When you had come out of the shower, Thatch had been curled up under the blankets of his bed. He was completely encased, wishing you a muffled good night from beneath the comforter. The room had been almost uncomfortably cold, but the bedding was thick for both beds, and you were still thinking about his tattoos as you climbed under the covers.

You can't remember when you finally fell asleep. You just know you had been trying desperately to stop thinking about Thatch's wet hair clinging to his shoulders, the little droplets of water making his tattoo shimmer. When you woke, the edges of your dreams slipped from your thoughts, just the image of endlessly deep green eyes looking down at you.

Peeking your head out from under the covers, it was bright in the room from the sun. You didn't see Thatch. His bed was made and the room was empty, even as you looked around to see if he was sitting somewhere else.

On the one hand, you were relieved you didn't have to face him so soon after waking up. Especially not with the image of him looming over you in your dreams still lingering in your vision. The idea of being underneath him like that makes your whole body heat up, and you toss the covers aside quickly to throw off the growing heat.

Unless everything fell apart, it was going to happen at some point. Your parents wanted you to bed him as a distraction, or a way of manipulating him, but you didn't want to do something like that to Thatch. Not even at the beginning of things, and certainly not now.

But the Match Program was built around correcting lowering population numbers. Compatibility wasn't just emotional, but physical. Your parents might not have let you learn much that was useful, but even you understood there was only one way to make babies.

You had enough time to get out of bed and make it, when the door to the apartment opened up. For a split second your body froze, afraid that the person who was going to come in was one of your parents, but Thatch came into view quickly.

He has some paper plates with food on them, and napkins laid over top, like a makeshift plate cover. He was trying to be quiet in case you were still sleeping, from the careful way he was moving, but his face lights up when he sees you.

"Good morning, doll." He greets, setting all four plates on the bed. You're amazed he got the door open with so much stuff in his hands. "There's a complimentary breakfast here. It's not much, but I thought it would be nice to just stay in and relax before we had to get ready."

"Yes, I... I agree." You nod, keeping your focus on the plates. His hair is pulled back into a loose bun, and that's better than it just being down around his shoulders, but it still makes that dream pop back into your head.

"Ah... sorry, I should've left a note, or woke you up before I left like that." He says, and you shake your head. Waking up with Thatch leaning over you would've been a disaster.

"No, it's okay. I just..." Pressing your lips together, you fidget. You thought your mother had broken you of the habit, but it felt more like she had simply forced you to repress your emotions, and the longer you spent with Thatch the more emotional you felt.

And so your emotion-based habits were coming back.

"I was worried someone else was going to come through the door." You finally say, looking up at Thatch carefully.

"Someone?" His brows furrow and he looks back at the door for a second before it dawns on him. "Oh! Oh, yeah, that makes sense. I won't let that happen ever again, I promise." He assures you, uncovering the plates. "Let's eat, it'll help."

"Help?" You tilt your head and Thatch smiles.

"Everything's better on a full stomach." He insists.

The simple fare from the complimentary breakfast bar wasn't anything spectacular, but it was good. You made small talk about the opera you were going to go see. La Traviata. Not that the title meant anything to either one of you, it was the first opera for both you and Thatch, and neither of you were even sure you'd understand the language.

You could look up details beforehand, but in the end decided not to. If you didn't understand what was going on, you could make up your own story, and then check how accurate you had been, and if you did understand it, then you'd be experiencing a new story together.

For the most part, you each stayed on your own bed, letting the furniture act like some sort of chaperone. It eased some of the tension that would've built up otherwise, but after a couple hours it was time to start getting ready.

Your dress was such that Thatch could help you with your hair before you started to do anything else. You'd been in a button-up top for that very reason.

It was as intimate as you had really been with Thatch. Sitting down in one of the chairs while he stood behind you, working your hair and carefully styling it. He only had to try a couple times to get it right, and you just spent the time hoping that the heat creeping up into your face and neck weren't as obvious as they felt.

His hands were huge, but they moved through your hair with care.

The same kind of care he had when he picked you up at Pops' house. The same kind of care that sat on the floor, waiting for you to come to him after your mother had intruded into your home. The same kind of care you were sure he would always-.

"Something on your mind, doll?" Thatch questions quietly, causing you to startle a little.

"Oh, no, no, I'm... I'm okay." You assure him.

"You're all set." He points out, turning your attention to the mirror.

Seeing yourself in the mirror also meant seeing Thatch beaming behind you. Your face was flushed, but so was his. He did a great job, you weren't sure you could've done better on your own even if your wrist wasn't healing.

"I'll go - go get, um, changed. It looks very good, thank you." You stammer, nearly running from the chair and into the bathroom.

It took Thatch almost twenty minutes before he was able to start changing, but he had the time to spare. You both did. There was no rush, you had wanted to start getting ready with time to spare in case you had a harder time getting dressed than expected.

As it was, everything went smoothly.

Almost.

Of everything you had carefully considered while picking out your makeup, and clothes, in order to avoid aggravating your injuries, you hadn't considered how difficult it was to zip up a dress with one hand. Especially when you were trying to not muss up your hair or your makeup.

After struggling for a few minutes, there was nothing else to be done for it.

"Um... Thatch?" You question, having barely cracked the bathroom door.

"Yeah, doll? I'm dressed, you can-." Thatch's words catch in his throat when you peek out from the doorway. You're beautiful straight out of bed in the morning, but with your hair and makeup done he doesn't really know how to react.

"I need your help." You say softly, barely even registering the blush on his face.

"At your service, doll." He says, shaking off the desire to promise you the moon and stars.

"I... I can't get the last bit of this zipper up."

"Zuh-huh... Oh! The back of your dress?" He stammers, coming over to the bathroom door. "Here, let me help."

You turn your back to the doorway and Thatch reaches in, holding onto the back of your dress and carefully pulling the zipper up.

"There's a-." You start to tell him about the little lock to hold the zipper up, but you can already feel him hooking it.

"Don't have a whole lotta sisters," he says, smoothing out the fabric for you. "But Tate and Bay would get these really classy dresses, and uh... well," he takes a step back as you turn to face him, looking away sheepishly. "They'd get plastered and then make whoever they found help undo the little zipper thing."

Thatch looks back at you with his usual grin, and his face goes slack for a second when you open the door.

"Wow." He murmurs, the expression on his face causing you to shut the door in his face. "Ah! Sorry, sorry, I-."

"It's okay." You say, barely loud enough to be heard you're sure. "I... just need a minute." You call out a little louder.

The look on his face was still burned into your vision. The blood rushing to his cheeks so fast you could see it bloom on his skin. The way his eyes widened just a little, letting the light in on those bright green eyes. The way his lips parted, the threat of a sincere compliment on the lines of his lips.

You couldn't face all of it just yet. Not right now at least, with so little space between you in this small hotel room.

On the other side of the door, Thatch presses his lips together trying not to make any noise. It was such an adorable response, and he didn't even mean to embarrass you like that. It was just that seeing all of you, feeling like he was going to be the luckiest guy in the whole Opera House, no matter what else happened.

Just to have you on his arm, by his side, in his sight - whatever you allowed.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed when you opened the door again. You couldn't bring your eyes to his at first. From the room to the car, from the car to the restaurant, your conversation was light, the soft fabric of your gloved hand resting against his fingers while you traveled.

The food was delicious, but it could've been sand for all the attention Thatch was giving it. Sitting across from one another as you ate, the weight of the earlier embarrassment was starting to ease up, and your shy gaze was flicking up to his eyes a little more often. The more comfortable you were around him the more your emotions leaked out of the stoic veneer your parents had layered over you.

In the deepest parts of his mind he was furious that the process was likely sped up by your mother's assault. If he hadn't found you under the table you would've stayed behind that shield for a lot longer, he was certain. He would've preferred that progress took longer, but what was done was done.

All he knew was that, with each passing day, he wanted to marry you more and more. It was on his mind so heavy he was surprised he hadn't just blurted it out already.

By the end of the meal you were relaxed, and no longer avoiding his gaze.

When you arrived at the Opera House, Thatch found an usher to guide you to your seats. You were pretty early, but there were plenty of people walking around and getting seated. You could hardly believe it when the usher took you up a set of steps that no one else seemed to be using, and to a door that was behind a curtain.

"When the opera begins, they'll release these curtains." The usher explains, opening the door for you both. "If you need to step out be sure to close the door before you part the curtain."

"Will do, thank you." Thatch answers, offering his hand after he steps inside the room. "My Lady," he says with a sweet grin.

Putting your hand in his, you step into the room.

It's a very small room, and it only takes a couple steps to reach the lush seats. It takes your mind a little longer to catch up to the situation. There's only four seats up here, but when Thatch guide you to sit in one of the middle seats, and then seat himself in the other middle seat, you realize it's just going to be the two of you up here.

"Did... did you buy private seating?" You ask softly.

Thatch nods. "I know you're okay with being around people, but I wanted to be able to enjoy this with just the two of us."

"It's..." You want to say it's too much, but Thatch had already said it was okay. It still felt like it was entirely too much for just you. Especially since you were only here because of your parents.

Thatch leans over, his hand resting lightly against yours. "Even if I had bought every seat in the house, doll, it still wouldn't be too much."

You put your other hand over your mouth, turning away from him for just a moment before managing to glance back toward him. You wanted him. Wanted him to stay in your life, wanted him to marry you, wanted him to just be by your side.

It was scary in a sense, because you didn't know what was going to happen. You'd never had something you were afraid of losing like this.

"Thank you." You manage to say. "But... but don't do anything like that." You try not to sound too pleading, but you're a little worried he would.

"Pfft!" Thatch tries not to laugh, and brings your hand up to his lips, barely pressing against the glove. "I promise."

You and Thatch continued to make light conversation until the theater began to fill, the orchestra began to warm up and the lights dimmed.

It was in a language you knew a little bit, but Thatch was apparently fluent. He spent almost the whole Opera whispering in your ear. The proximity, his breath against your neck, the sound of his voice, was enough to take the edge off the sad story of the opera itself.

In the Opera, two people fall in love, but the lady was from a common family compared to the successful family of the man. Deciding to stay together, they move to the countryside, but the young man's father implores the lady to leave his son for the sake of his sister, who was trying to get married.

The lady was dying, but agreed to the father's request and left the man's life.

He didn't learn why she left until she was nearly dead. Having only the barest moment to speak of their love of one another before she passes away, the hope of a life renewed dying on her lips.

"She died?" You barely whisper the words. You can't help but feel sad, you had been connecting with the characters, and you were hoping for a happier ending.

"Izou warned me Operas are usually tragic." Thatch admits. "But I really thought she was going to hold on longer."

"It... felt a bit like us." You say. Thatch tilts his head, the two of you staying put as the theater empties out. "She was poor, and he was rich. And... and...she fell second," you say the words very quietly, but you're certain he heard you. Your words speed up at the end, and you can only glance at Thatch before looking away again

"But your father wouldn't step in like that, but family stepped in and made it complicated, and it just made me think of mine. Us. It..." Your voice trails off as Thatch's finger is very carefully convincing your chin to turn toward him. "Th-Thatch?"

It feels like he's going to kiss you, but there's so many people around. You know no one's looking up into your little private box, but hearing everyone nearby is flustering you.

"Did you just confess?" He questions softly, a smile on his lips and in his eyes.

Your eyes go wide and your face flushes hotly. Carefully, you cover his eyes with your hands, because if you cover your face you might get makeup on the gloves Izou lent you. You take a moment to compose yourself, and Thatch lets you.

You're trying to look at him sternly when you finally move your hands away.

"No, I... I didn't, because when I do, I want to say it properly." You assert.

"Alright." Thatch holds your gaze, reaching out and brushing his hand carefully over your hair. "Hey Doll," He hums the words, getting you to look up at him. "May I kiss you?"

You nod, putting your hand on his shoulder as he leans in. You can still hear the subtle din of crowds finally starting to die down, but you don't care about them, as much as you want to give Thatch everything you can.

Especially when he never asks for more than you can give.

His lips are soft and warm, the pressure of the kiss a little more bold than a few days ago. Just as careful and tender, though maybe this time because he was trying to avoid messing up your makeup. Leaning back he kisses the tip of your nose briefly, smiling when you crinkled your face from the sensation.

"I fell first, huh?" He hums, and you nod. "I'm not gonna say you're wrong, but when did you know?"

"When you sat down on the floor." You answer, holding up your wrist. Not that you needed to clarify what you were referring to. "I think I knew then."

"Hm..." Thatch thinks back on the first time you both walked in the gardens, and how you called out Izou's garden for his choice of flowers. At first he was a little hurt that you didn't think he could make a garden, but he realized you were pointing out the good parts of it before breaking down all the reasons it didn't suit him.

The way you had admitted all the flowers meant rude things, and the implication that you already couldn't imagine him being rude. It might be reckless to fall for someone so fast, but he couldn't have helped it even if he had tried.

But it didn't matter to him when it happened, or when you noticed.

Only that it had happened.