When Miles Edgeworth got out of bed every morning, he did so with dignity and grace. He even slept straight in bed, and hardly wrinkled his sheets. So up until he had turned 35, he almost never had to do much to get tidy.
Wake up, fold the sheets back, walk along his perfectly kept home, brush his teeth in his sparkling bathroom, prepare his usual morning tea (or coffee, if it had been one of those kinds of nights) and prepare for another day in the life of Miles Edgeworth.
He had grown very accustomed to these habits. And so when he was 35 he was frustrated to find many occasions where a snoring girl would ruin his routines.
Her legs would drape around the bed, ruining his perfectly crisp sheets. Her clothes were always on the floor, and he detested the sight. She always forgot to change the empty rolls of toilet paper- she was a terrible mess maker.
And yet these terrifyingly unkempt encounters kept occurring, and with frightening frequency.
And worse yet, it was affecting him. Usually perfect hair, now ruined by curling fingers. Crisp bedsheets, ruined by a girl who didn't mind making a mess. Now every time he went to make tea he found a dirty counter with dirty dishes to match. And when he pointed this all out, she ran her hands through her knotted hair and yawned.
"Oh, yeah, I guess you should clean that," and then she just walked passed him and ate more of his food.
Hungry. Insatiable. Crazy. Loud. Annoying. Vivacious. Just like always, he found himself back at a good word. He couldn't stay mad at her.
He remembered when she was young. Much younger than she was now, before her hips had taken such form. Before her cheekbones were ones he could envision caressing. He remembered when all he could see was a spirited little girl, and now he can't see that anymore.
He can only see a spirited yet terribly messy woman.
And each morning, she prances through far too late to his kitchen. When she is not there, when she is away on some sort of training, his house is empty. He buries himself in unorganized paperwork and keeps himself up late to forget that she is not there. But why, he always asks?
She drives him crazy. She always drags him places. Even now that she is calmer, more dignified, trained in so much more- she is still so alive. And she forces him to be too. If she were gone, by all logic he should be better off.
Yet each day when a half naked Maya Fey walks through his bathroom door to try and brush her teeth with the lights off so her eyes don't have to adjust, he smiles. And there, in his imperfect world, he pulls his wife closer and finds an acceptable balance between perfection and happiness.