lie. A prank.
A beautifully cruel starry joke.
It was worse than heartbreak, it was hope being yanked away mid-sentence.
He didn’t cry, not really.
He was a sailor. He’d weathered squalls, capsized once, and had been sucker-punched by rogue waves more than a few times. But nothing— nothing — has compared to the feeling of being soul-slammed by destiny, only to watch it vanish into the crowd with a kid in one hand and someone else’s smile.
So maybe he did cried, sobbed from the soft covers of his bed until he drowns from his tears.
This night, he couldn’t sleep.
He walked the deck of the H.H. Mystery Horizon in silence, the low creak of steel hulls and the hiss of waves below filling the air around him like a distant lullaby he couldn’t bring himself to hum.
His boots thudded quietly against the wooden top deck, a rhythmic reminder that he was still moving, even if his heart wasn’t. Above him, the moon hung full and indifferent, casting a trail of silver across the sea.
"You ever think maybe the whole soulmate thing is a scam?", he muttered, tipping his head up to the sky.
The moon didn’t answer.
Of course it didn’t, who would answer a question no one has the ability to solve for?
Morning came in like a slap.
He woke in his quarters with salt on his cheeks and stiffness in his neck. He groaned, hauled himself up, and tried to throw water on his face like it might rinse away the ache. No such luck.
He dressed in his usual gear, navy polo, jacket, weatherproof boots. Captain’s badge clipped to the shoulder, just to make it clear that even if his soul was cracking down the middle, he still had a job to do.
The H.H. Mystery Horizon was docked and prepping for departure. The next cargo run would take them from the Pacific Northwest down toward Southern California. Nothing special, but it paid well and gave the crew a few sunny days on deck.
He walked the bridge, clipboard in hand, trying to focus.
The morning manifest was light, some agricultural crates, a few pieces of machinery, and one questionable pallet labeled “ museum display: handle with care ” that Boomer swore was haunted. Stan barely acknowledged it.
The ship’s layout was seared into his memory, twin diesel engines below deck, updated nav system patched through the radar array, and a temperamental radio antenna that worked best when you bribed it with chocolate (or so Mei claimed).
He made his rounds, checked fuel levels, signed off on engine diagnostics, chatted briefly with a port supervisor, nodded along during the inspection walkthrough.
But his mind never stayed.
“Captain,” came a low voice behind him as he walked back into the galley.
Rico, his First Mate.
Six foot four and built like a bear, Rico was a man of few words and slower tempers. Most people underestimated how deeply he cared, until they got sick and found him quietly leaving soup outside their door at 3 a.m.
Stan turned. “Yeah?”
“You okay?”
Stan forced a grin. “Course I am.”
Rico tilted his head. “You look like someone took your puppy and ran it over with another puppy.”
Stan blinked. “Huh.”
“I’ve seen a lot of sad people, none looked as bad as you do right now.”
He waved a hand. “Just a stomach bug.”
Rico crossed his arms. “You said that yesterday.”
“And the day before,” added Mei, poking her head into the doorway. She wore grease-streaked overalls and rainbow safety goggles. “And the day before that.”
“I have,” Stan admitted. “Because it’s persistent, very buggy, that’s why it’s called a bug.”
Mei crossed the room and dropped her toolbox with a clatter. “You’re being weird, and not in the fun ‘Captain wears two different socks on purpose again’ kind of weird.”
Nova entered next, carrying two mugs. She passed one to Rico and gave Stan a look. “You’re not eating, you’re not joking, and you flinched when the radio played a love song.”
Stan grunted. “You all gossip like retirees in a bingo hall.”
“We care, Captain,” Nova said, planting her hands on her hips.
“So either you tell us what’s wrong, or I’m hacking into your phone and checking your Google search history.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me.”
Stan hesitated.
Rico raised his mug. “You don’t have to tell us but we’re here, we notice.”
Stan stared at them. His crew, his people, his family when he was too far from the ones who shared his blood.
And he cracked, He didn’t tell them everything, not at first, just enough for them to know.
“That thing with soulmates? It happened.”
Everyone went still.
“I saw him. The flashes, the lives. It was like being electrocuted by every version of joy and heartbreak possible.”, He took a shaky breath.
“Then I saw the kid and the woman.”
Nova’s eyes widened. “No.”
Stan nodded. “Yeah.”
“Maybe it’s not what it looked like,” Boomer offered gently from the galley window. “Maybe the kid was a cousin or a lost child actor.”
“It wasn’t,” Stan said. “They fit too well, some pieces of a puzzle I’m not part of.”
The silence that followed was thick and gentle.
Mei sat beside him on a storage crate. “I’m sorry, Cap. That’s...that sucks harder than a black hole in space.”
Nova cleared her throat. “So...what now?”
Stan shrugged. “I work, I lead, I move forward.”
He stood and looked out the window toward the ocean.
“But I don’t stop wondering.”
That night, Stan lay in his bunk, staring at the ceiling of his quarters.
He has a photo taped to the overhead panel, him and the crew, all grinning like idiots during their first trip out. Rico’s eyes were half closed, Mei was mid-swear, Nova was making a peace sign, Boomer had a sandwich half in his mouth.
It was a good photo, It reminded him that life still happened even when your heart tried to curl up and quit.
He reached under his mattress and pulled out the journal, the one he hadn’t touched in years. Stan flipped it open, a few old entries about near-misses, scribbles of people’s faces, a few hopeful rants in blue ink.
He found a blank page, and he wrote.
> I found him today. And lost him in the same breath .
> His laugh made everything inside me shift. I saw us dancing in the rain, fighting side by side, growing old in matching flannel robes .
> He held a kid. Smiled at a woman. And I couldn’t breathe .
> But I know it was him .
> Do I?
Stanley closed the book, slid it back into its hiding spot, and turned off the light. The ship groaned softly as it settled against the tide.
And Stan dreamed of lives that weren’t his.
It was past midnight, Stanley sat cross-legged on his bunk, hoodie pulled up, the glow from his tablet screen was the only light in the room. The H.H. Mystery Horizon creaked softly in the night, water lapping against the hull in slow, rhythmic waves.
He hesitated, thumb hovering over the FaceTime button next to his mother’s contact.
Then he pressed it.
The screen rang once.
Twice.
Then Caryn Pines appeared, her soft, freckled face and gray-streaked hair framed by warm yellow lamp light and a backdrop of hanging plants. She was wrapped in a shawl and her knitting needles clicked away off-screen, the soft click-click of comfort.
“Stanley!” she chirped. “Well, look at this! A surprise call from my sailor boy. Is the sea treating you okay?”
Stan swallowed and forced a smile. “Yeah, Ma. Ship’s fine. Crew’s good.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly. “But you’re not.”
His throat tightened. “Ma…”
The needles slowed.
“It happened.”
Caryn’s hands paused. She set the yarn down. “Stanley…”
“I saw him, Ma.” His voice cracked, and it all came spilling out like the tide breaking through a cracked hull.
“The flashes, the versions, every one of ‘em. We were together, we were happy. It happened exactly like you said it would. I looked at him, and it was like I saw every lifetime that ever could be.”
Caryn’s eyes filled, but she stayed silent, listening with every inch of her heart.
“But he had a kid, a wife. Not just someone he knew, Ma. Someone who's married to him. The way he looked at her…”, He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, trying to hide it even on video.
“It felt like the universe showed me paradise and then slammed the door shut.”
“Oh, honey…”
He shook his head. “I don’t get it. Why would I get the flashes if he’s already taken? Is it broken? Am I broken?”
Caryn’s voice was gentle. “I don’t know how to answer that, Stan. But if you saw it… there’s a reason. You don’t get those flashes for nothing.”
She never sounded like she was humoring him, she said it like she believed it, like her son’s heart was still worth fighting for, but then that happened.
From off-screen, a voice barked. “What’s this nonsense I hear? The boy found his soulmate and the guy’s married? ”
Stan cringed. “Oh no. Hi, Pa.”
Filbrick strode into view behind Caryn, wearing a tattered bathrobe, holding a half-empty mug labeled “ World’s Gruffest Dad ” and looking like he’d just been personally insulted by fate.
“Not nonsense,” Caryn said gently, placing a hand on her husband’s chest. “Stan’s heart is broken.”
“Heartbroken? You're a Pines.,” Filbrick snapped. “No son of mine would let his heart break over a man.”
“Fil—” Caryn warned.
Stan sat up straighter, frustration boiling. “This is something serious, Pa! It was real, I felt it, I saw it, it has to meant something.”
Filbrick’s face went red. “Then explain to me why the almighty universe handed you a guy who’s already got a wife and kid! What kind of screwed-up system is that?!”
His Pa is angry, not at Stan, but at the love god themself.
Stan stood up and stormed out of frame, he used to act like that when he was sixteen and had an argument with his father in the kitchen.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out!”
Caryn followed the movement with her eyes but didn’t interrupt.
“I just…” Stan’s voice softened to something fragile. “I just wanted someone who's mine.”
Silence.
Heavy, honest.
Even Filbrick didn’t know what to say to that.
Finally, his Ma's voice returned, soft and steady. “Maybe it’s more complicated than that.”
Stan returned to the screen, running his hand through his hair. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Move on? Wait? Find him again and hope for a sparkle between us?”
“Why would the universe do that to someone?”, Filbrick muttered. “That’s not destiny, that’s cruelty.”
He crossed the room behind Caryn and started pacing. “This whole soulmate system is faulty! Divine matchmaking? Pfft. It’s a glorified roulette wheel with feelings! Love used to mean effort. Grit. Not cosmic cheat codes!”
Caryn shot him a glare. “Filbrick Pines, you are not helping.”
“No,” Stan said quietly. “I think Pa’s right.”
Both parents looked at him.
Then the screen flickered, a new notification popped up on Stan’s phone.
Incoming call: Ford.
He sniffed. “Hang on. Gotta merge Ford in.”
With a swipe, the screen split, and Stanford appeared, disheveled and wearing a hoodie with the logo ' MIT: Magic Isn’t Theories, It’s Truth .' He was holding a mug of tea and squinting into the camera.
“Shermie called me and said he heard screaming,” he said. “He already voice recorded all of your conversations. Stan, Are you okay?”
That little twerp.
“Define okay.”
Ford glanced between the three faces now on the screen. “Look Stan, you already know what your soulmate looks like, try to explain to him that—”
“Yeah, sure, talk to him, to his son, and apparently his wife.”
Ford sighed. “Stan—”
Stan cut in. “You always say that the cause of seeing those visions is just neurons and psychology, you told me that it’s chemical projections of subconscious longing.”
Ford can be seen clenching his knuckles hard but raised both hands in defeat.
“I know I was a hopeless case when were kids, all I’m going to say is that… I’m sorry.”
Everyone blinked.
“You?” Stan said.
“ You’re sorry?”
Ford leaned against a bookshelf, unusually unguarded. “Yes, it’s true that I never believed in this soulmate stuff. I thought it distracted people from reality, but you’re my brother, I saw how much it mattered to you.”
Stan swallowed hard. Ford went on, quieter now. “And when I saw you at the station afterward? You looked like you’d been hit by a planet. Not even a truck, a whole celestial body.”
“It felt like that,” Stan muttered.
“I believe you,” Ford said. “And I support you, whatever you decide to do.”
Caryn smiled, brushing away a tear. Filbrick grumbled, but didn't interrupt.
“So what’s next?” Ford asked. “You going full sail on this?”
Stan nodded slowly. “I don’t care if it’s a long shot, I need to know if the flashes meant anything.”
He took a deep, shaky breath. “I can’t just sit here waiting. I have to know. I need to find out what’s really going on.”
“You’d go looking for him?” Caryn asked softly.
“I don’t know where he lives. I don’t even know his name. But, yeah. I’d leave everything just to get some kind of closure.”
Ford smiled at him. “Then we'll help you however we can.”
“Thanks, sixer, Ma and Pa.”
“Of course, now go eat something. You look like you’ve been living off seaweed and spite.”
Stanley rolled his eyes. “I had soup.”
Caryn leaned closer. “You made it yourself or was it's Rico’s chili again?”
Stan froze from his seat, slightly leaning away from his tablet. “...No comment.”
Filbrick groaned. “That boy’s gonna burn a hole in his stomach.”
“I like the flavor!” Stan argued.
Ford smirked. “Rico’s chili isn’t flavor. It’s punishment.”
Everyone laughed, even Filbrick, though he tried to hide it behind his mug.
For a moment, the tension broke. Just family again, just warmth, floating between three little boxes on a screen.
When they ended the call, Stan lay back on his bunk and exhaled. It wasn’t fixed, it wasn’t over.
But he didn’t feel alone anymore and that mattered more than he could explain.
Two weeks later, fate gave him another shot.
The Mystery Horizon had just completed a rough run, rougher than usual. The storm outside Monterey had delayed their schedule, knocked a crate loose, and left Rico grumbling about how “ this ship’s got more attitude than a caffeinated raccoon .”
But when they finally docked in Southern California, the sun broke over the water like gold through stained glass.
Stan stood on the gangplank, hands on his hips, breathing in the salty warmth. California was different, it's hot, bright. It's just... different
The crew begged him for shore leave almost immediately.
“We haven’t touched dry land in eight days!” Nova said, practically bouncing.
“My skin’s becoming one with the deck,” Boomer added, flopping dramatically against the railing.
“I think I’m growing barnacles,” Mei added in, tapping her temple.
Stan chuckled, already caving. “Alright, alright. But we'll be back by midnight, I’m not dragging any of you out of karaoke bars this time.”
“No promises!” Boomer yelled as they disembarked.
Stan followed, he told himself it was just to keep an eye on them, make sure nobody passes out face first in a churro cart again. But the truth buzzed in the back of his brain like a compass needle gone wild.
That feeling was back. That low, magnetic hum in his bones.
It's pulling him in.
He didn’t know if it was intuition or wishful thinking, but something inside told him: Look. Pay attention .
The shopping street near the train station was alive with energy. The scent of sizzling tacos, kettle corn, and fresh citrus clung to the air. Food trucks lined the sidewalks, each with cheeky names like “ Wrap Battle ”, “ Tikka Chance on Me”, and “ You Dim Sum, You Lose Some .”
Ukulele chords floated on the breeze from a pair of teen buskers. A guy in a banana suit danced nearby for spare change.
Mei immediately made a beeline for the dumpling truck.
Nova dragged Rico toward a henna stand with suspiciously glowing ink pots.
Stan trailed behind them with Boomer, who was already carrying a pineapple smoothie the size of his torso.
Stan wasn’t paying attention to any of it, “Alright are ya'll knuckleheads having fun yet? We gotta go.”
Stan announced, and his crew slumped like some kids who disappointingly had broccoli for dinner instead of pizza.
As they walked towards the station, Stan's crew started chatting about the awesome things they just saw while visiting an area while Boomer was busy stuffing all of the food in his mouth before they enter the train.
Stanley walked with serenity, this day took off the worries he had been carrying the past few weeks.
But then, he saw someone.
Him .
Hair slightly messier than before. A new sweater, soft green with sleeves too long, tugged up just past the elbow. Those familiar round glasses sat slightly askew on the bridge of his nose.
He stood in front, covered in wild brushstroke paintings of birds and ships, gesturing animatedly with his hands while talking to a street artist. His laugh drifted across the station, like a breeze caught in wind chimes.
Stan’s bag slipped from his hand, his feet glued themselves to the floor.
Time slowed, the crowd seemed to blur at the edges as if his vision narrowed to one focal point, him.
In that moment, he felt it again, the quiet ignition behind his ribs, the recognition in his soul. That feeling like looking into a mirror of every version of yourself that was ever truly happy.
He saw them again, in flashes.
A moment where they were standing under a thunderstorm, soaked, giggling like idiots.
One where they were studying, Fiddleford smudged with inks and notes, Stan chewing a pen between his teeth.
Another where they held hands in a hospital waiting room.
Another, still, where they danced barefoot in their living room— a place that looked like an apartment in New Jersey— to a record that popped and skipped.
They were together in every reality that mattered.
And yet here they were, still apart.
“Uh…Cap?” Nova’s voice cut through the haze.
Stan didn’t blink.
“Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?”
Boomer followed her gaze. “Wait, is that—?”
Stan barely nodded, his throat had forgotten how to function.
The man turned slightly, his profile catching the sunlight just right, and that same breathy laugh came again.
And just before their eyes could meet, a train passed. A blur of silver. Wheels screeching, Whistle howling like a punchline delivered too soon.
By the time the train slid away, He was no longer there.
The moment, gone .
Stan’s lungs deflated.
Boomer looked stricken. “Was that— was that your soulmate guy?”
Stan could only respond in a nod. He stepped forward, scanning the crowd with growing desperation.
Nothing.
They ran towards the opposite side of the station (Mei almost tripped among the stairs). When they saw that the station was empty, except for a few people walking past, they exited out of the place.
They checked behind booths, down side streets, near the smoothie stands. Nowhere.
Nova grabbed his arm. “Cap, Cap. Breathe.”
He didn’t realize he was gasping.
“Is he even real?”, he whispered. “Did you saw him?”
"Yes, we did, Cap"
Mei jogged over, clutching two orders of dumplings, all of the running and exhaustion made her hungry.
“What are you going to do now?”
Stan couldn't find the answer to that.
Rico finally spoke up from behind. “We’ve got two hours of shore leave, we can help look.”
The crew— his crew— fanned out without another word.
They didn’t laugh, they didn’t ask questions, they searched.
The air started to get chilly, they all returned and met back at the fountain just as the sun dipped below the rooftops. The golden light made the plaza glow like a painting.
Stan sat on the edge, elbows on knees, heart hollow.
Nova handed him a cold bottle of water. “No luck.”
Mei slumped beside him. “We almost thought we saw him by the churro cart, but it was just a guy with the same hair and very different eyebrows.”
"Unfortunate,” Boomer added, still sipping his comically large smoothie.
“I even offered the churro guy ten bucks for information.”
“Bribery isn’t how local markets work,” Rico said flatly.
“I panicked .”
Stan smiled weakly.
“Thanks,” he said. “All of you.”
“Of course,” Nova said. “We’re your crew.”
Mei leaned back on her elbows. “Plus, this has been the most romantic wild goose chase I’ve ever been on.”
Boomer nodded solemnly. “Better than the time I tried to propose with a ring pop.”
Stan chuckled, the sound more genuine than he expected.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” he muttered. “Seeing him again…or losing sight of him again.”
“You’ll see him again,” Rico said simply. “Lightning doesn’t strike twice unless it means to.”
Stan looked at him. “Since when do you believe in lightning?”
“I don’t,” Rico said. “But I believe in you.”
That night, back on the ship, Stan stood on the deck again. Same spot, same moon. He looked out at the horizon, waves glinting silver.
He didn’t cry, he just… stood. Hands deep in his coat pockets, thinking about what it meant to be this close. To see destiny’s face but not yet hold it in your hands.
His heart didn’t feel shattered this time, it just felt unfinished and maybe that was worse, but then again, he wasn’t alone, his crew was with him.
Even when the universe wasn’t.
The morning after he saw him again— after the flashes, after the train, after the aching silence— Stan sat in the captain’s quarters with a pen poised over the transfer form.
The words blurred on the page.
Request for Voluntary Reassignment.
There were only five lines to fill out. It felt like he was writing a farewell letter to his own lungs.
Still, he did it.
By 9:17 a.m., the form was submitted.
By 10:04, it was accepted.
California ports were hiring, always were. Dockyards needed good hands. Ships needed strong captain, the logistics division had a slot. Temporary, but open ended.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it was there.
A way forward, a new tide.
Stan didn’t tell the crew right away, he tried to though, twice.
First during morning inspection, he opened his mouth, but Nova knocked over a crate of powdered soup mix and Boomer tripped into a stack of ropes, and somehow, the moment passed.
Second time, at dinner. He stood, cleared his throat, and Rico immediately said, “We are not changing the taco recipe again .”
Stan gave up, and he finally told them on the deck, the night before departure.
The ship rocked gently beneath their feet, anchored at port, the air sweet with the scent of sea salt and the faint echo of a distant concert on the pier.
They gathered in a loose circle around a camp stove Boomer had absolutely not gotten permission to bring aboard. Rico was nursing a thermos of coffee like it held all of his morals. Mei was assembling a paper flower chain. Nova was knitting what looked suspiciously like a sword cozy.
Stan stood at the edge, fidgeting with his cuffs. “Hey,” he said.
They turned.
“Can I— uh.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Can I talk to you guys for a second?”
Boomer gasped. “Are you dying?!”
“No!”
“Are we dying?”
“Boomer!”
Rico raised a brow. “Go on, Cap.”
Stan exhaled. “I’m transferring.”
Silence.
Then Mei blinked. “To where?”
“California. Starting next week.”
Nova dropped her yarn. Boomer actually gasped again, more dramatically this time. “Wh-what?! You’re leaving us?!”
Stan held up a hand. “Not leaving, leaving. Just relocating, reassigning.”
“You’re abandoning your children,” Boomer whimpered.
“I’m not your dad.”
“You taught me how to fix a coffee grinder with a zip tie! That’s fatherhood!”
Stan chuckled softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I have to go,” he said. “There’s someone I need to find. Something I need to understand.”
The crew looked at each other, and then Rico stood.
He walked over to Stan, paused for just a moment, then pulled him into a tight, wordless hug. His arms were like a steel trap.
Stan blinked rapidly.
“I’ll miss you, Cap,” Rico said quietly.
One by one, they followed.
Nova hugged him and slipped something into his pocket— a folded napkin with a handwritten list: “ Reasons We Love Our Captain .”
Mei offered a single grease-stained glove as a token. “You’re the only one who never flinched when I set something on fire by accident.”
Boomer sobbed so hard he almost fell overboard.
Stan hugged him tightly. “You’ll be okay without me.”
Boomer hiccuped. “No I won’t! You know how bad Rico’s chili is when left unsupervised!”
“It’s not that bad,” Rico muttered. Nova, Mei, and Boomer all turned to glare at him.
Stan stepped back and looked at them all, this crew who had become family. They weren’t perfect, they also weren’t normal, but they were his.
“Thank you,” he paused. “For everything.”
They didn’t say goodbye .
Just See you soon .
That night, when he left the ship, he did it quietly before sunrise.
He looked back at the ship from the dock.
And his heart twisted.
Ford met him at the airport.
He stood in arrivals, holding a coffee cup in one hand and a manila folder in the other, looking impossibly academic in a worn blazer and sneakers.
“Hey, sailor,” he said as Stan approached.
Stan dropped his duffel and wrapped his arms around his brother. Ford froze for a second, then returned the hug.
“Are you sure about this?” Ford asked as they walked toward security, suitcase wheels rattling beside them.
Stan nodded. “I have to know.”
Ford nodded back. “Okay, Just promise me you’ll keep your shirt ironed or at least not completely wrinkled.”
“No promises.”
Ford smiled faintly. “I figured.”
As they reached the checkpoint, Stan turned to him.
“You’re the best brother I’ve ever had.”
“I’m telling Shermie that.”
“Please don't.”
Ford chuckled and rolled his eyes but hugged him again, tight.
Caryn and Filbrick were waiting at the departure gate, Caryn stood first. Her arms were already open.
Stan didn’t hesitate. She pulled him into her arms like she was anchoring a sail in a storm.
“Be safe,” she whispered into his ear. “Follow your heart, no matter where it takes you.”
“I will,” he murmured. “I promise.”
She pulled back, brushing his hair behind his ear like she’d done when he was five.
“You call me. Every week.”
“Every day if you want.” She nodded and stepped aside.
Filbrick stepped forward slowly, arms crossed, jaw tight. They stared at each other.
His Pa extended a hand, Stan took it.
They shook.
Then, quietly, Filbrick muttered, “If he breaks your heart... I’ll sue him.”
Stan blinked from surprise, he laughed. “Thanks, Pa.”
Filbrick grunted. “Don’t let the universe push you around. You grab it by the collar and demand answers. You hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
Caryn took a photo before he left, just the three of them, standing in the harsh light of Gate 23B.
And as Stan walked away, he glanced back.
Caryn waved both hands, wiping her eyes with one. Filbrick didn’t wave, but his lips trembled. Ford waved his hand, the other holding a phone showing Shermie on the screen crying.
He must’ve been home from school, Shermie told the whole family that he’d rather go to school than to watch Stan leave, he acted tough but honetly, Stan admired that.
His family stood by him until the end, and that was enough.
As he boarded the plane, he didn’t cry, he didn’t panic. Stan just held tight to the idea that some chances were worth everything.
Even if they broke you, even if they asked you to leave your whole life behind because sometimes, love doesn’t knock. It dragged you by your hair and force you to go.
And Stan?
Stan went.
His new life started with unpacked boxes in a modest one-bedroom apartment at the corner of a cul-de-sac in Westriver Hills, a sleepy, sun drenched suburban stretch of California where the street signs were cheerful and the air always smelled faintly of jasmine.
The apartment was small but functional. Hardwood floors with a stubborn creak, one chipped countertop, a balcony overlooking the neighbor’s lemon tree. The walls were still mostly bare, but Stan had managed to hang a string of warm fairy lights, and somehow, that made it feel less like a layover and more like a maybe.
Westriver Hills was the kind of place where dogs barked at 7 a.m. sharp. Where people actually waved when they passed you, where porch swings weren’t decorative, they were occupied.
It was nice, too nice. This is the kind of neighborhood that are meant for people who’d already found what Stan was still looking for.
Then there’s his job, it was nothing glamorous, still the same, steady.
The cargo loading dock near the marina was tucked between a tourist pier and a commercial fishing operation. The work was physically demanding, exactly what Stan needed. Wake up, sweat, focus, sleep like the dead.
His new crew was small but colorful.
Jay was the first one he met, a wiry, eternally wired DJ turned forklift operator with bright sneakers and a love of EDM so intense he once tuned the backup warning beeps on his lift to the beat of a dubstep drop.
Lisa, the forewoman, was brisk and brilliant, with steel-toed boots, dark sunglasses, and a reputation for ending arguments with a single glare. But she always left extra coffee in the breakroom, and once gave Stan a ride home after his car broke down.
Then there was Darren. Darren didn’t speak so much as he communicated entirely through memes. He had a tablet full of reaction gifs and carried a tiny thermal printer that spat out increasingly dramatic comic panels when he was excited or angry.
Somehow… It worked.
Stan had expected a lot of things from this job. Soul-crushing silence, long days of trying not to think. Maybe even a little resentment from the locals.
Instead, he found laughter, found people.
“You from around here?” Lisa asked him on day three.
“Nope,” Stan replied, lifting a crate onto the deck. “Originally from Jersey.”
Lisa raised an eyebrow. “And what brought you to the land of sun and hippies?”
Stan hesitated, then offered a wry smile. “Romantic delusion.”
Jay let out a long ooOOOOoooh and wagged his eyebrows. Darren handed him a printed meme that read “ HOPE IS A MISTAKE – MAD MAX .”
They didn’t press him further. Stan appreciated that.
Then as days passed, he settled into a rhythm.
Up at 6, work at 7, off at 5, sleep by 10.
He met his neighbor, Mrs. Ortez, who brought him lemon bars with powdered sugar so thick it looked like snow. He helped her fix her fence, and she loaned him a ladder in return.
He found a diner he liked. Sat in the same booth three times a week. The waitress—Tina— called him “honey” and always added extra whipped cream to his coffee.
It was nice.
Still... every day, he looked. At crowds, at sidewalks, at the corners of shops.
Waiting.
Until the day came.
It was a Thursday. Sun high, air warm but not sweltering, the kind of afternoon made for iced coffee and quiet conversations. Stan had the day off. He’d spent the morning helping Darren replace a forklift battery, then let himself wander into the sleepy commercial strip near his apartment.
That’s when he saw a cafe named Ground Floor Cafe , a tucked-away coffee shop with string lights in the windows and a chalkboard sign that read:
Came for the caffeine, stayed for the emotional breakthroughs .
Stan laughed to himself and went in.
It smelled like cinnamon and cardamom. Like honeyed pastries and open notebooks. The walls were lined with local art, most of it charmingly weird, he stepped in line behind a guy arguing with a toddler about muffin flavors.
Stan only half-listened.
Just then, a voice, startled him.
A soft, gentle, southern voice.
“Excuse me, can I get an extra napkin?”
Stan turned his head.
And there— at the far corner table— was a person.
He was hunched slightly over a laptop, glasses slightly crooked, curls falling across his forehead. A mug sat beside him, mostly untouched, and half-eaten lemon scone perched on a napkin, his fingers tapped something on the screen, eyes focused.
Stan’s heart launched into his throat.
There you are.
Every cell in his body stood at attention. His world narrowed into tunnel vision, the cafe falling away like a blurry watercolor, the only thing sharp was him .
He stepped forward, one foot, then the next.
Say something .
He begged himself.
Just say hi.
But before he could open his mouth, there was a shout.
“Dad!”
The boy came barreling through the doorway, arms open like wings.
Stan froze in place.
He looked up. His entire face changed, lit up from the inside. He closed the laptop, rose, and caught the boy in his arms with practiced ease.
“Hey, Tater,” he said, kissing the top of the child’s head. “How was class?”
“Boring. But we made clay lizards.”
“Well, now I’m jealous.”
Stan felt his heart split, he couldn’t move.
Then she entered, the same woman he saw.
She strolled over, a canvas tote slung over her shoulder, hair pulled back with sunglasses perched on her head. She touched his shoulder casually, like a muscle memory, like a routine.
Stan’s stomach twisted.
His soulmate adjusted the boy on his hip, smiling at her as they spoke softly. The whole scene shimmered with something warm and distant.
Perfect, natural, not meant for outsiders.
Not meant for Stan .
Stan backed away slowly, his breath caught. He ducked behind a display of local bread samples— why did every damn bakery in California sell artisanal rye?— and turned toward the exit.
The bell above the door jingled as he slipped outside, the light suddenly too bright.
He didn’t know how far he walked, just that he had to keep walking.
That night, Stan lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan as it hummed and spun.
He kept replaying it. The way the stranger smiled, the joy in his voice when he greeted his kid, the way his arm wrapped naturally around both the child and the woman.
Stan pressed his hand over his heart.
What am I doing?
He rolled onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut, and for the first time in weeks, he didn’t sleep, he just listened to the ache of unfinished stories playing on loop in his chest.
A week after the cafe incident, Stan still hadn’t slept properly.
He functioned because that’s what Stan Pines did. He showed up to work, hoisted crates, cracked jokes, directed traffic on the docks, and told himself he was fine.
But something in his chest stayed knotted, like rope coiled too tightly. He’d walk the marina at dawn, when the gulls were still sleepy and the sky was cotton gray, and feel like his shadow weighed more than his body.
He didn’t even know what he was waiting for.
A sign?
An apology from the universe?
A reason to let go?
Instead, he got this.
By the second week, the cracks started showing.
Lisa noticed first, Stan’s usual sarcastic edge had dulled to something flatter. Jay noticed second, when Stan waved him off instead of joining him for lunch. Darren noticed last, when the “good morning” Darren handed him was answered with a distracted nod.
They tried to ask, of course.
“Hey, Cap, ‘everything alright?” Lisa asked, one brow raised.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure? You look—”
“I said I’m fine,” he repeated, voice light but final.
He retreated early that evening, disappearing into his small cabin at the back of the ship.
The crew exchanged glances over their post-shift coffee. Jay tapped his mug nervously. Darren printed a gif of a raccoon curled up in a blanket. Lisa didn’t smile at it.
Down in his cabin, Stan slumped on the narrow bunk, boots still on. He stared at the wall until the silence felt like it was pressing on him, then reached for the old stereo tucked against the desk.
A few clicks later, slow guitar chords spilled out, soft at first, then louder as he twisted the dial until it rattled the thin cabin door. The kind of music that made the ocean outside sound lonelier.
Somewhere above deck, Jay flinched at the sudden change in atmosphere. “That’s… not his usual playlist.”
Lisa leaned against the rail, listening. The melancholy chords echoed out into the night air, weaving between the slap of water against the hull.
Darren printed another comic strip, a stick figure holding an umbrella in the rain while a second stick figure tried to help, only to be pushed away. He didn’t hand it to anyone this time.
Stan stayed there for hours, the music looping, eyes fixed on nothing. He could’ve been anywhere — the docks, the café, some version of his life that never existed — but instead, he was here.
The stereo hummed on, spilling his mood into every corner of the ship, a wordless confession his crew could hear but not answer.
Stan remained slouched on the edge of a crate, fiddling with the strap of his gloves like it might give him something to say that didn’t sound like a confession. He kept his head down, eyes fixed on the scuffed floorboards of the ship’s lower deck.
Jay crouched beside him first, watching the seagulls gawk above them.
“Hey, Cap. You’ve been quiet. That’s… not normal for you.” He grinned faintly, like he was trying to tease without pushing too far.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say somethin’ spooked you.”
Stan forced a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Spooked? Me? Nah. Just thinkin’.”
“Thinking so hard you look like you swallowed a storm cloud?”
Lisa’s voice startled the two, her hands on her hips. She’d been mending a torn sail earlier, still smelling faintly of salt and tar.
“C’mon, Cap. Whatever it is, it’s not worth chewin’ yourself over.”
She softened her tone.
“We’ve got your back. Always.”
Darren didn’t crouch or lean, he just stood nearby, arms crossed, watching Stan with that quiet, steady look that said more than any words. Nodding along with encouragement.
Stan finally looked up at them. Their faces were all different—Jay’s easy grin, Lisa’s stubborn warmth, Darren’s calm certainty—but they shared the same thread of concern.
It sat heavy on him, but in a way that felt relieving.
He let out a breath through his nose, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
“I know. You guys are the best crew a guy could ask for. I just…” He hesitated, rolling his gloves in his hands.
“…Sometimes you get reminded of stuff you can’t explain. Nothin’ dangerous. Just—personal stuff.”
That seemed to satisfy them enough. Jay clapped him on the back, Lisa ruffled his hair messily and Darren gave a short enthusiastic nod.
By the time they walked off to their own tasks, Stan’s chest felt a little lighter. The ache was still there—untouched, unspoken—but at least he wasn’t carryin’ it alone anymore.
The sky was overcast today. A thick layer of clouds like a dirty sheet pulled across the sky, with the threat of rain humming in the wind.
After the talk, Stanley had gathered his wits and focused solely on maintaining a good mood. For his crew, and for himself.
A captain on another ship called out Stan to take care of the docks for a while. He'll be out in a meeting in the headquarters, something about cargos and ships. Stan didn't mind though, his crew is well behaved— hopefully— and left his ship to supervise this one for a while.
Stan was at Dock C tightening the ropes on a shipping barge, knuckles scraped from an earlier fight with a jammed latch. His palms were black with grime. He was tired, sore, and trying not to spiral into another replay of that day at the Coffee Shop.
He heard yelling, a foreman— Gregory, the one with the eternal sunburn and megaphone voice— was shouting at the crew on the next slip.
“Engine mount’s off by two inches! We’re not pulling out until it’s realigned!”
Stan glanced over, expecting one of the local mechanics to show up.
Instead, a figure hopped the small boarding ramp and landed on the deck with practiced ease. Grease-streaked hoodie. Navy-blue tool belt slung around his hips. Hair pulled into a low bun and safety glasses tucked into his collar.
Fuck .
Stan’s chest went still.
It wasn’t the shock of seeing him this time, it was the reality of him, the solid presence, the dirt under his nails, the low muttering of someone who’d done this a thousand times.
Stan stepped back instinctively, stumbling into a crate of coiled cables. He ducked behind it, peeking over the top like a cartoon criminal.
It’s him.
Not a memory, not a flash, not a maybe.
He’s real, alive.
Within ten feet.
Stan’s heart beat so loud he was sure the seagulls heard it.
He watched, mesmerized, as his soulmate inspected the mount. He adjusted his grip on a wrench, elbow-deep in rust, squinting into the housing with laser focus. He cursed softly when a bolt didn’t budge, and Stan actually felt his knees wobble.
There was something criminally beautiful about it. The precision in his hands, the way he frowned in thought, the casual brilliance of someone who belonged in this world of metal and salt.
Stan had once dreamed of sailing the world to find his soulmate, turns out his soulmate already had callouses and an union ID.
He didn’t notice Stan.
Stan couldn’t speak, he couldn’t fucking move.
So he didn’t.
He watched.
Like a ghost .
When he was freshly deployed in this ship, he spent time with his new crew laughing and sharing stories.
And that includes his whole situation. He told them how he's only here for answers, confused, upset, and filled with questions with no right answers. A real goal, and the new crew admired his determination.
Stan stayed leaned against the rail, eyes fixed somewhere on the distant waves. He could still see it if he closed his eyes, the way the wind had blown his soulmate’s hair across his forehead, that small crease of concentration as he worked on a repair.
And Stan… well, Stan had just stood there like some lovesick deckhand with no idea what to do about it.
He didn’t hear footsteps until Jay came up beside him, tossing him a half-empty thermos.
“You look like someone just told you we ran outta coffee,” Jay said with a lopsided grin. “And then offered tea, you hate tea.”
Stan took the thermos, grateful for the excuse to look away.
“Just tired,” he muttered. “Long day.”
Lisa appeared next, climbing the ladder from below deck, her hair in a messy bun and a notepad tucked under her arm.
“Tired my ass. You’ve been starin’ out there like a lighthouse statue for twenty minutes,” she said, leaning on the rail. “What’s eatin’ you?”
Before Stan could think up another half-believable excuse, Darren joined them, chewing on a piece of licorice.
“ Maybe he’s seasick ,” Darren typed in his tablet. “ Or land-sick. Or—uh—love-sick? ”
Stan barked out a short laugh, hoping it sounded natural.
“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
Jay and Lisa traded a glance. Darren raised his hands like he was just making a harmless guess, but the way his eyes glinted told Stan they weren’t buying his deflection.
Jay leaned forward across the railing. “Your soulmate was here, wasn’t he?”
Stan froze mid sip.
Darren slowly raised his gadget to reveal a meme of a raccoon hugging a space heater, captioned: “ Me, emotionally clinging to unspoken trauma .”
Stan sighed.
Lisa leaned in. “Talk. Now.”
He stared at his sandwich like it might offer him an out.
“I didn't told you guys but I saw him again, at the cafe like a week ago.”
“Oohh so that’s why you were mopping around the floorboards.”
“I wasn’t mopping around—”
“You talked to him?” Jay cut him off.
Stanley opened his mouth the closing it as he realized that there was no way out of this.
“No. I bolted like a middle schooler who farted in class.”
Lisa sighed and scratched her head. “Charming visual.”
Stan rubbed his forehead. “And then today. He shows up as the engineer on the neighboring ship.”
Jay’s eyes widened. “No way, he’s an engineer?”
Stan nodded slowly. “He had a wrench. He swore at a stuck bolt. It was like— like watching poetry but in overalls.”
Darren handed him a new meme: a potato looking into a mirror captioned, “ Do I deserve happiness? ”
“So…” Lisa said. “What now? You gonna talk to him?”
Stan’s face twisted. “Would I like to remind you again that he’s married and has a kid?”
“That probably doesn’t mean he’s happy,” she said gently.
Jay nodded. “Look, man. People do weird stuff when they’re scared, maybe he settled, maybe he didn’t know.”
“I can’t just walk up and go, ‘ Hey, remember that psychic explosion that hit our brains? Wanna unpack that over coffee ?’”
Darren dramatically printed a new meme: a ship labeled “ FEELINGS ” sinking into an ocean labeled “ ME TRYING TO BE NORMAL .”
Lisa leaned back, folding her arms.
“Stan, You crossed the whole damn country for a reason. You left your ship, your old crew. If that guy’s the reason? You owe it to yourself to see if there’s still something there.”
Jay added, “And if he turns out to be a jerk, we’ll TP his office.”
Darren printed a thumbs-up.
Stan looked around the room. At the faces of people who weren’t his old crew, but who still felt like home and he smiled, not fully.
But for the first time in a while, it didn’t hurt.
So, he may or may not bargain with the other captain for a name. He didn't, probably, okay he did, but not in a creepy way. Promise.
He's desperate, okay? When he learned that his soulmate was working there part time. He immediately begged the other captain to reveal his name to him, not literally knees on the floor beg but like formally asked, and then begged when the other had taken suspicion of Stan.
Now, when the day turned night, Stanley Pines did something deeply, deeply dangerous.
He opened Facebook .
He sat at his little fold-out desk, in his one bedroom apartment in Westriver Hills, surrounded by unpacked boxes, a half-eaten sandwich, and the warm hum of quiet despair.
His phone sat face down next to him. His laptop, ancient and clunky, hummed with the weariness of a decade of service. It took six minutes just to boot up.
Stan cracked his knuckles, took a deep breath, and typed in the name:
Fiddleford H. McGucket.
Enter.
A dozen profiles came up, mostly meme pages and parody accounts (“ Fiddlesticks McGoober: The Legend Lives ”) but one caught his eye.
The profile photo was recent. The hair was longer, a little sun-bleached, same round glasses, same slightly crooked smile. It was him.
Stan clicked it.
Immediately, he was met with the stone wall of privacy settings.
This profile is private. Only friends can view full details .
“C’mon…” Stan muttered, clicking around.
The About section was sparse. No posts, no full photo albums. Just a profile picture, a cover photo of a sunset over the docks… and one word under Relationship Status.
Divorced.
Stan stared at it.
Then blinked, then stared again.
Divorced .
He read the word five times like it might change into something else.
And then something even more ridiculous happened.
He gasped.
Like a teenager.
Hands gripping the desk, he leaned in, heart hammering.
Divorced .
No ring in the photo, no wife in the cover photo.
Just him.
A laugh bubbled out of Stan’s throat, sharp and nervous.
Was this…good news?
No.
Wait.
Yes?
Maybe ?
He pressed both hands against his face. “Oh, god, I’m a creep.”
But also.
He’s divorced .
Which meant… things had changed.
Which meant… maybe— just maybe— Stan had a chance.
He clicked on the profile photo again. It was grainy up close. Looked like it had been taken on a pier, the wind catching his hair just so. His head was tilted, eyes squinting in the sun and a faintest crinkle near the corners of his smile.
Stan’s heart pulled taut like a sail catching wind, he clicked off the page and sat back in his chair, chest full of bees.
Two hours later, he was pacing his apartment.
“No, no, you’re not gonna stalk him. That’s crazy. You’re not some obsessive weirdo.”
He paused mid-stride. “Okay, technically you did look up his Facebook, LinkedIn, AND Pinterest—”
Pinterest had weirdly great woodworking pins .
“— but that doesn’t count.”
He turned to face the mirror above his kitchen sink.
“You’re just curious,” he told his reflection. “You’re not gonna do anything with the information.”
His reflection stared back, unimpressed, Stan glanced at his phone, then back to the mirror.
“Okay, but hypothetically,” he said, pointing, but the voice came out suspiciously like Ford, “if you happened to be in the area tomorrow… and if you just happened to pass by the dry dock where his company works—”
He groaned and dropped his head onto the countertop with a thunk .
“I am losing my mind .”
The next morning came, Stan dressed like he wasn’t planning to casually stalk someone.
Which, of course, meant he overcompensated. Leather jacket, new boots, aviator sunglasses he hadn’t worn since 2019.
He looked like he was auditioning for a failed Netflix reboot of Miami Vice .
“Cool,” he muttered to himself, glancing in the mirror. “Totally not suspicious.”
He stopped by the local coffee shop, not the one where he’d seen his soulmate before. That one was off-limits now, marked as sacred ground.
This one was newer, emptier. He ordered black coffee and sat by the window, pretending to read the news on his phone while definitely not checking the time every three minutes.
His excuse? He was, quote unquote, “ just checking out the dock layout .”
Just “ getting familiar with the work zone .”
Totally normal, absolutely not hovering around where he might pass by.
Stan took a long sip of coffee and grimaced. It tasted like battery acid and regret.
At one point, he actually did spot him.
Far off— maybe a hundred feet— Fiddleford walked across the dock with a clipboard in hand, talking with one of the managers. He wore a high-vis vest and steel-toe boots, and Stan watched him from the clear wall windows, clutching his coffee like it held the answers to life.
Go talk to him , part of him whispered.
No way , another part shouted.
You’ll come off like a lunatic!
He stared at the very clear windows again.
Fiddleford laughed at something the manager said. His hands moved when he spoke, expressive and bright.
Stan’s chest twisted, he stood up and backed away slowly from his seat, like someone defusing a bomb.
Idiot .
Back at home that night, he sat in the dark, eating cereal for dinner. He avoided talking to Fiddleford again.
Again.
Because what was he supposed to say?
“ Hey, I’m the guy who saw you once and had a full-blown cosmic soul-bond vision .”
Yeah. Great opener.
Stan dropped his spoon into the bowl with a sigh.
Outside, someone was mowing their lawn at 7 p.m. Like a criminal. He got up, walked into the tiny living room, and flopped face-first onto the couch.
The universe had given him a soulmate.
A soulmate who was real, and right here, and divorced, and somehow, it still didn’t make things any easier.
He crossed the country, left his ship, said goodbye to his crew, his family, his whole life...
And now?
He was living in an apartment with suspicious plumbing while falling in love in slow motion with someone who doesn't even realize it yet.
Stan let out a long groan into the couch cushions.
This is fine, this is normal, this is totally fine.
He rolled over and stared at the ceiling.
“I’m in so much trouble.”
The trouble started the next week.
Embarrassingly enough, he wrote down the experiences he had in his journal. Realistically, it frustrates him to no end.
From his entries, this is a number of his most embarrassing encounters he managed to add in his fucked up life.
Entry#1
Stan wasn’t trying to run into him. Not really. But somehow, every errand in Westriver Hills turned into a fresh opportunity for public humiliation. It was like the universe had decided to be his personal prank show host.
This morning, all he wanted was bread. One loaf. Maybe a box of cereal if it was on sale and came with a free toy. But there, in the bakery aisle, was him, Fiddleford, god his name sounds pretty . His soulmate. Wearing a hoodie while squinting at a tray of muffins like he was interrogating them for tax fraud.
Stan panicked and dove behind a display of discount baguettes, peeking between loaves like some kind of gluten-based spy.
“Okay,” he whispered, “just… wait till he’s gone, then you grab the bread, and—”
“Sir?” a voice said.
Stan froze.
The bakery employee was staring at him like she’d caught him feeding secrets to the cinnamon bread.
“Are you… hiding in the bread?”
He flinched so hard that a baguette slid off the shelf and thwacked him on the head with a hollow BONK .
“Just… uh… checking for freshness,” he mumbled, which somehow made it sound creepier.
The employee blinked, nodded slowly, and backed away like she’d just spotted a wild animal she didn’t want to spook.
By the time Stan dared to peek out, Fiddleford had already walked past him, blissfully unaware, muffins in hand, hoodie hood up like some breakfast-themed outlaw. Stan left with a single hot dog bun he didn’t remember picking up.
Entry#2
It was Saturday. Sun was shining, fresh produce was everywhere, and Stan had told himself he was there purely for local support.
Then, three stalls down, he spotted that familiar mop of sun-bleached hair under an old worn out baseball cap.
This time, he decided to be bold. Casual. Totally natural. He’d just… wander over, maybe ask about the tomatoes—
“FREE SAMPLES!”
A vendor yelled right into his ear, shoving a toothpick of vegan cheese under his nose.
Stan jumped so hard the toothpick went flying, straight into the strawberry basket Fiddleford was fucking holding.
Fiddleford glanced down, confused, fished out the toothpick, and muttered something to the vendor.
Stan, panic surging, spun around and speed-walked into the crowd like a man fleeing a crime scene.
He bought three zucchinis out of guilt. He doesn’t even like zucchini.
Entry#3
It was raining, Stan ducked into a little café on the corner. The place smelled like espresso, wet coats, and just a hint of burnt toast that someone was clearly pretending didn’t exist.
He ordered a black coffee, turned—
—straight into Fiddleford.
For a split second, their eyes met. Stan’s brain immediately blue-screened. Every clever greeting, every casual “oh hey, fancy seeing you here” he’d practiced in the mirror, gone.
Replaced by a single, brain-cell-clattering sentence.
“...Bean juice’s good here.”
Fiddleford blinked. “Uh… yeah?”
Before Stan could attempt damage control, the barista bellowed his name like they were announcing a fugitive at large. He grabbed his coffee and bolted so fast he practically left an afterimage, looking for all the world like a man fleeing the IRS.
So yeah, maybe not his proudest moments.
By the end of the week, Stan was sitting on his couch again, staring at his ceiling like it had personally wronged him.
Every near-encounters. Zero actual conversations. He was starting to think the universe didn’t want them to talk until he hit rock bottom, or possibly until the next leap year.
He groaned and shoved a pillow over his face.
From outside, the neighbor’s kid yelled something about Wi-Fi being down. The pipes in his bathroom made a noise like a dying walrus. His life was falling apart in the most specific way possible.
Still…
Every time he saw Fiddleford—across the aisle, through the rain, even for a split second—Stan felt that same cosmic pull.
And that was the real problem. Because he was running out of places to “ accidentally ” bump into him without needing a restraining order.
Stan liked to think he was prepared for most things.
Unruly crew? Handled.
Storm surge off Baja? Piece of cake.
Engine failure mid run with two tons of poorly labeled agricultural equipment? Tuesday afternoon.
What he was not prepared for was walking into the morning crew briefing and seeing Fiddleford Hadron McGucket’s name on the transfer list.
At first, it meant nothing. Just another tech from the marine mechanics rotation.
“Looks like we’re gettin’ a temporary engineer,” Jay muttered, scrolling through his tablet. “Someone named...‘Hadron’?”
Stan’s brain didn’t register it at first. Didn't heard it actually, just hummed and continue on sipping his morning coffee. He thought it's probably just a random tech, a new guy.
Some twenty-something straight out of trade school, full of energy drinks and misplaced confidence.
But then—
Boots echoed on the gangway, Stan turned.
Crap .
He's here.
Wearing a charcoal-gray hoodie and coveralls, tool belt slung low across his hips, safety glasses perched on his nose. Hair tied back, hands already stained with grease. He strolled onto the ship like he’d done it a hundred times, and honestly, he actually had.
Stan’s stomach fell through the deck.
Jay whistled under his breath. “Wow, guess the universe had some great taste for ya.”
Lisa raised an eyebrow. “Is that him, Stan?”
“I— uh,” Stan choked, backing away. “No idea. Never seen that man in my life. I’ll be in my office.”, and just like that, he disappeared up the stairs.
For the next two hours, Stanley hid in the bridge.
Officially, he was reviewing shipping manifests and plotting fuel estimates. Unofficially, he was pacing, talking to himself, and opening his filing cabinet just to close it again dramatically.
“He’s on my ship. Why is he on my ship?!”
He pointed an accusing finger at the air.
“You said you wanted closure,” he muttered to himself.
“Yeah, but I didn’t want it trapped in a floating tin can with him for eight hours a day!”
He opened the mini fridge, stared at the yogurt, and closed it again. Then flopped into his chair and groaned so loudly that Darren, below deck, sent him a meme of Kermit falling down the stairs.
Stan sighed. This is his chance to be closer to him, burn down his journal about the near encounters he had with him and run away with his soulmate hand in hand towards the sunset of blazing love eternally.
Because let’s be honest, avoiding Fiddleford wouldn’t last forever, and sure enough, fate came knocking or rather buzzing.
His radio crackled.
“Cap,” Lisa’s voice came through, amused. “We’ve got an engine maintenance backlog. Figured you might want to oversee it yourself especially since, you know, we’ve got an actual engineer aboard now.”
Stan’s eye twitched. “Lisa, you traitor.”
“See you in the engine room at ten.”
Stan tried to play it cool as he entered the lower deck. He wore his gloves, his jacket, and his professional captain's face.
And it didn’t help.
Fiddleford was already there, crouched beside the engine, elbow-deep in an access panel. He glanced up briefly as Stan entered.
No lightning, no cosmic montage.
Just... that tug, like a magnet humming beneath his ribs.
Stan cleared his throat. “Hey. Uh, I’m Stanley, the captain. You must be the new engineer?”
Fiddleford didn’t look up. “Fiddleford. You can call me Fidds if you want.”
“Cool, cool... uh, Fidds.”
He wanted to slap himself.
They got to work in tense silence. Stan checked the gaskets, Fiddleford replaced seals, muttering occasionally under his breath about poor maintenance schedules and corrosion.
Stan tried not to stare.
It was difficult. Fiddleford worked efficiently, sleeves rolled to his elbows, shoulders flexing every time he reached for a new tool. There was a kind of grace to it, fluid motion honed by years of practice.
And yet he wasn’t flashy, no arrogance, just quiet focus and steady hands.
Why are you like this?
Stan screams internally.
Why are you even better up close?
“Pass me the 14-millimeter?” Fiddleford asked, not looking.
Stan startled, immediately grabbing the tool instinctively. “Right, Yeah.”
He handed it over, their fingers brushed, and for a heartbeat, everything paused.
Fiddleford looked up, eyes meeting Stan’s.
No flashes, no explosions.
Just a slow, thick moment like time melted between them, and a subtle tug behind Stan’s sternum.
Fiddleford blinked. “I— have we met before?”
Yes.
Wait.
No.
Stan forced a smile, burrying his thoughts. The coffee he drank earlier gave him enough to speak his damn mind.
“Maybe in another life.”
Fiddleford’s laugh was soft, almost private.
“That’s one way to flirt.”
Stan shrugged, his voice rough. “Is it working?”
Holy shit what am I doing.
Fiddleford rolled his eyes, but a blush bloomed across the tips of his ears.
They kept working in silence, but this time, it wasn’t tense, it was heavy.
Hopeful .
An hour later, they sat side-by-side on the open hatch.
Stan sipped from a water bottle. Fiddleford wiped his face with a rag.
“Good crew,” Fiddleford said finally.
Stan nodded. “Yeah, they’re a handful but loyal.”
Fiddleford glanced at him. “You always captain? Or was there a story?”
Stan hesitated. Then said, “Used to lead some crew back in New Jersey, transferred here, looking for someone.”
Fiddleford raised an eyebrow. “Find them yet?”
Stan looked away. “Still figuring that out.”
I already did.
Silence again.
But I'm not sure if you have found me yet.
“I used to be married.”, Fiddleford said, almost too casually.
Stan’s head snapped up.
Fiddleford’s expression was unreadable. “Didn’t work out, no fights. Just... wasn’t right, and we both knew why.”
Stan stared at him, heart racing.
“She’s a good person,” Fiddleford continued. “We just weren’t meant to last.”
Stan’s voice came out hoarse. “I’m sorry.”
Fiddleford shrugged. “Don’t be, it led me here.”
They locked eyes again, this time, there was a flicker . Not a vision but a spark, a recognition.
Fiddleford tilted his head, searching Stan’s face like he was trying to remember a dream.
And Stan— brave, stupid Stan— held his gaze, for about three seconds.
Then his brain screamed.
RETREAT. RETREAT IMMEDIATELY .
Stan’s heart jackhammered. His stomach flipped like a tossed coin, his palms were sweating inside some gloves he wasn’t even wearing. He shot to his feet so fast the rag on his lap flew across the room.
“ Well-this-has-been-fun-okay-gotta-go-back-to-captain stuff!”, he blurted, saluting to no one in particular.
“Charts! Boats! Papers with numbers on them!”
Fiddleford blinked. “Uh… okay?”
Stan backed towards the ladder, hitting his shin on the edge of a crate with a loud thunk . “Perfectly normal behavior! I’ll just, you know, let you keep wrenching things, engineer style.”
Fiddleford gave a half-smile, visibly confused but too polite to press. “Sure, I’ll finish replacing the manifold seals.”
Stan gave a double thumbs-up and practically fled, disappearing through the hatch and up the stairs with all the grace of a raccoon in a rainstorm.
Once alone in the hallway, he slumped against the bulkhead, hands slammed towards his face as he turned red from embarrassment. He whispered and screamed at himself.
WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ASSHOLE .
Stan and Fiddleford became… something.
Not quite friends, not quite strangers either.
They were something in between, something undefined, something full of stolen glances and half finished thoughts.
They worked together on and off at the docks. Fiddleford usually had a wrench in hand and Stan usually had a reason to linger nearby and ask dumb questions he already knew the answers to.
“What's that thing do again?” Stan asked once, pointing at an engine component he knew was a fuel filter.
Fiddleford raised an eyebrow, smiling. “You’re the captain, and you’re asking me about your ship’s fuel line?”
Stan gave him a mock-serious look. “I like to delegate, builds character.”
Fiddleford snorted. “Builds plausible deniability when the ship explodes, more like.”
They laughed, the weird thing was it felt natural.
It all started with a busted alternator.
Fiddleford had been working on his truck at the end of a long shift, cursing under his breath when Stan strolled over with a towel over one shoulder.
He watched as Fiddleford tried to hold something in the other as he screwed a nut.
Stanley looked behind him to see his crew already leaving the dock, waving at each other. He also thought that Fiddleford could handle that. Of course he can. He’s an engineer for Moses' sake.
But the way Fiddleford furrowed his brows in frustration when a bolt doesn't comply to his wishes made Stan think fuck it .
“Need a hand?”
Fiddleford looked up, hair sticking to his forehead, and shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt.”
Stan rolled up his sleeves.
It was like the most natural thing in the world.
By the time they finished, it was dark and their hands were black with grease. Fiddleford waved his phone.
“You like sci-fi?”
Stan blinked. “Is that a trick question?”
Fiddleford grinned. “You’re invited to movie night. I owe you one, Cap.”
Something bubbled inside Stan's chest, the way Fiddleford smiled at him with ease, the way his eyes turned half-lidded when he spoke. Stan couldn't control the pulsing hot blood radiating in his veins, he felt like it was going to burst.
He agreed, went home to rinse off the bile in his body, then drove towards Fiddleford's neighborhood after he pinged his location, and knocked.
The first night he showed up, Stan had lingered awkwardly at the door, holding a six-pack of root beer and a bag of chips like a teenager visiting his crush’s house.
Fiddleford had opened the door barefoot, wearing a soft cardigan and looking unfairly huggable.
“This is casual, right?” Stan asked.
Fiddleford blinked. “What would it be otherwise?”
Stan cleared his throat. “Right, totally chill.”
Inside, the house was warm, lived in. There were drawings pinned to the fridge, a stack of engineering textbooks next to the couch, and a handmade throw blanket that looked suspiciously crocheted.
That one movie turned into two.
Then three.
Stan always told himself it was because Tate liked having someone else around. The kid immediately curled up next to him on the couch, armed with popcorn and doodles.
He never questioned it, just let the warmth spread through his chest every time Tate tugged on his sleeve and whispered, “Uncle Stan, you gotta see this robot!”
Stan tried not to think about how much it all felt like home.
Their conversations got easier, after Tate went to bed, they stayed up watching more old sci-fi films and arguing about the ethics of cloning or wormhole physics.
Stan would joke, and Fiddleford would roll his eyes, but his lips always twitched.
“You’re lucky you’re funny,” Fiddleford had said once the credits rolled.
Stan grinned. “Is that your way of saying I’m dumb?”
Fiddleford leaned back on the couch, one hand behind his head. “Not dumb, just loud.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain volume .”
As the one day of movie night turned into a nightly routine.
Stanley would arrive wearing different sets of pajamas that would make Fiddleford laugh, bringing in some sweets for Tate and pillows and blankets.
But underneath the comfort was something else.
Tension.
It lived in the way Stan’s hand would brush Fiddleford's when they reached for the popcorn. In the way Fiddleford would glance at him when he laughed too hard at one of Stan’s jokes, like he wasn’t sure why it made him so happy.
Stan felt it most when Tate curled into his side and whispered, “ Dad only laughs like that when you’re here .” and Stan’s heart would ache.
One night, they sat on the front steps after watching a show, Tate asleep upstairs.
Fiddleford handed Stan a beer. “Thanks for coming, again.”
Stan smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it, besides, I enjoyed Tate's random fun facts.”
They sat in silence for a moment, crickets chirping.
Fiddleford rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been a while since the house felt full.”
Stan hesitated, then asked quietly, “Do you miss her?”
There was a long pause.
Fiddleford answered without looking up. “No, I miss what I thought we had. Not her.”
Stan nodded. “Yeah, I get that.”
Fiddleford glanced at him, eyes soft. “Sometimes I think I was waiting for something else, something I didn’t have words for.”
Stan’s stomach flipped.
He looked away, afraid of what his face might reveal.
“Have you ever met them?”
Fiddleford asked, Stanley isn't sure to answer.
“..Not yet..”
It's you.
Mcgucket hummed in understanding, pulling up to his knees to hug it as he watched the night twinkle above.
“Would you be weirded out if I told you that Emma’s not my soulmate?”
It piqued Stan's interest, listening intently as he watched Fiddleford glow underneath the night polluted sky.
“No, if you had your reasons.”
He laughed, shoulders bounced slightly as he hunched further. His smile slowly turned into a frown, a scene where Stan wants to wipe it from his mind.
“Mama and Papa kept pesterin’ me about it. They were afraid that I wouldn't see it, that I won't see the moment . This whole wretched soulmate thing tore my life apart.”
Stanley's chest tightens, to think that you'll force your own child because you're scared? Of what? Being different from others?
Meeting your soulmate should be magical, a heap of a moment where you two bask in the joy of finding one another.
Stanley looked towards the ground, the guilt spreading over his body. He was here dreaming about this mystical moment to finally be recognized by his soulmate, and Fiddleford’s here suffering from it. It ate him alive.
“Then I met Emma, kind and sweet. I shouldn't have brought her into this mess, we understand the stakes that could've been made if we married each other, we were in love, but we weren't soulmates.”
Fiddleford clenched his pants tightly, Stan only listened.
“What happened?”, Stanley cautiously asked, his brain hammering from his mind and telling him to shut up.
Fiddleford went silent, he didn't look hurt, just empty.
“She found hers.”
And that's all the words taken from Fiddleford to make Stanley's stomach quench in something he doesn’t understand. That's wrong, unfair, to think you loved someone for the rest of your life to only vanish in front of your eyes.
Stanley didn't know what to say but stayed quiet. He sat with him, radiating warmth that Fiddleford yearns. No one said anything, just watched as the night turned darker and lights started turning off.
A week later, Stan found himself at the docks again, distracted as he hauled a cable line and nearly walked straight into a stack of crates.
Lisa watched him from the shadows of the tool shed, arms crossed.
Jay leaned in beside her. “So, When do we start placing bets?”
“ I say they kiss before the month’s out ,” Darren typed into his tablet and flashed a meme: two penguins huddled under a heart-shaped umbrella.
Lisa narrowed her eyes. “I say Stan implodes from emotional constipation before either of them makes a move.”
Jay grinned. “He did drop a socket wrench when Fiddleford complimented his jacket.”
“Classic Pines,” Lisa said. “Can’t fix his engine or his feelings.”
Stan caught them whispering during lunch.
“What?” he asked, raising a brow.
“Nothing,” Jay said quickly, holding up a wrench like it was a peace offering.
Lisa smiled. “You seeing Fiddleford again tonight?”
Stan hesitated. “Maybe.”
Darren handed him a printed meme: a raccoon with heart eyes captioned “ ME WHEN THEY FINALLY HOLD HANDS .”
Stan flushed. “We’re not— it’s not, he’s!— I'm still mentally preparing myself to tell him!”
Lisa snorted. “When, Cap? If the Pacific turned into a puddle?”
Stan muttered something about “ nosy coworkers ” and retreated.
Later that evening, Stan sat in Fiddleford’s driveway with Tate curled up in his lap, showing off his drawings.
“This one’s a pirate robot,” Tate explained proudly. “He has a laser sword and a parrot.”
Stan grinned. “He’s awesome, you’re really good at this, kid.”
Tate beamed. “Dad says I draw better when I’m happy.”
Stan looked towards the front door, Fiddleford was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching them.
His expression was strange, warm, fond, afraid to believe in something but didn’t know if he could.
Stan’s heart squeezed.
In his house, Stan lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan.
He felt it again, that pull , that low hum under his ribs.
It wasn’t the same as the cinematic flash that first day in the train station, it was subtler now, quieter but it was there.
He has to feel it too. Right?
Stan closed his eyes and dreamed of soft laughter, starry porches, and the way Fiddleford’s eyes shone when he smiled.
A few days later, the crew got a last-minute delivery assignment — a short run down the coast to drop off specialized parts at a harbour two towns over.
“Shouldn’t take more than a day,” Lisa said, tossing the manifest onto Stan’s desk.
“Fiddleford’s riding along to make sure the parts don’t get knocked out of alignment. Or whatever engineers worry about.”
Stan coughed into his coffee. “Great. Fantastic. Love that for me— I mean, for the ship. Us, because, uh, the ship. Yeah .”
Lisa only raised a brow.
The morning was cool and bright when they cast off. Fiddleford was already aboard, checking the cargo straps with his usual quiet focus. Stan lingered at the rail pretending to “oversee,” but really he was just watching how Fiddleford’s sleeves kept sliding down his forearms when he tightened a strap.
He turned away when Lisa caught him looking.
They reached the harbour by late afternoon, the sky painted in gold and peach. Dockworkers unloaded the crates while Stan signed off on paperwork.
“Everything’s good on my end,” Fiddleford said, stepping up beside him. “Figured I’d walk around while they finish.”
Stan tried for casual. “Yeah, I’ll, uh… join you. For captain reasons. Gotta… inspect the, uh, harbour integrity.”
If Fiddleford noticed how Stan nearly tripped over the gangplank in his hurry to follow, he didn’t say anything.
The harbour town was small, paint peeling on shop signs, the smell of fried fish drifting from a weathered snack stand.
Fiddleford pointed out old boats with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for rare comic books. Stan nodded along, even though he didn’t know a single thing about “pre-’40s rivet placement.”
When they passed a stand selling fried clams, Stan moved fast.
“I’m paying,” he said firmly.
“You don’t have to—”
“Crew morale expenses,” Stan cut in, shoving a bill at the vendor.
They ate by the railing, gulls circling above. Stan was hyper-aware of the way their elbows kept brushing.
“This place feels… still,” Fiddleford said after a while, gaze fixed on the water. “Like nothing’s changed in decades.”
Stan watched him in the fading light, the soft curve of his smile, the way the breeze pushed his hair into a mess. He wanted to say something— stay here with me , maybe— but something different came out.
“You, uh… got clam sauce on your hoodie.”
Fiddleford glanced down, swiped at the spot, and smiled faintly. “Happens every time I eat these things. Guess that’s why I stick to overalls at work.”
Stan made a strangled sound that was supposed to be a laugh.
“Yeah. Overalls. Good choice. Sturdy.”
They wandered through a quiet street, past shuttered shops and strings of lights that hadn’t been turned on yet. When Fiddleford stopped to peer into a bait shop window, Stan found himself just… standing there, soaking in the easy warmth of the moment.
“You ever been here before?” Stan asked.
“Nope,” Fiddleford said, still looking at the fishing lures. “But I wouldn’t mind coming back. Nice view, good clams, and pretty sunset.”
Stan’s pulse tripped over itself.
He means the sky, you idiot. Don’t get ideas.
They walked back to the dock with the sun dipping low behind them. Their shoulders brushed again. This time, Stan didn’t move away and Fiddleford didn’t seem to notice at all.
Lisa was waiting when they boarded.
“Enjoyed your inspection , Captain?” she asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Strictly professional,” Stan muttered, heading for the bridge before she could see the grin tugging at his mouth.
They set off just as the last of the sunlight slid under the horizon, the water turning dark and glassy. Stan took the wheel while Fiddleford checked over the cargo straps one last time.
About twenty minutes into the trip back, the first cold raindrops hit the wheelhouse windows.
Stan squinted up at the clouds.
“Wasn’t supposed to rain tonight.”
Fiddleford reappeared on deck wearing his hoodie again, unfazed by the drizzle.
“It’s just a passing squall, nothin’ t’worry about.”
The drizzle, of course, became a steady rain within minutes. Lisa stuck her head out of the hatch, waving them both toward the sheltered walkway along the cabin.
Stan started to head inside, but Fiddleford just tugged his hood up and kept working on a strap that had loosened.
“Hey, you’ll get soaked!” Stan called over the rain.
Fiddleford glanced back, smiling like it was no big deal.
“It’s just water, Cap!”
Stan groaned, grabbed the nearest tarp, and jogged over. He held it above them both, awkwardly crouching to keep it from flapping away in the wind.
“You could at least pretend to have self-preservation,” Stan muttered.
“I am preserving something,” Fiddleford said, tightening the strap with a click. “These boxes are worth more than my truck.”
Stan had to bite back the first answer in his head.
Yeah, but you’re worth more than both .
By the time they finished, the rain had eased into a mist. The tarp was dripping, Stan’s sleeves were wet, and Fiddleford still looked maddeningly content, like a man who’d just enjoyed a stroll in the garden instead of fixing cargo in a storm.
They made their way back to the wheelhouse together, Stan holding the tarp over both their heads until the very last step inside. Their shoulders bumped the whole way, and every time it happened, Stan’s brain lit up like faulty wiring.
Once inside, Fiddleford shook his hoodie out and grinned.
“See? Barely even wet.”
Stan stared at the damp hair curling at the edge of Fiddleford’s jawline.
“Yeah. Lucky you.”
Fiddleford went to check on the engine, oblivious as ever. Stan leaned against the bulkhead, watching him disappear down the ladder, and realized his own chest felt… lighter.
Not because the rain had stopped.
Because, for just a second, they’d been walking under the same cover, close enough that Stan could hear the steady rhythm of Fiddleford’s breath over the sound of the sea.
And Fiddleford hadn’t noticed.
Which, for now, was exactly how Stan needed it to be.
Then came the shift.
The actual shift, not the soul-crushing kind where your engine kicks the bucket halfway to the designated location.
A new shipping contract rolled in, high volume, tight turnaround, strict inspection deadlines. Corporate had signed it with the kind of optimism that made Lisa groan into her clipboard and mutter, “ This is going to kill us. ”
And she wasn’t wrong.
Every department was stretched thin. Stan spent sixteen hours on his feet most days, skipping meals and pushing his crew harder than ever. Sleep became optional. Laughter became rare, and smiles— especially his— became strained shadows of themselves.
In the shuffle, someone— maybe Lisa, maybe a foreman from upper dock— decided Fiddleford should be reassigned from external mechanical rotation to Stan’s main crew.
Just for the duration of the contract.
“More efficient this way,” Lisa explained over lunch, mouth full of sandwich. “Cuts down time and walk cycles. Besides, you two already work well together.”
Stan nearly choked on his coffee.
At first, it was manageable. Sure, working elbow to elbow with your soulmate-who-definitely-might-not-know-he’s-your-soulmate was already emotionally dangerous.
But add tight deadlines, heavy equipment, and back to back fourteen hour days? It was a miracle no one lost a limb.
Their first argument was small, a misunderstanding.
“Fidds. I said, replace the secondary bolts, not re-torque them.”
Fiddleford looked up from the machinery, forehead gleaming with sweat. “Yeah, and I told you those bolts didn’t need replacing. They're solid, re-torquing was faster.”
“I’m the one who signs off on inspection, and if they fail mid-run, I get blamed.”
“If you’re not gonna trust my judgment, maybe I shouldn’t be on this job.”
The silence that followed felt like a snapped line.
Jay whistled from the corner. “Oookay. Tense in here.”
Lisa raised her eyes from the clipboard. “Tell me if someone’s bleeding or catching fire before I care.”
Stan mumbled something under his breath and stormed out.
From there, it got worse. They didn’t speak unless absolutely necessary.
Fiddleford handed him reports without eye contact, Stan returned them with stiff nods. They passed each other like ghosts on deck, close enough to brush shoulders, but never touching.
Stan hated it.
He hated the silence, hated the space. He hated how much he wanted Fiddleford to look at him again.
The worst part?
He didn’t know why it happened.
Was it something he said? Did he cross a line?
Had Fiddleford remembered something he hadn’t?
The confusion was worse than the anger, because if he could understand it, he could fix it.
But instead, Stan was left with the gnawing sense that he’d been shut out of a room without being told what door he’d walked through.
Of course, this doesn't go by unnoticed by the whole crew.
“They argue like an old married couple,” Lisa said casually while checking the winch cables.
“More like divorced,” Jay added, watching them from the loading crane. “All that unresolved tension? Whew.”
Darren, naturally, printed a meme of two otters glaring at each other in the rain, captioned: “ Mutual spite, or foreplay ?”
Stan overheard them once while walking past the break area. He didn’t said anything, just gritted his teeth and kept walking.
The crew tiptoed around it, even as the blowups got louder.
“Are you seriously gonna override the diagnostic I ran?!” Fiddleford shouted one afternoon in the engine room.
“Your diagnostic missed the coolant leak we’ve had for three weeks!” Stan snapped back.
“Maybe because someone keeps skipping full cycle restarts!”
“Because we’re on a schedule and someone thought it was a great idea to recalibrate the timing rods mid-run!”
Stan and Fiddleford stared at each other, breathing hard, then both turned away.
Stan found himself avoiding break rooms, sitting alone in his office, nursing lukewarm coffee and trying not to picture that look Fiddleford used to give him during movie nights. That soft, open look, like he trusted him. Like he liked being around him.
Now?
Fiddleford wouldn’t even meet his eye.
He had tried to talk to him once.
Late one evening, after most of the crew had cleared out. The sky outside the porthole was inky blue and the engine bay was quiet.
Fiddleford was finishing up a bolt check on the starboard housing. Stan approached slowly, hands in his pockets.
“Hey,” he started, voice low. “You got a second?”
Fiddleford didn’t stop working.
Stan tried again.
“Look, I— can we clear the air? I don’t know what I did, but—”
“I don’t wanna talk right now, Stan.”
And just like that, the door closed again.
Stan nodded, throat tight. “Yeah, okay.”
He walked away. Stupidly, cowardly.
At night, back in his apartment, he lay on the couch with the TV playing something forgettable.
Tate’s robot drawings still sat folded in his jacket pocket.
He hadn’t seen the kid in weeks.
No movie nights, no couch hangs, no warmth.
Just silence, and distance.
Stan pressed a hand over his chest and muttered to the ceiling, “Why’d I come all this way if it was just to lose you again?”
No one answered.
The tension bled into everything. Work slowed, reports stacked, the crew’s jokes became quieter, more awkward.
Lisa pulled him aside one afternoon by the lockers. “You know this thing between you two? It’s making the ship weird.”
Stan looked down. “I know.”
“Then fix it.”
“I don’t know how.”
Lisa sighed. “Then try.”
Lisa's voice haunted him like an angel on his shoulders.
Try .
Sure .
It's not like what I've been doing since last week.
Stan called for a full engine rundown before the next departure. It was overdue, and the corporate would be watching. He needed it done fast, clean, and perfect.
He needed Fiddleford.
But when they ended up working shoulder to shoulder again, the old rhythm was gone. Stan second guessed every move while Fiddleford snapped at every instruction.
An hour in, it all boiled over.
“You’re hovering,” Fiddleford huffed, wiping oil off his hands.
“I’m supervising.”
“You’re micromanaging.”
“Well excuse me for wanting to make sure we don’t get fined for another faulty calibration!”
“I’ve been an engineer longer than you’ve been captain, Stan. Maybe let me do my job.”
Stan’s jaw clenched.
“Then maybe do it without acting like you hate breathing the same air.”
Fiddleford froze, then slowly stood up, wiping his hands.
“I don’t hate you, Stanley. I just don’t know what you want from me.”
And then he walked out.
Leaving Stan alone, jaw tight, heart thudding.
And finally, finally realizing that whatever they were— whatever they could’ve been— was now fraying beyond recognition.
Great .
After what happened yesterday, it bursted.
The deadline was brutal. Everything had to be flawless.
He needed an engineer, and he hated that he did.
Stan radioed him without a greeting.
“Meet me in the engine room. Now.”
Fiddleford showed up ten minutes later, sleeves rolled, hair in a rushed bun, tension bristling off him like static.
The silence between them was louder than the tools.
For the first thirty minutes, they worked side by side, not speaking unless spoken to. Stan handed off parts without eye contact, Fiddleford answered questions with clipped words.
The air felt charged, the kind of pressure that built before a storm.
Then Stan reached to re-check a part Fiddleford had already marked off, Fiddleford slapped his hand away.
“Would you stop doing that?”
Stan blinked. “Doing what?”
“Breathing down my neck! I marked it. It’s fine.”
Stan crossed his arms. “I’m checking because if we screw this up, my ass is on the line. Maybe if you stopped acting like you’re the only one who knows what they’re doing—”
“Oh, give me a break!” Fiddleford snapped, throwing down the wrench.
“You’ve been riding my case for weeks! You don’t trust me, you don’t talk to me, and now suddenly you care about teamwork?”
Stan’s eyes narrowed. “You think I don’t trust you? You’ve been shutting me out since last week.”
“Because every time we talk, you look at me like I owe you something!”
“Maybe I’m trying to figure out what the hell happened between us!”
The words echoed off the metal walls.
A pause. Then Fiddleford spoke, low and furious, “You want to know what happened?”
“Yes! I do! One minute we’re watching movies and you’re laughing at my dumb jokes, and the next you won’t even look at me.”
Fiddleford threw his hands in the air. “Maybe I don’t want to feel like that anymore!”
Stan stepped back like he’d been slapped.
“Feel like what?”
“Like I can’t tell where we stand! Like every damn second with you is some guessing game I’m too tired to play!”
Their voices were raised now, carried through the bulkheads.
Lisa, up on the main deck, slowly lowered her clipboard. Jay popped his head out of the hatch. Darren silently held up his tablet with a freshly printed meme: “ My two dads are fighting again .”
Back in the engine room, Stan's fists clenched. “You could’ve just said that instead of icing me out.”
Fiddleford’s voice cracked. “I tried. You didn’t hear it.”
Stan took a step forward.
“Then say it now.”
“I don’t want to talk right now, Stan!”
“Well too damn bad, because I’m sick of walking on eggshells around you!”
“You think this is easy for me?!”
“You think this is easy for me ?! You think I enjoy pretending I don’t care whether you talk to me or not?!”
The engine room felt too small, too tight. Too full of years of feelings that had never been named.
“You were the one who invited me in, Mcgucket!” Stan’s voice was shaking. “You let me in! You— you let me laugh with your kid. Sit on your couch. And now I don’t even know if I’m allowed to say your name without you flinching like I hit you!”
Fiddleford’s hands were trembling.
“I didn’t ask you to come that close!”
“Then why the hell did it feel like home?!”
That one hit.
Fiddleford’s face stiffened, his shoulders fell.
“I don’t know,” he whispered, bitter. “And that’s the problem.”
A beat of silence. Fiddleford turned, climbed the ladder, and left without another word.
Stan stood there. Alone, in the hum of the engine.
Heart pounding, chest hollow. And around the ship— above, below, behind— no one said a damn thing. It never felt quieter.
What does that even mean?
After Fiddleford left, the silence in the ship was unnatural. It wasn’t like the hum of steel and turbine lull that always filled the corridors, this was deeper, an absence.
Stan stood alone, jaw tight, chest still heaving. He hadn’t meant to yell. Not like that, not where everyone could hear, and definitely not to him.
“Idiot,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “What the hell did you just do?”
He tried to keep it together the rest of the day. But every shift on deck, every crossed path, every radio call that didn’t come, it all felt like needles.
Fiddleford didn’t even show up for the final inspection, Lisa took his place.
“He needed air,” she said simply when Stan raised a brow.
Stan didn’t push, didn’t ask, didn’t want to hear what she was saying.
He was still replaying the argument in his head that night, slumped on the couch in his dark apartment, TV flickering on mute.
That final look on Fiddleford’s face. The crack in his voice.
“ I didn’t ask you to come that close .”
But he had, hadn’t he?
Movie nights, innocent little Tate. Did those little moments meant nothing?
Stan dropped his head into his hands. He had come all this way for one reason. To find the person he saw in that impossible flash of lives.
And somehow, now that he had him in front of him... he’d gone and driven him away.
The rain came in sideways that night. Not hard, just constant, like the sky couldn’t figure out whether it wanted to cry or spit.
The docks creaked beneath the wind, the ship rocked gently in its slip, and Stanley sat in his office, staring at the same spreadsheet he’d been ignoring for an hour.
He hadn’t seen Fiddleford all day.
Not since the confession. Not since that damn near unbearable conversation where all of the pieces almost made sense.
Stan couldn’t let it stay there, unfinished. Not when it all felt like a storm he couldn’t sail through unless he understood what was waiting on the other side.
So he clicked his radio.
“Mcgucket? Can you come to the bridge? Now.”
A pause.
Then a static.
“... On my way .”
Stan stood.
He didn’t panic, didn’t fidget. He just waited, chest tight, mind racing.
The door creaked open after five minutes.
Fiddleford stepped inside, rain-slick jacket slung over one shoulder, glasses perched on his head, hair damp and curling at the edges. He looked tired, beautiful, haunted.
“Is there something you need, Captain Pines?” he asked cautiously.
Stan’s jaw flexed at the name given. “Close the door.”
Fiddleford hesitated, then obeyed, the latch clicking into place.
When he turned, his eyes were guarded.
“…”
Stan moved from behind the desk, slow and deliberate.
“I can’t keep doing this.”
Fiddleford stilled mid-step, eyes flicking up but not moving closer.
“I need to know what this is,” Stan said, voice low and steady. “Between us.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut through bone.
Fiddleford bit his lips, fidgeting his hands while avoiding his gaze. “I don’t—”
“No.” Stan cut him off, and didn't let him speak. “No more half explanations. No more silence.”
Stan rubbed a hand over his face, wondering if he should just throw the words out and damn the consequences. His fists clenched at his sides.
“I saw you.”
A heavy pause ate the air, Fiddleford only listened. He's not moving, only watched.
“That day, I saw you. The flashes came—”
Fiddleford glanced up, his eyes wide with dread.
“It triggered it, you triggered it. Every version of us went in my eye in a blink. You looked happy, we looked happy.”
Fiddleford’s expression shifted from shock to guilt, and then something heavier, something that hurts to see.
“I don’t know what we are, or what that makes us.” Fiddleford said.
Stan blinked, every word that he wanted to say died down his throat.
Fiddleford stepped forward, gaze fixed on the floor. “I don’t know if we’re friends, or if we were supposed to be something else. Or if I just wanted that so bad to be true that I made it up in my head.”
Stan stayed quiet, didn’t even dare to interrupt.
Fiddleford’s hands trembled as he paced. “But I know that something’s been off since the beginning, since the first time I heard your voice.”
Stan’s heart stopped.
Fiddleford didn’t seem to notice.
“It happened to me too, Stan,” he whispered.
Stan’s breath caught. “You…had it?”
“I heard you.” Fiddleford’s voice cracked, soft and brittle. “It was years ago. I was working on a ship in Charleston, fixing the backup generator in the lower decks, and heard you.
He looked up finally, eyes bright.
“Your voice.”
He stepped closer, just a fraction.
“I didn’t see anything, but I heard you. Clear as a bell, and something in me knew .”
Fiddleford breathed uneasily, swallowing a knot tightening up his throat.
“I dropped my tools. I ran up the deck, I didn’t even tell the crew what I was doing. Just... followed the sound, the echo.”
He looked distant now, lost in the memory.
“I reached the docks just in time to see the ship you boarded pull away. All of our lives that could've been slowly faded away. I couldn’t see your face, not really. I didn't even know your name, and it felt like I’d just missed the only train I was ever meant to catch.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought I imagined it, that it was stress, hallucinations, but the feeling stayed, and I kept chasing it. I transferred docks, took odd jobs, looked at every face, listened to every voice. Nothing.”
Stan’s chest was tight.
Fiddleford finally turned his full attention to him.
“The visions came, but blurry. Just sounds. Your laugh, moments. Me and you, from somewhere else. But it was like looking through fogged glass.”
Stan swallowed hard.
He was trembling now, his voice breaking. “I missed you by seconds, by damn seconds. You were already gone. Vanished, like a damn dream. Do you know how scary it was? That empty, hollow feeling like you’ve lost everything?.”
Stan’s heart twisted. “Fid—”
“I never stopped thinking about it!” Fiddleford burst out, eyes wet, fists at his sides.
“I waited. I checked manifests. I stood on every dock for weeks. And you never came back.”
He turned away, chest rising and falling like he’d run a mile.
“And years go by with a blink,” he whispered. “You forget the sound and you wonder if it was ever real.”
Stan stepped forward, gentle now. “It was real.”
Fiddleford turned to face him again, eyes rimmed red, jaw clenched. “I didn’t even know if I got it wrong. That maybe it was something else.”
Stan’s throat burned. “You didn’t.”
“I didn’t know if I got it wrong. Maybe it was something else.”
Stan’s throat burned. “You didn’t.”
“I kept telling myself that,” Fiddleford said, shaking his head, “If I just wait, if I just keep going… maybe I’ll hear it again. But I didn’t.”
Silence. The storm rattled the windows.
Then, almost brokenly, Fiddleford softly spoke.
“So I stopped believing in it.”
Something in Stan cracked. Seeing how vulnerable he is, trembling and scared because he thought he won’t ever hear it again.
His soulmate’s voice, Stanley’s voice.
“Then I got here. And you—” He laughed bitterly. “You were just...you. And it didn’t hit all at once, but slowly, familiar, unnerving.”
Stan’s hands trembled, fingers twitching from the tension.
“You looked at me like I mattered,” Fiddleford mumbled. “And I didn’t want to admit it because I thought I was wrong before, and I don't want to mess it up.”
Silence again. Thick, devastating.
“I pulled away,” Fiddleford finished softly. “Because it was easier than to feel it and be wrong again.”
Stanley moved before his fear could catch up, two strides closing the gap between them. His hands found Fiddleford’s face, trembling hard enough that their first contact was almost clumsy.
The kiss hit like a lightning strike—hard, desperate, trembling with years of swallowed words and stolen moments.
Stan kissed like he was terrified that this would be the first and last time they’ll ever have this moment, pouring every ache and longing into it.
Fiddleford gasped into his mouth, the sound caught between surprise and need, before kissing back with equal force, grabbing fistfuls of Stan’s shirt like he was anchoring himself to the only solid thing in the room.
Stan stumbled forward with the pull, the desk edge catching against Fiddleford’s thighs.
For a few ragged, breathless seconds, it was all urgency, hands in hair, gripping shoulders, trying to pull the other closer than skin would allow. Then—slowly, like a tide retreating—the desperation softened.
Stan’s lips lingered against his, the kiss slowing into something tender, almost reverent. His thumbs brushed along Fiddleford’s cheekbones.
Fiddleford’s hands loosened, sliding up to cradle the back of Stan’s neck, holding him there not out of panic, but out of certainty. Their breaths mingled, slower now, their foreheads pressing together as if neither could quite bear to let go.
Knock. Knock.
They both froze.
“Captain?” Lisa’s voice came through the door. “‘Everything alright in there?”
Stan growled under his breath.
Fiddleford, flushed and dazed, let out a quiet laugh and gently pushed Stan’s chest.
“I— yeah,” Stan called out, voice hoarse. “All good.”
Lisa paused. “…Copy that.”
Her footsteps receded.
Fiddleford leaned against the desk, breathing hard, shirt rumpled.
“We’ll talk later,” he said softly.
Stan nodded.
They straightened.
Opened the door.
And as they stepped out into the corridor, their shoulders brushed.
Their eyes met.
And in that one quiet glance, every unspoken promise hung between them like the smell of rain.
Fiddleford’s house smelled like lavender and lemon cleaner. Clean, familiar, real. It always was.
Stan barely made it past the threshold before Fiddleford turned to look at him. No words, just the weight of everything they hadn’t said crashing down around them like invisible rain.
Stan was soaked to the bone, the weather outside mirroring the storm still lingering in his chest.
But here, standing in this small, quiet home— with the hum of the fridge in the kitchen and Tate’s latest drawing still pinned crookedly to the fridge— Stan felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
He hadn’t felt that in a long time.
Fiddleford closed the door softly behind them. He leaned back against it, as if steadying himself. Watching Stan with eyes full of uncertainty and something else, hope, maybe. Or fear.
Neither of them moved, not for a long moment.
Their breaths filled the space, uneven, charged.
Stan’s voice came low, cracked, like he had been waiting too long. “Fids—”
But Fiddleford was already moving. Three quick steps, and his hands were on Stan’s face.
The kiss was slow, steady, not rushed or desperate. It's gentle, soft. Like an answer to a question they’d both stopped asking because it hurt too much to say out loud.
Stan melted into it.
Fiddleford’s hands were soft, trembling slightly as they threaded into Stan’s hair. Stan responded in kind, pulling him closer, one hand trailing down his back, the other settling against the small of it.
Their chests met. Warm, solid.
Stan kissed him deeper, savoring the softness of his lips, tasting the faint taste of tea and rain.
Fiddleford made a small, breathy sound— somewhere between a sigh and a whimper— and it made something raw and protective light up in Stan’s chest.
“I’ve thought about this,” Stan murmured against his neck, kissing just beneath his jaw, “every damn night.”
Fiddleford shivered, fingers curling into his jacket. “You sure this isn’t a mistake?”
Stan pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He lifted Fiddleford off the ground slightly, making him gasp and clutch at his shoulders, and started guiding them backward toward the couch.
They collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and quiet laughter.
Stan kissed him again, slow and grounding. Fiddleford tilted his chin up to meet him, hands trailing over Stan’s chest, exploring, memorizing. His touch was hesitant at first, but quickly grew more confident as Stan kissed his way down the column of his throat, pulling open his hoodie one careful tug at a time.
Fiddleford gasped when Stan’s hands brushed beneath the soft cotton of his shirt, skin to skin, as Stan’s fingers curled around his waist, thumbs pressing into the sharpness of his hips.
“You’re gorgeous,” Stan whispered reverently.
Fiddleford flushed. “You’re not too bad yourself, Captain.”
He sat up slightly to tug Stan’s shirt off, dropping it to the floor without looking. Stan leaned into him again, nipping at the edge of his collarbone, drawing another gasp from Fiddleford that made his blood sing.
Every kiss was a thank you. Every breath was a promise.
They kissed until their lips were swollen, until their bodies were flush, until shirts and pants and insecurities lay scattered on the floor.
Stan slowed them when it mattered. Gentle hands, slow touches. He wanted Fiddleford to feel it. Every inch of him.
“You’re real,” he whispered against his shoulder. “You’re mine .”
Fiddleford cupped his face, eyes glassy, voice cracking. “I waited so long.”
“I know.” Stan pressed their foreheads together. “I’m here now, I’m not going anywhere.”
Stan cupped every inch of Fiddleford's body like a trophy he just won.
Under him, his soulmate was breathing hard, gasping, hugging Stan tightly like he hasn't been touched for years, and probably was.
He tugged Fiddleford's boxer cautiously, asking for permission. The other was hesitant, scared. But the way Stan’s eye looked at him like he’s the only person alive in this forsaken world made his heart beat into a tempo.
Everywhere that Stan touched felt like fire in his soulmate’s skin.
Stanley moved, kissing Fiddleford's stomach down to his v-line, leaving small soft kisses in every skin he sees and earning a loud, ticklish laugh from above. He peppered soft kisses, from the side of his hips, center, stopping when he reached down.
It was now dripping, desperate for attention. Stanley smirked as he licked it away.
Fiddleford's hips buckled as Stan gave him an experimental lick, tracing the vein that’s pulsing from his buds. The tip of his tongue touched a sensitive spot that made Fiddleford jerk, gripping the armchair above him. Stan grinned, his teeth sliding with the skin of his soulmate’s member, licking him up and down, kissing the tip, and then taking it whole in his mouth.
He can feel it twitching inside of his parted lips, sucking him wetly as it reached the roof of his mouth.
Stan looked towards Fiddleford to see him closed eyes and mouth wide open, chest moving as he breathed through his moans. He looked straight from an explicit magazine that Stan can bask on.
Stanley hummed around the member, tasting the pre-cum from it that’s mixing with his saliva. The vibration emitted caused a loud cry from his soulmate.
Something ignited inside Stan and he couldn't take it much longer.
Stan sat up, arms wiping his mouth as Fiddleford whimpered at the sudden lost contact.
"Do you have any condoms and a lube?"
Fiddleford shook his head. "No," He whispered, voice cracking.
Stan frowned and sighed, he can’t agree to that, his Ma always told him to practice safe sex. Her voice is currently haunting his head.
"Alright, sorry, but I can take a quick trip and buy some."
Stan was about to stand up when he felt a weak shaky hand grab his wrist, Fiddleford had his one elbow propped up to support him.
"Please." Stan shivered, his tone was almost a whimper.
Fiddleford looked flushed from all the stimulation that Stan managed to give him, his whole body squirmed from the cold. Stanley wanted to take a picture of him and frame it in his bedroom then stare at it for hours.
He couldn't say no to that face.
Stan hovered on top of him. Kissing him roughly, teeth clashing as Fiddleford clinged into him. Stanley groaned and moved his lips on Fiddleford's jaw, neck, sucking and leaving marks.
"You sure about this?," Stan stopped, his voice low and grounding.
Fiddleford nodded, hands cupping Stan's cheek as he rubbed it with his thumb, "You can fuck me dry and I'll still be thankful."
Stanley bit his bottom lip.
"Jesus," He whispered under his breath, eyes closed and mind going blank. He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself. Controlling whatever willpower he only has left.
god knows what he will do if he loses it.
Fiddleford squirmed under him, rubbing his lower exposed part onto Stanley's as he grunted. Stan suppressed a moan, staring at Fiddleford while he reached down to stroke it. Slow, teasing.
His soulmate sighed and thrust upwards, chasing after the friction. The scene made Stan chuckled, whipping out his free hand.
"Suck.", he commanded.
Fiddleford gulped as he leaned forward, tongue trailing on Stan's palm. He opened his mouth wide and licked, taking each finger to suck it, and Stan can feel the tongue swirling inside in each of his fingers, skillfully wetting it all.
He imagined what it would be like if that mouth was in his cock, sucking him hard, whimpering as he kneed the floor.
Stanley got rid of the thought.
Dangerous.
He told himself.
Too dangerous.
Stan watched him hungrily, impatiently, like a predator waiting for its prey. Pulling out his hand when he got too impatient, a string of saliva chased down the edge of his fingers. Fiddleford licked his lips, watching Stan's finger disappear below him.
Stanley circled the entrance, pushing it in by an inch. Fiddleford moaned, wrapping an arm around Stan then gasping at each push.
He moved it in and out slowly, his soulmate’s hole welcoming him by letting his finger dig deeper into Fiddleford, he can feel his soulmate pushing back while clutching into Stan like a lifeline.
"P-Please." He begged.
Stan inserted another one, the other yelped at the extrusion. Taking the pain in but pleasurable enough to give in.
Stan attacked his neck, muttering encouraging words after each kiss. Scissoring him open, fingering the entrance loose as Fiddleford cried out, body writhing on the couch.
He pushed, Fiddleford hissed at the burn, eyes shut tight and mouth wide open as he gasped.
"You okay?", Stan asked, worry laced in his voice.
Fiddleford kissed him instead, thrusting down in his finger while panting in his ears. That soft, lewd voice that Stan didn't know he could emit made something in Stan’s chest burn up, the heat travelling down his twitching cock. Stan continued, curling his finger, rubbing it as Fiddleford jolted and grunted a moan.
"S-Stan-", Fiddleford choked as Stanley kept moving his fingers on that spot. "Fuck- please Stanley, I need you!"
Stan's control faded away as he quickly pulled out his digits, Fiddleford whimpered at the sudden bite of cold.
Stanley spat on his trembling hand, stroking himself as he looked at the other. He lined his member on the entrance, teasing it with his tip.
"Are you sure?" Stanley asked again, worried.
Fiddleford smiled, cupping Stan's face as he leaned up to press his lips towards him.
"Yeah.", he whispered, voice mumbling from Stan’s.
Stanley nodded, slowly pushing himself inside.
Fiddleford grunted loudly, panting with his mouth open. Back arching from the weird sensation radiating inside him.
Stanley groaned from the tightness, just the way he likes it. Feeling like a hug from his soul.
He paused to let Fiddleford adjust, letting the warmth consume him.
Seconds tick by, the other nodded after a while, rolling his hips restlessly. Stan started moving, hissing as he gripped Fiddleford's waist.
He pushed in slowly, careful not to hurt him. Then stopping when he heard the other grunt in pain.
"Y-You alright?"
Fiddleford nodded, tears rolling down his cheeks.
When Stanley saw the state Fiddleford was in, his lust turned into worry. He was about to pull out, instinctively loosening his grip he had with Fiddleford, but then he felt his world flip over.
Literally.
Now Fiddleford towered over him, gasping and flushed. Stanley was caught off guard, only laid back with confusion and a sudden spark of excitement.
"What-"
Fiddleford cut him off by pushing down on his cock deeper. Stan was taken back, moaning from the sudden sensation while Fiddleford breathed in a sigh, hips slightly grinding.
Stan grabbed his thighs for support, looking at the other who was moving frantically, eyes closed and mouth wide open. Fiddleford was panting, loud and needy, like a dog in a summer heat.
His cock bounced in his stomach as he moved, Stan can't help but thrust upwards, earning a sweet moan from the other.
He watched as Fiddleford steadily tried to ride him, hips bucking to find a better angle. Stan was entranced, his creamy white skin complimented the red flush from his chest down his thighs. He looked like a sin that Stan doesn’t want to be forgiven for.
He grabbed Fiddleford's cheeks, spreading it open to thrust deeper into him. Just enough to hit the spot that made Fiddleford’s knees weak, breathing unevenly, loudly.
Every sound Fiddleford makes is like music to Stan's ears.
He moved faster, hitting that same spot, abusing it with every push of his hips. Fiddleford's thrust kept getting softer and sloppy, circling in a lazy manner. Only resulting in a moaning, stuttering mess from above Stanley.
Stan sat up and moved to meet his soulmate’s hips, the action made them both groan. Fiddleford wrapped his arms on Stan's neck for support, still trying to grind up at him.
The sound of skin slapping echoed through the living room, their breathing and moaning accompanied it. It was messy, they're not used to it, but Stan would want to.
He wants to remember every freckle that’s painted to his soulmate skin, taste every corner of his mouth, find things that could pleasure Fiddleford into the abyss.
They were still learning, exploring. And damn, does it feel so fucking good .
They laid back down on the couch, Stan was now on top again, pounding his soulmate mercilessly while thrusting on his prostate hard, giving Fiddleford to see stars, heaven, and paradise at the same time.
Stan felt Fiddleford's hole tightened around him as he gave a few more thrusts. He felt Fiddleford’s cock twitch, he grabbed it and started stroking it in a wildly manner. Fiddleford cried out, his eyes rolling back from too much pleasure.
They moved together like old stars finally aligning, like every fractured version of themselves across every universe had finally found a way to say yes.
Fiddleford sobbed, gripping his arms, fingernails digging into Stan's flesh.
"Stan," Fiddleford whimpered, "Stanley-"
Stan thrusted faster, grunting, his hips snapped.
"I'm-", Stan mumbled as his thrust kept getting harder.
"Inside, cum inside of me.", Fiddleford begged, his voice raspy.
"Please, please, I want it."
Stan felt his stomach tightened, he kissed Fiddleford's shoulder.
"Fuck, Fidds-"
He couldn’t take it anymore, as much as he didn't want this to end, he cummed. The warm liquid pooled in the interior of Fiddleford’s hole. His soulmate sobbed as Stan buried himself inside of him, filling him up. Slowly grinding in him to chase the feeling. Fiddleford followed after a few pumps of Stanley’s hand. A streak of white painting at Stan's stomach.
Fiddleford felt weak as he laid on his back. His body twitching from the aftermath, Stan slowly pulled out of him, both grunted as he did.
They stayed there for a moment, basking in the after glow of sex, Fiddleford smiled, cupping Stan's face to give him a soft kiss. Stan chuckled, kissing back.
"We should do this again.", Fiddleford said between kisses, Stan laughed.
"Yeah, we should."
They smiled.
Everything was perfect.
And then there were no more words.
Only touch.
Only breath.
Only the heat between them that they built and broke and bloomed into something that could only be described as home.
They lay tangled on the couch in a mess of limbs, tangled hair and shared breath.
Fiddleford curled against Stan’s chest, face tucked beneath his jaw, one arm slung across his stomach. His fingers traced small, aimless shapes there, as if sketching a memory.
Stan held him like something sacred, like something he never wanted to let go of again.
“That was…” Fiddleford began, then trailed off.
Stan kissed his temple. “Yeah, It really was.”
Silence settled around them, peaceful, full.
Outside, the rain tapped gently on the windows. Inside, their hearts beat in rhythm.
Fiddleford sighed, voice barely above a whisper.
“Do you think we’ll be okay?”
Stan tilted his head, brushing his lips across his hair.
“We already are.”
And at that moment, he meant it.
No more running, no more fear. Just them, exactly as they were meant to be.
The day after that was weird.
Well, not in a bad way, Not bad weird. More like ‘you can hear your own heartbeat and suddenly you’re overthinking how you open doors’ weird. Every glance felt like it lingered too long, every word sounded too loud.
Stan showed up to work twenty minutes early, Fiddleford arrived exactly on time, holding coffee that smelled like it had been brewed by angels. They didn’t mention the night before, they didn’t have to, but their eyes kept locking.
And every time, Stan’s heart did a little backflip.
He wasn’t even sure what they were now. Not really. The sex had happened, sure. But then they’d gone right back to pretending it hadn’t, because they had jobs, and responsibilities, and an engine that still made that weird rattling noise no one had time to fix.
But pretending was hard when every time Stan walked past Fiddleford, his fingers twitched like they wanted to reach for him again.
That night, Stan hesitated outside Fiddleford’s door for a full five minutes before knocking. It swung open almost immediately.
“You came.” Fiddleford grinned.
Stan scratched the back of his neck.
“You know I always do.”
Fiddleford’s smile was small but real. “Tate's been waiting since lunch.”
Inside, the house was exactly the same warm, cluttered, home— plus the faint smell of glue and burnt toast.
Tate tackled him with a hug. “Uncle Stan! Look! Pirate robot 2.0, this one has rocket boots!”
Stan sat cross-legged on the floor, giving the drawing his full attention, heart aching in a soft, unfamiliar way. From the kitchen, Fiddleford watched him with that same look Stan had seen on the porch weeks ago, fond, afraid, and something else.
Later, when Tate had gone to bed, they sat on the couch in silence. A movie played in the background, half-forgotten.
Fiddleford leaned against the armrest, Stan leaned the other way, like they were trying to trick the couch into thinking they weren’t touching.
It was…comfortable, easy, but charged.
“So…” Stan said finally.
Fiddleford raised an eyebrow. “So.”
“Uhm, that moment yesterday..”
“Yeah.”
They both stared at the muted TV like it was about to explain everything.
“Didn’t hate it.” Stan muttered.
Fiddleford chuckled. “You’re such a smooth-talker, Stanley.”
Stan grinned sideways. “Hey, you kissed back.”
“I did.” Fiddleford admitted.
Silence again.
Then Stan said quietly, voice barely registering his ears, “What now?”
Fiddleford sighed. “I don’t know, I just know that I don’t want to go back to pretending.”
Stan nodded. “Me either.”
Their pinkies brushed on the couch cushion, neither of them moved away.
The next few days were full of… almosts.
Almost touching, almost saying something, almost daring to call it what it was, but neither pushed because this thing between them? It was new, raw, and fragile as a bird’s wing.
So they tiptoed around it, but less awkwardly than before, more like a dance they were both starting to learn.
Lisa watched them from her perch on the catwalk, chewing the end of her pen.
Jay leaned in. “So, they're making heart eyes now.”
“I give it a week before one of them admits feelings out loud,” she replied.
“Bet?”
“Bet.”
Darren, standing beside them, printed a meme: two stick figures holding hands with the caption “ Mutual pining but make it OSHA-compliant .”
Lisa laughed, Jay started taking notes, Darren drew a calendar.
One morning, Fiddleford handed Stan a wrench without looking, their fingers brushed.
Stan looked at him, he looked back, and neither pulled away.
Lisa cackled from across the deck.
“GET A ROOM YOU TWO!”
From that day on, Stan helped Fiddleford replace a busted porch light. It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t dramatic but it felt like something.
When they finished, they sat on the steps again. No rain this time, just quiet crickets and distant waves.
“I used to think I missed my chance,” Fiddleford said softly.
Stan looked over. “You didn’t.”
Fiddleford nodded slowly. “I know that now.”
Stan leaned in, just enough that their shoulders touched, they sat there like that for a long time.
No more pretending.
Just...them.
“Someone needs to tighten up ropes from Dock B. According to my radar, a rainstorm will pass by our bay.”
Lisa stood by the window, eyeing the stormy forecast on her tablet. Her voice was calm but decisive, like always.
Stanley nodded from his chair, one arm resting lazily over the backrest.
“Send in the crew and report back to me after.”
She gave him a curt nod and exited, heels clicking sharply against the metal floor. Just as the door swung shut behind her, another figure entered.
And it's Fiddleford.
Stan shifted, straightening up and instinctively smoothing out his uniform like a true captain should. He busied himself with a random report to mask his sudden awareness of the man in front of him.
Then came the click of the lock, Stanley’s eyes lifted.
Fiddleford stood there by the closed door, hand still on the knob. His posture was stiff— guarded— but his eyes betrayed a deeper urgency, need, something close to desperation simmered just beneath his skin.
“Fiddleford?” Stan asked, wary. He lowered the papers. “‘Something the matter?”
Fiddleford didn’t answer. Instead, he moved quickly, purposefully, like a man acting on instinct.
Before Stanley could react, their lips met across the desk.
It wasn’t soft. It was raw, breath stealing. All teeth and need and years of unspoken tension.
Stanley tensed, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy. He wasn’t sure what to do. His hands hovered uncertainly at Fiddleford sides.
Fiddleford's fingers grazed the side of Stan's face. He let out a soft sigh, melting into the kiss as Fiddleford pressed in closer.
Stanley couldn't help but follow his lead and kissed him back, because how could he not? It felt like fire had finally found its match.
When they broke apart, Stanley tried to lighten the moment with a grin.
“Is it my birthday or what?”
But Fiddleford didn’t laugh. He stood there panting, glasses crooked, a streak of saliva trailing from his mouth to his chin. He looked dazed— unraveled— like he’d stepped out of some fever dream.
“Fiddleford—”
The next kiss came harder, more desperate. It was the kind that made Stanley’s brain short-circuit.
He stood up, hands catching Fiddleford’s shoulders just as he began to tremble.
Their mouths clashed, sloppy and urgent. Stan tried to ground himself, to keep control, but there was no use. Fiddleford’s energy was overwhelming, his need was palpable.
He broke away for air, trying to steady himself. Fiddleford’s pupils were blown wide. He took a shaky breath, closing his eyes. His face was flushed pink, hair sticking out in random places.
Stanley reached up and tucked a strand behind his ear.
“Are you okay?”, he asked softly, brushing a thumb along his flushed cheek.
Fiddleford nodded, leaning into Stanley's palm. His eyes fluttered open.
"Yeah, I just," he swallowed hard. "I feel like I haven't seen you in years."
"You did." Stanley chuckled, "Yesterday."
Fiddleford groaned and buried his face in Stanley's chest.
"I know."
They stood there for a moment, pressed together, though the desk between makes it a bit complicated. Fiddleford's heart pounded against Stanley's ears by how silent the room was.
He wanted to say something— anything— but nothing seemed right. He settled on kissing the top of Fiddleford's head.
Fiddleford's arms tightened around him.
Stanley pulled away, taking Fiddleford's face between his hands.
"Hey," he said softly. "What do you want to do?"
Fiddleford walked around the desk, gaze locked with Stan’s like a storm locked onto its path. With deliberate motion, he pushed Stanley back into the chair and climbed into his lap, straddling him.
Stan choked on something ancient and half-forgotten.
“Woah—?”
“Stanley,” Fiddleford whispered, his voice cracking. Looking down at him through hooded lids, face flushed with lust.
Stan’s heart stuttered. “Yeah?”
“I need you,” he breathed, trembling against him.
“I want you to do something about it.”
Stanley froze, eyes wide, his hands settled on Fiddleford's waist hesitatingly.
Fiddleford pressed closer, leaning down to kiss Stanley's neck.
Stanley took a shaky breath.
"Fids- We can’t." He shifted forward, hands moving to Fiddleford's hips, gently cupping Fiddleford’s jaw, brushing a stray curl from his face and kissing him as an apology.
Fiddleford shook his head and leaned in for another kiss, harder, more insistent. When they broke apart, his breathing was ragged, his eyes wild.
It tasted like longing, like secrets unsaid and the doors finally opened.
"But-" Fiddleford protested, eyes pleading, his breath warm against Stanley's lips.
"Please?", Fiddleford was begging.
Begging.
And it made Stanley weak to his bone.
"I-" Stan stuttered, his heart racing. "We- we can't, not here."
Fiddleford groaned and buried his face in Stanley's shoulder, wrapping his arms around Stan's neck. Kissing it lightly while unconsciously thrusting hips forward. Stan shuddered, his mind swimming with images of what they could be doing right now if only they weren’t in this place.
"Why not?", Fiddleford asked softly, voice muffled by Stan's collar. He lifted his head, searching Stanley's eyes.
"I don't want anyone walking in," Stan answered weakly. "I don't want 'em seeing your body."
Stanley said protectively, hands drifting down to the hem of Fiddleford's sweater. He hesitated, fingers skimming along the skin beneath it.
Fiddleford shivered and pulled back, looking down at Stanley with a smirk.
"You really think I'd let anyone else see this?" He asked, gesturing towards himself. "You're the only one allowed to look."
Stanley smiled.
"So," Fiddleford said, biting his lip. "Do you have lube?"
Stanley raised an eyebrow, amused. "Do you think I would?"
Fiddleford shrugged. "I don't know," he said, sounding frustrated.
"Maybe you do, maybe you don't. Maybe you kept some around because you knew one day this would happen, and I'd come bursting into your office and demand that we have sex right here on top of this desk."
Stanley laughed and shook his head, reaching up to cup Fiddleford's cheek.
"No lube," he said gently, stroking Fiddleford's skin with his thumb. "I’m not about to carry it casually inside my bag, you know that Darren’ll just rummage through my bag when he gets hungry."
Fiddleford pouted and crossed his arms.
"Fine," he muttered. "I'll just go find some somewhere else."
He made to get off Stanley's lap, but Stanley caught him and pulled him back down.
"Don't." he commanded.
"Don't leave."
Fiddleford stopped struggling, looking at Stanley with wide eyes.
"Okay," he whispered, relaxing against Stanley's chest. "Okay."
They sat there quietly for a few minutes, holding each other close, savoring the moment. Stanley closed his eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling Fiddleford's scent, memorizing every detail of the moment.
Then, slowly, carefully, he began to kiss Fiddleford's neck, trailing his lips along the column of Fiddleford's throat. Fiddleford sighed contentedly and tilted his head, exposing more flesh for Stan's mouth.
What was that he said about earlier? He couldn’t remember.
Stanley kept going, kissing every inch of skin he could reach, working his way lower until he reached Fiddleford's collarbone. He traced circles along the bone with his tongue, licking and sucking, causing Fiddleford to gasp and clutch at Stanley's shirt.
Fiddleford moaned softly as Stanley bit down on his shoulder, sending shivers through Fiddleford's entire body.
“Oh now you want to do it." Fiddleford said breathlessly.
"What about the crew? Won't they hear us?"
"Then you better be quiet now," Stanley mumbled against Fiddleford's skin. He slid his hand beneath Fiddleford's greasy shirt and pinched his nipple.
Fiddleford bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back a cry.
Stanley smiled and pulled Fiddleford's shirt off, his overall’s already slid off of his shoulders. He kissed Fiddleford's chest, licking and biting along his ribcage, earning a moan from the other. Fiddleford gripped Stanley's shoulders tightly, panting heavily.
"Oh god," Fiddleford whispered.
Stanley looked up at him, eyes full of lust.
"Do you like that?" He asked, voice husky as his hands trailed up and down from his soulmate’s back.
"Tell me."
Fiddleford nodded, staring into Stan's eyes.
Their bodies moved on instinct. Fiddleford ground down, soft and needy, and Stan hissed in response.
“Impatient little thing, aren’t you?”
A whimper was all he got in return.
They were a mess of heat and want, hands pulling at clothes. Stan fumbled with Fiddleford's bottoms, and the man above him was already half naked. His own shirt withering at the floor, and Stan didn't mind when Fiddleford grabbed his hand, placed it between them, and pushed down on it.
Stan groaned against Fiddleford's neck, letting the other take control for now, but he'd be sure to dominate later.
Fiddleford continued to move, soft circles in Stan’s lap, desperation laced into every breath. When Stan finally loosened the belt and tugged his overalls down.
“Up”, Stan ordered, voice thick with desire that Fiddleford obeyed.
Stanley pulled his bottom clothing just on his thighs. Fiddleford let out a low gasp, his boxers damp. Stan licked his lips on the view in front of him.
“You were this worked up over a kiss?” Stan teased with a breathy laugh.
Fiddleford’s eyes rolled back as Stan’s hand wrapped around him, gentle but firm. His mouth fell open in a silent cry, muffled only by his arm. Stan could feel him pulse, hot and slick.
Stan’s lips brushed his neck, his collarbone, his jaw. Every sound Fiddleford made fueled him further, until he felt like he might lose control completely.
His hands started palming it inside Fiddleford’s boxer, already leaking pre-cum when it sprang free.
Stan's hands gripped Fiddleford's ass, and the other cried out. They were both hard and aching, but Stan continued to tease him, his hand just barely ghosting over Fiddleford's cock.
"lord almighty," Fiddleford whispered. "Please."
That was all Stan needed to hear to wrap a hand around Fiddleford's dick, pumping him slowly. Fiddleford whimpered, rolling his hips forward.
Stan moaned deeply.
"Oh shit," he whispered, voice husky. "You look so good like this."
He went faster, his strokes hard and Fiddleford felt his strength leaving him, his whimpers were muffled and Stanley wished he could hear it clearly.
Stanley fastened the pace, the noises Fiddleford was giving was making him crazy. He wants to push him on his desk and fuck him there.
Maybe from another time
The thought turned him on.
Seeing fiddleford in a blushing mess, red and wet just by Stan’s hands. He growled from the thought as Fiddleford kept grinding on his own.
“S-Stan, I'm—”
Stanley only kissed the cries that Fiddleford was erupting.
He buckled, stifling a moan into Stan’s shoulder. Hot and messy, his pleasure soaked into Stan’s hand. Stanley slowed his strokes, riding out Fiddleford's orgasm.
For a moment, everything stilled.
Fiddleford blinked, realization dawning, and scrambled off Stan’s lap.
“Stanley! I— gosh, I’m sorry!”
He said as he hopped off Stan’s lap. Stanley chuckled as he licked a dripping cum on his hands. It tasted salty, but sweet in its own way. It made Fiddleford shudder, seeing Stan’s eyes sparkle from want.
Stan smiled, licking the last of it on the corner of his hand.
“Don’t be, you’re cute when you beg.”
Fiddleford flushed deep red but when his eyes flicked to Stan’s own need, still tented and unsatisfied, guilt took over.
He dropped to his knees.
Stan froze. “Fidds, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
He reached up with trembling hands, unfastening Stan’s belt and easing down his pants. When Stan’s cock sprang free, thick and heavy, Fiddleford swallowed.
He started slowly, testing, his mouth warm and wet. Stan sucked in a breath, fingers threading gently through Fiddleford’s curls, moving down as it hit the back of his throat. Stanley groaned at the contact, took a fistful of Fiddleford’s hair but not gripping it tight.
Stan was big, that much was true. His girth stretched Fiddleford's mouth wide open, and he almost had to pull away to take a breath, but he continued on, taking Stanley as far as he could go.
Fiddleford was inexperienced, that was also true.
Stanley was his first after all. But he knew what he liked, so he put that to use.
He started moving up and down, sucking it harshly as it twitched inside him, he swirled his tongue around the head, and Stanley groaned, his head falling back, eyes closed.
Stan didn’t know why they didn’t do this sooner.
Fiddleford’s mouth was warm, wet and it felt so good. His teeth slightly scratched up into him, the rough texture of his tongue, and how he sucked it desperately.
He’ll gladly get used to this.
Fiddleford felt him tense, and he knew he was close. He continued to suck and lick, as Stanley's moans were making him hard again.
“Fid-”
“Cap? ‘You in here?”
A knock.
Stan’s heart jumped.
Fiddleford stilled.
The knob rattled.
“Y-Yeah!” Stan barked, panicked.
Meanwhile, Lisa on the other side kept on turning the knob, confused, she took out the spare key Stan gave him in case something went wrong. She unlocked it and entered.
Lisa stepped inside with a confused expression, noting the odd tension in the air, she saw Stan reading a report on his desk. Raised a brow at some paper on the ground but shrugged it off.
“The dock’s cleared,” she said, handing over a folder. “HQ sent this down too.”
Stan nodded a little too quickly.
“Great, thanks. I’ll, uh, review it…”
Fiddleford was just under the desk, listening in on the conversation. He sweated, he didn't want for her to see them getting at it like this while the whole crew was working.
But then he remembered that Stan was still very much naked underneath. His cock hanging out, twitching from the cold. Fiddleford took pity on it and a nasty light bulb appeared above his head.
“Hmm, just another update for the cargo, I’ll go email them a-”, Stan yelped softly, then bit his tongue to stay quiet.
Lisa raised a brow as she took the folder back on her arms.
“You okay Cap?”, she said in worry but Stan waved her off.
“Better! I’ve never—”, he bit his lips as he tried to act normal. “—I’ve never felt better!”
Lisa tilted her head. “You sure, Cap?”
But there was a strangle in his voice. Lisa furrowed his brow, she’s now definitely worried.
“Are you having a stomach ache?”
Stan nodded, then forced a smile.
“Yeah- ah, fuck - I-It must’ve been the coffee”, He put a hand under the desk that looked like he was clutching his stomach but was actually fisting Fiddleford’s hair, gripping him hard to shove him deeper to retrain any bobbing of his head.
Both of them groaned, but Stan kept it quiet, professional. Below him, Fiddleford choked, tears pricked in the corner of his eye as the tip hit his throat harshly.
Lisa heard that sudden sound, looking around.
“you heard that—?”
“Nope.”, Stan shot up a smile.
“I’ll bring you in some medicine—”
“No need! I already have my own”, Fiddleford was still working on him slightly choking, and Stan wanted to moan and buck into that sinful mouth. He gripped the desk hard, knuckles white.
She frowned but shrugged. “Alright. I’ll let the crew know to give you space.”
As soon as the door closed, Stan collapsed back in his chair. Immediately letting go of Fiddleford as he started coughing, gasping for air.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
Fiddleford smirked, slightly rubbing his throat. "I'm just helping you out."
Stanley groaned.
"That's not how you ‘help me out’," he said, sighing.
"You should've waited."
Fiddleford chuckled, kissing the tip softly, watching Stan shudder.
"Or what? You'll punish me?"
"Do you want me to?", Stan said, smiling cheekily.
Fiddleford rolled his eyes but continued to suck him off. Stan moaned, fisting his hair again, but this time he moved along with Fiddleford's head. He thrusted into his mouth, making Fiddleford groan around his cock.
He didn’t answer the question though.
Fiddleford’s head rested on Stanley’s chest, breath slow, warm, and even. One hand lay draped across Stan’s stomach, fingers twitching slightly with the rhythm of sleep. Stan’s own arm was wrapped loosely around him, hand settled between Fiddleford’s shoulder blades, thumb brushing absentmindedly back and forth.
Stan was wide awake.
Not because he couldn’t sleep.
But because he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to miss a second of this.
The light on the ceiling, the heat of another body against him, the faint creak of the house adjusting to the day. The way Fiddleford smelled like lemon soap and old flannel. The gentle weight of contentment settled over him like a second blanket.
He didn’t dreamed it, he hadn’t screwed it up. They were here, together, real.
A quiet breath puffed against his collarbone.
“Mm’nin’,” Fiddleford mumbled without opening his eyes, voice thick with sleep.
Stan smiled like a fool.
“Hey.”
He lifted his hand and gently brushed a rogue curl off Fiddleford’s cheek. It bounced right back.
“Your hair’s outta control.”
Fiddleford snorted, eyes blinking open slowly.
“Takes one to know one, Captain Bedhead.”
“I’m not hearing complaints.”
“Not from me.”
They lay like that for a moment, wrapped in warmth, legs tangled, still half-dressed from the night before. Stan pressed a lazy kiss to Fiddleford’s hairline.
“I could get used to waking up like this,” he whispered.
Fiddleford made a soft, thoughtful noise. “Could you?”
Stan nodded. “Yeah, I really could.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, more hesitant.
“It doesn’t scare you?”
Fiddleford looked up at him.
“What? You?”
“No. This, Us.”
Fiddleford was silent for a moment. “It used to.”
Stan shifted, turned on his side to face him. “Yeah?”
Fiddleford propped himself up on an elbow. “Yeah, I used to think soulmates were this... perfect thing. You find them, you get hit with all those flashes, and boom. That’s it, but I think—”
He looked at Stan. “—I think maybe it’s not about being perfect.”
Stanley’s eyes softened.
“I think maybe it’s about choosing each other. Even after the flash fades, even when it’s hard.”
A beat passed between them.
Then Stan leaned in and kissed him. Gentle and slow.
They stayed like that for a while, lips brushing, hands wandering in lazy, exploratory circles. Stan nuzzled into the soft skin under Fiddleford’s jaw, kissing his neck until he shivered.
They were only just starting to breathe heavier again when the sound of tiny, rapid footsteps thundered down the hallway.
Fiddleford sat bolt upright. “Tate!”
Stan yelped, half falling off the couch as he scrambled for his shirt.
“Oh— crap— I forgot he was here this weekend!” Fiddleford looked panicked, running a hand through his hair.
“He usually sleeps in when Emma lets him watch cartoons, why is he early today?!”
Before either of them could compose themselves, a small figure came barrelling into the door.
“Uncle Stan!”
Stan turned just in time to catch the kid as he launched himself into his arms.
It nearly knocked the wind out of him.
“Hey, bud,” Stan laughed, gathering Tate into a hug. “You’re up early.”
“I want pancakes!”
Stan glanced at Fiddleford, who was standing nearby in rumpled sweats and a t-shirt, hair wild, expression somewhere between bashful and overwhelmed.
“Are we still gonna make pancakes today?”, Tate asked, looking up at both of them with big, hopeful eyes.
Fiddleford cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks flushed. “Yeah, buddy. Give us a few minutes to get dressed, alright?”
Tate nodded solemnly, already making a beeline for the kitchen to gather ingredients.
Stan glanced at Fiddleford, he looked back. And for a full second, neither said a word.
Then they both laughed, quiet, breathless, disbelieving.
“That just happened,” Stan said.
“That is our life now,” Fiddleford replied, smiling crookedly.
Stan looked towards the kitchen.
At the little boy humming as he tried to open the pancake mix by himself.
At the man beside him, cheeks flushed from something other than embarrassment now.
A family.
He didn’t mind that at all.
Later, over pancakes dripping with syrup, Tate chattered away about a field trip to a dinosaur exhibit and how he wanted to build a robot T-Rex with rockets on its back.
Stan nodded along, letting Tate talk with wild hand gestures, every now and then, he'll sneak glances at Fiddleford.
He’d never been one for domesticity. Never thought he’d want this.
But this? This was his.
Fiddleford caught him staring once and raised a brow.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Stan said, eyes crinkling. “Just… lucky, I guess.”
Fiddleford’s smile was soft. Private.
They ate the rest of breakfast in easy silence, Tate finishing first and disappearing down the hall to ‘ design blueprints .’
Stan leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head.
“So.”
“So?”
He hesitated.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s always dangerous,” Fiddleford teased.
Stan rolled his eyes. “Seriously, about my Ma and Pa, Ford, Shermie.”
Fiddleford’s face shifted, gentle but guarded. “Yeah?”
“I haven’t really told them, not everything.”
“I figured.”
Stan sighed. “My Ma’s gonna cry. Pa’s gonna grumble and probably threaten to fight fate again if this goes south.”
Fiddleford tilted his head. “And your brother?”
Stan gave a dry laugh. “Ford’s probably gonna ask for a diagram and peer-reviewed soulmate studies.”
Fiddleford laughed, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You nervous?”
Stan looked down at his plate. “A little, not because I’m afraid of you. I just… I’ve been chasing this thing my whole life, this dream of what love’s supposed to feel like.”
He looked up. “And I got it, I got you, and I don’t want to mess it up by getting in my own way.”
Fiddleford reached across the table, taking his hand.
“You’re not.”
Stan smiled, squeezing his fingers. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Then Fiddleford said, “When you’re ready, I’ll be right there with you. You don’t have to do it alone.”
Stan nodded slowly.
Then stood, walked around the table, and kissed him, simple, sure, home.
It took Stan another week.
A week of nervous pacing, of almost booking the flight three separate times before canceling at the last second. A week of Fiddleford offering quiet encouragement, and Tate leaving a note in his duffel bag that just read: “ Bring Grandpa candy. Or a robot .”
Stan had never been good at facing things that mattered, He was better with storms and sea charts.
But this? Telling the people who raised him that he finally settled down, found his soulmate and love, and that it sounds different than anyone expected?
That was harder than any ocean.
In one quiet morning, he booked the flight. This time, he didn’t cancel it.
The airport smelled like pretzels, jet fuel, and anxiety. It was cold and gray, full of people with luggage and blank stares.
Stan scanned the crowd, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag until he spotted Ford, waving from the arrival zone, wearing his usual parka despite the fact it was a mild spring day. He held a hand lettered sign.
The sign read: “ STANLEY ‘MOST DRAMATIC BITCH’ PINES.”
Right next to him stood Shermie, hair longer than Stan remembered, wearing a hoodie that said ‘ I turned out great and all I got was this family trauma .’
Stan barked a laugh. “Really setting the tone, huh?”
“Figured you needed a warm welcome,” Shermie said, grinning as he yanked Stan into a hug.
“You look good, old man.”
Stan squeezed him hard. “Still younger than you in emotional maturity.”
Ford hugged him tightly, nearly knocking the wind out of him.
“I missed you, bonehead.”
Stan clapped his back. “Missed you too, nerd.”
He looked at Shermie who’s watching them, he motioned his head to join in and Shermie rolled his eyes but gave in to the hug.
The car ride back to the house was... oddly calm.
Ford didn’t fill the space with chatter like usual. He just drove, letting the silence be companionable.
Eventually, as they pulled into the neighborhood, Ford asked.
“So, how’s your soulmate?”
Stan’s lips tugged upward, warmth blooming in his chest. “He’s... everything, Ford.”
Ford nodded, quiet. “Good. You deserve everything.”
The Pines house hadn’t changed. Same peeling paint on the shutters, same lawn gnome by the steps, same porch swing Stan and Ford used to launch each other from in increasingly dangerous stunts.
Caryn opened the door before they even knocked and she cried.
“Stanley!”
She pulled him into a hug that might’ve cracked ribs if it hadn’t felt so much like home.
Stan hugged her back, tightly. “Hey, Ma.”
She sniffled into his shoulder. “You didn’t call enough.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“You lost weight. Have you been eating? I’ll make soup.”
“I’m okay, Ma.”
She pulled back, hands on his cheeks. “You sure?”
Stan nodded. “Yeah, I really am.”
Filbrick was at the table when they walked in. Arms crossed, jaw tight. He stood, slowly.
“Stan,” he said.
Stan cleared his throat. “Hey, Pa.”
They stared at each other for a beat, then Filbrick nodded once.
“Sit. We’re having a roast.”
Stan sat.
Ford and Shermie sat.
Caryn fluttered around the kitchen, emotional energy barely contained.
“I made your favorite! Potatoes, cornbread, that weird green bean thing you like—”
“Ma,” Stan interrupted, laughing. “This is amazing.”
She beamed at him.
Dinner was quiet at first. Everyone ate, Ford poked fun at the over-salted gravy, Caryn told a story about the neighbor’s dog running off with someone’s dentures, Filbrick grunted once, it passed for laughter.
Shermie cracked open a soda and leaned back in his chair.
“So, this soulmate of yours, does he exist, or is he a dramatic hallucination like Ford’s imaginary friend in high school?”
“That was a real person,” Ford protested.
Shermie grinned. “Named Professor Quantum Face , Ford?”
Caryn shushed them. “Let Stanley talk.”
Stan cleared his throat. “His name’s Fiddleford, he’s an engineer. Brilliant, kind. Got this son, Tate. I—”
He looked at his brothers. His parents.
“I think he’s it for me.”
Caryn teared up instantly. “I knew it! I knew it from how your voice sounded!”
Stan smiled, cheeks pink.
Filbrick huffed. “Is he at least not a Yankees fan?”
Stan barked a laugh. “He doesn’t care about sports.”
Filbrick muttered something that might’ve been approval.
“Progress,” Shermie muttered, sipping.
Then, more seriously, Filbrick added.
“Don’t let him go.”
Stan’s throat tightened.
“You got a second chance,” Filbrick said gruffly. “Don’t waste it.”
Stan’s eyes misted over. “I won’t.”
Shermie leaned in. “So when do I meet the guy?”
“Come visit,” Stan said. “He makes a mean fish taco.”
Ford added, “And he’s the only person I’ve talked to who can actually beat Stan in an argument.”
Caryn clapped her hands. “I love him already.”
Dinner was warm, chaotic, and too much food.
Stan and Shermie stood on the porch, a quiet night between them.
The younger Pines bumped his shoulder. “You’re different.”
Stan raised an eyebrow. “Older?”
“No,” Shermie said. “It’s like you’re not searching anymore.”
Stan looked out across the street, watching the wind play with the trees.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Shermie added, “Tell him thanks. For making you less of a cranky bastard.”
Stan snorted. “I will.”
He spent his next three days catching up with the whole family, laughing at the dinner table, watching movies until dawn, visiting the park and went into a fight with Stan and Ford’s old bully in which Shermie knocked him down.
It was fun, he missed this, but he needs to go back.
As he was packing to leave, sobs and goodbyes passed by him. Caryn hugged him tight, already missing his baby boy who always asks her every single night about soulmates. Filbrick huffed, watching it unfold but inside, he’s sad.
Shermie acted tough as Stan took a step outside, but when Stanley looked back again, he cried. Running up to this brother and asking him when he’ll ever come back. Stan promised that he’ll return.
Caryn had packed them each a to go container with enough food to feed a whole crew, Stan waved goodbye to his family and Ford drove Stan to the airport. But they stopped at the beach.
“You look good,” Ford said, swinging idly from his swing. “Healthier, calmer.”
Stan swang back, the old metal creaked above him.
“I feel better actually.”
Ford was quiet. The swing was rusty, having been fixed and repaired so many times.
Caryn would always worry that it would break, so she and Filbrick built them their own swing on the porch, but that didn't felt like this one.
“I used to think the soulmate thing was... fluff. Random chance, bad science.”, he said.
“Still might be,” Stan said, he stopped swinging. “But it gave me, him and that kid some peace.”
Ford nodded. “Then I was wrong.”
Stan smiled.
“Don’t get used to hearing me say that,” Ford added.
Stan chuckled.
“I missed this,” he said after a moment. “You, Ma, Shermie, Even Pa.”
“Come back more often,” Ford said. “Bring them with you.”
Stan blinked. “You’d want to meet them?”
“Of course.”
Stan let that settle in and realized, this wasn’t the end of a story.
It was the start of a new one, it wasn’t just about soulmates, it was about belonging.
And Stan knew— watching the sun set from the glittering water, phone buzzing with a text from Fiddleford that read “ Don’t forget to bring back something for Tate and for me .”— that he’d never stop being part of this place.
He had another home too and it was waiting for him.
Somewhere in the middle of a lazy Sunday morning, Fiddleford McGucket stood in the kitchen of his modest Westriver Hills home, barefoot and rumpled, pouring exactly one and a half spoonfuls of sugar into his tea.
He stirred counterclockwise. Not because he believed it changed anything, but because that’s how Tate said the flavor lasted longer.
Stan, behind him at the stove, was attempting to flip pancakes. The keyword being ‘ attempting .’
“Is the batter supposed to hiss like that?” Stan asked, flipping something vaguely circular onto a plate.
“Not unless you’re trying to deep-fry them, Stanley.”
Stan grinned. “Adds character.”
He turned, one pancake clinging awkwardly to the spatula, and caught Fiddleford’s eye. For a moment, they just smiled at each other.
It had been three months since the night Stan stayed.
Three months since the confession, the kiss, the everything.
And things hadn’t gone back to normal because they built something better.
Mornings like this had become a ritual. Stan in the kitchen (badly), Fiddleford fixing it after, Tate bounding in halfway through with bed hair and more robot drawings.
Stan had officially moved in mid-February. His apartment lease had ended, and Fiddleford had just raised an eyebrow and cleared a drawer, that was all the invitation he needed.
The crew pretended to be surprised. Lisa wept fake tears. Jay started a betting pool on when they’d get matching tattoos.
Darren brought custom-printed mugs to the dock one morning: one said “ CAPTAIN IN LOVE ,” and the other said “ ENGINEER OF MY HEART .”
Stan threatened to throw them overboard. He can get used to this daily.
After breakfast, Tate sat on the floor surrounded by crayons, tongue between his teeth as he drew something intricate and square-jawed.
Fiddleford was reading on the couch, one leg thrown over Stan’s. Stan pretended not to be watching both of them with a soft, private smile.
“Hey, Dad?” Tate asked.
Fiddleford looked up. “Yeah, buddy?”
Tate held up his drawing. “Is Uncle Stan your boyfriend?”
Stan choked on his coffee.
Fiddleford raised an eyebrow. “Where’d you learn that word?”
“Nova said it on the playground. She said her uncle has a boyfriend who brings him cookies and calls him 'handsome .'”
“Well,” Fiddleford said slowly, “he does bring me cookies.”
Stan snorted.
Tate tilted his head. “So?”
Fiddleford looked at Stan.
Stan shrugged, grinning. “Only if he wants me to be.”
Fiddleford smiled, slow and warm. “Yeah, he is.”
Tate nodded like that made perfect sense.
“Cool. I drew you both as robot pirates.”
Stan leaned down. “Can I have a copy for the fridge?”
After Tate had fallen asleep under a blanket of stars and robot stickers, Fiddleford and Stan sat on the back porch, wrapped in an old quilt.
“‘You ever think about how close we came to missing this?” Stan asked quietly.
“All the time,” Fiddleford murmured. “One voice, one second, that was it.”
Stan turned to him. “Do you ever… wish we’d found each other sooner?”
Fiddleford thought for a moment. “I used to. But now… I think maybe we weren’t ready.”
Stan nodded. “We are now, though.”
“Yeah,” Fiddleford said, and leaned into him. “We are.”
Their lives weren’t perfect.
Stan still left his socks everywhere. Fiddleford snored when he was exhausted. Tate once built a robot with a voice box that only screamed “ EMOTIONAL DAMAGE ” every time someone walked by.
But they were happy.
Deeply, weirdly, soulfully happy.
In all the lives they’d ever glimpsed— in flashes and alternate timelines, in could-have-beens and almosts— this one was theirs.
And they were living it.
Together.
A few months later, Stan stood on the deck of a cargo ship. Not as its captain— he stepped away from that— but still near the water. The harbor air still smelled like brine and diesel, the seagulls still screeched like tiny pirates, and the fog still rolled in like an old friend.
But something was different now.
He was different.
Stan was no longer chasing something. He’d found it. Found him.
His soulmate.
And he was right across the harbor, under a rusted crane, tinkering with the hydraulics of a barge loading unit. Glasses slightly askew, grease on his cheek, hair pulled back.
Fiddleford Mcgucket.
Stan ran dock logistics now, less adventurous, sure, but it meant coming home every night to the same house, the same creaky floors, and the same boy shouting, “ Uncle Stan! Watch my rocket robot! ”
And Stan wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Every day, at exactly 12:30, Fiddleford met him beneath the rusted crane with two paper-wrapped sandwiches and a bottle of sweet tea. They’d sit on an overturned crate, eating and people-watching.
“See that guy?” Fiddleford would say, pointing at a forklift operator. “He’s in love with the guy who manages the weld station.”
“You sure?”
“He offered to help rewire his truck last week.”
Stan raised a brow. “That’s love?”
Fiddleford grinned. “In my language, it is.”
They laughed, they always did.
Some nights, Stan would lean against the garage door frame, watching Fiddleford tinker. His soulmate, backlit by yellow light, humming to himself, pencil behind his ear, an engine spread out like a disassembled puzzle.
Stan wouldn’t interrupt. Just… admire.
Other nights, they curled up on the couch, a blanket over their legs, Tate passed out between them halfway through an old monster movie.
“Look at that guy in a costume stomp,” Stan whispered.
“That’s acting,” Fiddleford deadpanned.
Stan kissed his shoulder. “That’s styrofoam.”
And they’d laugh, warm and full, until they fell asleep like that, safe and tangled.
One Saturday afternoon, they were cleaning up LEGO bricks in the living room after a robot battle went nuclear when Tate asked something.
“Dad, what’s a soulmate?”
Stan paused, halfway through untangling a tiny mech foot from the couch throw.
Fiddleford blinked. “What made you ask that, bud?”
“Miss Shelley said her wife was her soulmate. That they met and just knew.” He paused. “Are you guys soulmate?”
Stan and Fiddleford looked at each other.
A slow smile tugged at Stan’s lips. “Yeah, yeah we are.”
Tate tilted his head. “How’d you know?”
Stan sat back on the floor.
“Whew, Okay, Story time?”
“Story time!” Tate cheered.
Fiddleford joined them, dropping onto the floor and crossing his legs. “Alright. So… you know how people say when you meet your soulmate, something happens?”
Tate nodded quickly. “Like fireworks?”
“Sort of,” Stan said. “But it’s more like... remembering something you never lived. Like suddenly, every version of yourself across every universe knows. And it hits you, like a movie in your head.”
Tate’s eyes widened. “That sounds cool.”
“It was,” Fiddleford said softly. “Also terrifying.”
Stan nudged him with a smile.
“Tell him what happened to you.”
Fiddleford chuckled. “Okay, okay. I was on a ship. Years ago, fixing an engine. All alone in the engine bay, and then, I heard someone’s voice.”
“Dad gets weird about voices,” Tate whispered loudly.
“ This voice,” Fiddleford said, gesturing to Stan. “And it was like a light exploded in my chest, my knees almost gave out and I dropped my wrench.”
Tate giggled.
“I ran to find him,” Fiddleford continued. “I didn’t even see his face. Just brown hair and in a captain uniform getting on a ship, I missed him by seconds.”
“You ran?” Tate gasped.
“Full sprint,” Stan confirmed. “He chased me halfway down a dock and I didn’t even know it.”
“What about you?” Tate turned to Stan.
Stan nodded. “Years later, I was waiting for your uncle to arrive on our meet and I heard this laugh, I looked up, and boom. Same thing, every version of me in every life just knew.”
He reached out and took Fiddleford’s hand. “It wasn’t just the flashes. It was how I felt, like every missing piece clicked into place.”
Tate looked between them.
“So that’s what a soulmate is?”
Fiddleford squeezed Stan’s hand.
“That’s what it was for us.”
Tate looked thoughtful. “Does that mean I have one too?”
“Maybe,” Stan said. “And if you do, you’ll know. One day.”
Tate smiled. “Cool.”
Then he went back to building a LEGO toaster bot.
When the house had gone still and quiet, Stan and Fiddleford lay side by side on the couch, covered in a soft heavy blanket, listening to the ticking of the clock and the slow hum of the fridge.
Stan whispered, “You think we explained that okay?”
Fiddleford nodded. “I think so.”
Then their eyes met, everything changed. It was just a glance, a moment, but a flash.
The room around them shifted, no, it didn’t. But something inside them did.
Stan felt it like a warm rush through his chest, images cascading across his vision, too fast to understand but vivid enough to feel.
A version of them sitting on a couch as old men.
Them but women, chasing one another as a criminal and a detective.
Another, fighting side-by-side in a steampunk skyship.
Another, just holding hands under a cherry blossom tree.
It wasn’t like the first flash, it was softer but deeper. Familiar, but new, like a reminder, a promise.
Like the universe leaning in and saying: You’re welcome .
When it faded, they were still staring at each other, breathing slowly, hearts loud in the quiet.
Stan reached up and cupped Fiddleford’s cheek.
“Did you feel that?”
Fiddleford nodded, eyes wide.
“Yeah. I… think I fell in love with you again.”
Stan kissed him, soft, slow.
“Good,” he whispered. “Me too.”
And they lay there, not saying anything else, the echoes of all those lives curling warm between them.
One year later, the harbor shimmered in the late afternoon sun.
There were fairy lights strung between two cranes. An old speaker crackled out a playlist that bounced between rock and embarrassing boy band nostalgia. Someone had stuck googly eyes on a forklift. A long folding table creaked under the weight of Caryn Pines’ legendary pies.
And standing in the middle of it all, with the ocean breeze tugging at his jacket, was Stanley Pines, smiling like a man who’d finally stopped running.
Funnily enough, it all had started as a joke.
“Let’s throw a dock party,” Jay had said. “Like a retirement thing. But you know. For your anxiety.”
Stan had rolled his eyes. “I’m not dying.”
“You’re emotionally reborn,” Lisa had replied, mock-serious. “It demands celebration.”
So it became a thing.
Fiddleford suggested the date, exactly one year since Stan had officially stepped off his captain’s deck and into a new chapter.
The guest list grew fast.
Stan’s new crew showed up first: Jay, Lisa, and Darren, who wore a tie over his overalls ‘ for respect .’ They brought gifts, mostly gag items, like a compass that always pointed toward the snack table.
Then came the old crew.
Rico, with his booming laugh and three plates of brownies. Nova, who’d dyed her hair green for reasons unknown. Mei and Boomer arrived hand-in-hand, Boomer already tearing up before he even hugged Stan.
“You old sea dog,” he said, voice shaking. “You did it.”
Stan hugged him tight. “Didn’t do it alone.”
The Pines family arrived in waves.
Caryn immediately stormed the pie table, fussing over crusts and demanding taste-testers. Filbrick followed her, grumbling about the noise, but there was a softness to the way he ruffled Tate’s hair and handed Fiddleford a beer.
“Keep my boy grounded,” Filbrick muttered.
Fiddleford, slightly stunned, nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Then came Ford, carrying a box that buzzed softly and may or may not have been radioactive.
“Happy One year Not-Captain-versary,” he said, hugging Stan. “Don’t open this near anything flammable.”
“I’m opening it in your car,” Stan deadpanned.
Ford smirked. “Touché.”
The crews mingled better than anyone expected.
Jay taught Boomer how to DJ from a phone. Lisa and Rico arm wrestle (He lets Lisa win). Darren and Mei debated the ethics of pirate-themed artificial intelligence while Tate demonstrated his latest robot.
“It delivers pie,” he explained solemnly. “But only to people it likes.”
Stan watched it all from the edge, Fiddleford at his side. “I thought it’d be chaos,” Stan said.
“It is chaos,” Fiddleford replied. “But the good kind.”
Stan laughed.
Then turned toward him. The sun was starting to dip now, bathing the docks in soft gold.
People slowed. Music faded, a gentle hush passed over the crowd.
Stan cleared his throat.
“Hey,” he said, Fiddleford stopped swirling his wine and settled it down.
“I’ve sailed all over,” Stan said, taking Fiddleford’s hands in his. “But I never really found home ‘til I found you.”
Stanley stopped, seeing Fiddleford now by his side lifted a weight on his chest, “None of them led me where I thought they would, I’ve been a runaway.”
Fiddleford’s eyes shimmered.
“Tate, too,” Stan added, smiling at the boy waving towards them on a pie-sticky bench while showing off the robot he built. “You two… you’re my weird little crew. And I wouldn’t trade you for anything.”
Fiddleford wiped his eyes, lips trembled with a smile “You big sentimental lug.”
Stan grinned. “Yeah, and proud of it.”
And there, on the docks with waves lapping behind them, they kissed soft and sure, the kind of kiss that said we made it. With the sun sinking behind them and the water glowing like fire.
Soft, steady, certain.
Soulmates.
Not because the universe said so.
But because they chose each other, every damn day.
And that was all that mattered.
As the moon came up and the lights twinkled on the water, the family gathered near the edge of the pier.
Ford leaned against a piling, arms crossed.
Shermie nudged him. “‘You ever gonna tell your soulmate story?”
Ford grumbled.
“It’s complicated.”
Shermie raised an eyebrow.
“Spill it.”
Ford sighed. Catching Stan’s attention, the table around him went quiet, except for the other table where Stan’s crew gathered.
“He-”, Ford closed his eyes, voice hesitant.
“His name is Bill. He’s a theoretical physicist. We… met during a conference. I heard his voice before I saw him. Just like the lore says.”
Caryn gasped. “Ford!”
“Yeah. And then he vanished for three years and reappeared with a stubble and a Nobel nomination.”
“Are you dating him?” Stanley asked curiously but with a hint of teasing in his voice.
“No,” Ford said flatly. “We occasionally argue about quantum ethics over email. That’s enough intimacy for me.”
Stan cackled.
Fiddleford leaned into him, whispering, “Sounds healthy.”
The night ended with one final toast.
Stan raised his glass of lemonade, because Tate had spiked the punch with way too much sugar.
“To soulmates,” he said.
“To weird little crews,” Fiddleford added.
“To pie,” Caryn cheered.
They all laughed.
And under the stars, surrounded by the people who had built him, broken him, and rebuilt him again, Stanley Pines held the hand of the man he chose, and who chose him back, over and over.
Not because fate said so.
But because they believed in each other.
And in this life, that was all that mattered.
The garage still smelled like machine oil and old pinewood.
The overhead bulb flickered, its light pooling across scattered bolts, dusty blueprints, and a dented toolbox covered in old stickers. Near the back wall, framed photos lined the shelf: Tate as a kid in a lab coat, Stan in his captain’s coat, Fiddleford with wild hair and wide glasses, their crews clinking glasses over greasy workbenches.
In the middle of it all, Stan and Fiddleford sat side by side on the old workbench, their legs swinging slightly like teenagers. The bench creaked beneath their weight, just as it always had.
They gained wrinkles, their back hurts when they sit too much, but memories were made.
The sun was dipping outside, painting the workshop gold.
Stan turned a rusted bolt in his hand, grinning.
“Hey, remember this?”
Fiddleford squinted. “That’s from the first engine we fixed together.”
“Right,” Stan chuckled. “The one on the water barge with the busted seal and the gremlin infestation.”
“It wasn’t really gremlins.”
“I still say those were gremlins.”
Fiddleford rolled his eyes, but leaned in, resting his head on Stan’s shoulder.
“Love you for that.”
Stan smiled and kissed the top of his hair.
“Yeah, me too.”
The silence that followed was warm. Familiar, not empty, but full.
Of years, of love, of everything they’d built.
The garage, once a storage shed, had slowly become their haven. Part workshop, part museum, part cozy nest of the life they’d shared. Some days it was for fixing lawnmowers. Other days, it was just for talking or being there.
Tate had long since outgrown his robot toaster phase, though one still sat on the shelf like a trophy. He was in college now — majoring in Marine Engineering instead of robotics. They didn’t know why he chose that— but he visited often, still called them both “ old men ,” and still hugged them like he was five.
The house was quieter now, but not empty.
Just... settled.
“I still remember the first time I heard your voice,” Fiddleford whispered suddenly, voice barely more than breath.
Stan turned to look at him.
“I didn’t know your name,” Fiddleford went on. “Didn’t know where you were. Just that voice, low, kinda scratchy. And I swear…” His voice trembled, soft and sure. “I knew I’d love it for the rest of my life.”
Stan blinked. Something in his chest ached, warm and deep.
“You don’t gotta swear,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over Fiddleford’s knuckles. “You already proved it.”
Fiddleford smiled, and it was the same smile he’d had when they first kissed, first laughed, first held hands under the table.
A little shy, a little overwhelmed. Completely, unmistakably his
They sat like that for a long while.
Outside, the ocean breeze rustled the trees, and wind chimes clinked gently from the porch.
Stan looked around the garage— at the old photos, the half-built machines, the clutter that had become history— and he felt it again. That same thing he’d felt the first time Fiddleford laid his eyes on him.
This is where I belong.
Not on a ship, not chasing some distant flash of fate, but here.
In the in-between, in the choosing.
“Y’know,” Stan said after a while, “I never thought we’d make it this far.”
Fiddleford looked up. “What do you mean?”
“Not in a bad way,” Stan said quickly. “Just... it all felt so big back then. The soulmate thing. The chase. The heartache. I didn’t think I’d get to sit here, years later, with everything I ever wanted.”
Fiddleford was quiet. “I did.”
Stan turned.
“I always knew you’d find me,” Fiddleford said. “I didn’t know when or how, but I knew.”
Stan swallowed.
“And now,” Fiddleford added, smiling, “I get to see you everyday. Hear your dumb jokes, fix the same rusted things three times because we both refuse to read the manual.”
Stan laughed. “Guilty.”
“I get to love you, and that... that’s everything.”
Stan pulled him in.
Held him close.
“Same,” he said, into his hair. “I love you too.”
They stayed there on the workbench as the light faded, just two men who once missed each other by seconds and never would again.
Together, always.