Words are a precious commodity these days. There's tales copied down in old books–days of endless communication, nonsense words and noises filling the empty space in the world. Those days are gone now.

The world is predominantly quiet as people shuffle from place to place, conserving their words until they're sure–sure–they've found their soulmate. Only then are their vocal chords released, the wealth of words they've accumulated come spilling out, often murmured into their soulmate's ear.

The world is filled only with the sounds of those already paired off and the daring utterances of those still looking.

Lucien Blake is down to his last word. His mother shook her head at him, running her hand through his hair and kissed him on the forehead softly. "You're too trusting, mon chéri. Save your words for your soulmate."

But he'd been reckless, every thought pouring from his lips in a search for his other half. He thought perhaps Monica Parker was for him (he'd been entranced by her bright hair and even brighter eyes). But the word counter on his wrist didn't disappear. He was still bound by a word count.

Then, he thought perhaps Matthew Lawson was his soulmate. Matthew's kind eyes and sharp cheekbones stirred something inside of him but even as he babbled at Matthew, he knew Matthew wasn't the one.

On and on it went, from Monica to Matthew to a few girls in medical school and then finally, to Mei Lin. He was down to five words, now, but he only needed four for this. He could learn to live with silence. Lucien had learned to communicate with a look and with a touch. Mei Lin wasn't his soul mate but she was all he wanted.

So he got down on one knee, ignoring Mei Lin's wide eyes of surprise and grinned, using up four of his last five words: "Will you marry me?"

But Mei Lin–who he had always known was smarter than him anyway–had fallen to her knees, kissing him softly, sadly. She only closed the ring box he held in his hands and shook her head. No.

She didn't even use a word on him.

So with a heavy heart and a single word left, he returned home to Ballarat. For the first time in his life, he was careful. He boarded the plane with a nod to the hostess and only managed a grunt of acknowledgement to those in town waving at him, greeting him on his return to Ballarat.

There was a heaviness to his heart that hadn't been there before, a certain hopelessness. He had one word–one. If he took a gamble on the wrong person, said the wrong thing, he was dooming himself to a life of muteness, of solitude. The Mute of the world were untouchable and unloved and society pitied them, shunned them.

It was these thoughts that swirled in his head as he pushed open the door of his childhood home and found himself face to face with his father's housekeeper. A soft gasp fell from his lips as he took her in: curled hair, bright eyes, curves that his hands would cover nicely.

He bit his lip to stop himself from saying Wow. Instead, he smiled brightly at her and waved, gesturing to his bags. She rifled through the pocket of her apron and pulled out a stack of index cards with dark, bold print on them.

His eyes caught sight of: Tea? Breakfast/lunch/dinner? How are you? Drink?

It was ingenious, he thought as she held up a card that said: I'm Jean Beazley. Lucien watched as she rifled through her cards again and he shook his head at her as she held up a card that said: Tea? Instead, he dug through her pocket, ignoring her wide eyes and her slaps against his wrist. Triumphantly, he held up the card that said Drink?

She pursed her lips at him, shooting him a glare that said all that needed to be said. He shrugged unapologetically and moved past her, dropping his bags in the hallway.

That morning, they sat huddled together in the kitchen–a tumbler of whiskey in his right hand and a mug of steaming tea in hers–passing a small notebook back and forth, asking questions and exchanging information.

He admired the curly, looping scrawl of her handwriting; the way she licked the tip of the pen when it dried up; the way she brushed her hair behind her ear and hunched over the notebook.

While she was writing her response to him (a general schedule of her day-to-day duties in the Blake household), he caught a glimpse of Jean's word counter: four.

For a brief, irrational moment, he felt jealous of all those who had come before him, those who had heard her voice. Who did she deem worthy of so many of her words? Had she been like him, reckless and overly giving? Had she found someone and simply thought to hell with it and used what she could on him? He ached to know.

For the first time in a long time, he regretted his single word and he wondered how he could say all he wanted to say to Jean with a single word.

Communicating with Jean without words was, surprisingly, easy. Her card system worked well for day-to-day conversations and he was quite proud when she added Lucien-specific cards to her deck:

More whiskey? (which Lucien rather enjoyed as it could be a genuine question if her eyes were soft and she was already walking to the cart or a chastisement if her jaw was set and her eyebrow arched).

Bex? (related to the aforementioned whiskey and his penchant for mischief). Nightmare? (this one had caused a bit of chagrin but it filled him with warmth regardless–Jean cared about him, Jean noticed him).

Piano? (this card was always raised after Jean had a long day, the sound of his piano playing soothing her. If he was lucky, she would sit beside him on the piano bench, swaying gently in time to his music as she sipped her sherry. And if he was really lucky, she would rest her head on his shoulder and hum along).

And still, the one word hung over him and he tried to think of how he could tell Jean he was hopeless in love with her, that he couldn't imagine his life without her, that she was the only one he wanted to wake up to and even if this was his last word, he would gladly live out the rest of his life at her side with only their cards and their fleeting touches.

Because there were touches: hands on the small of the other's back, fingertips trailing over the backs of hands, and that one heart-stopping moment in the sun room. Jean had been upset and he had taken her face between his hands, thumbs on her cheeks, offering comfort and then the moment shifted, turned into something more: an electric crackle filling his ears, everything in his universe settling and zooming in on nothing but her–Jean.

Then the bloody phone had started ringing off the hook and the moment was gone, shattered.

But he had felt it then: Jean was it for him.

So he sat at his desk, wrote a simple note, folded it up, and, heart beating wildly, he handed it to her. He watched as she furrowed her brow at him, eyeing him suspiciously, before opening his note and reading. He watched her lips mouth the words he knew by heart:

Jean, I have only a single word left before I'm rendered Mute. But I know–I know–you are the one for me. And I'm willing to risk it. Are you?

He watched as her eyes widened and she turned, shaking her head, using up three of her remaining four words: "Lucien, no, don't!"

But it was too late, he was already taking her hand in his and grinning softly at her. "You," he whispered. A white-hot heat filled him then, his heart beating wildly, and he didn't need to glance down at his wrist to know what he already felt in his heart: the counter was gone.

His throat felt loose for the first time in a decade and he laughed, the sound filling the room and Jean let out a small, choked sob, her hands flying over his face, mouthing his name. Lucien's hands came up to cup her cheeks and he licked his lips, "Jean, it's you. I knew it was you. Trust me, love. Trust me."

Jean's gaze was fixed upon his mouth and he took pleasure in the way she shuddered at the sound of his voice, eyes fluttering closed and her head tilting to the side like a dog listening to a particular intriguing noise.

Lucien felt the warmth and giddiness fill him, the feeling of completeness at the knowledge of his soulmate–his soulmate–was in his arms.

Jean pulled away, scrambling for a notecard and pen. The counter on her wrist flashed one.She held her note up to him: What if I'm your soulmate but you aren't mine? What if I go Mute?

He took the note from her and tossed it over his shoulder, laughing at Jean's outraged face, her hands settling on her hips. He took her hands off her hips and pressed his lips to the back of them, smiling softly at her. "Jean, love, I don't care if you're Mute. You're mine. And I can feel it: I'm yours, too. Let me be yours, Jean."

With a deep shuddering breath, Jean nodded and took one, final glance at her word counter. She paused then and curled her fingers into his shirt, eyes closing as she whispered out her last word, "You."

The same lightning hot heat that rushed through Lucien filled Jean and her own counter disappeared from her wrist, the tightness in her throat loosening. She looked at Lucien, eyes wide. He didn't appear shocked at all and instead he cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the soft skin there.

Before she could utter another word, his mouth was on hers, hot and demanding and so, so right. She melted against him, curling closer to his body and wrapping her arms around his neck. When his tongue stroked over hers, she gasped out his name, "Lucien!"

And then, because she realized she could, because she had the rest of the world and as many words as she wanted at her fingertips, she babbled out only his name over and over again: Lucien, Lucien, Lucien.

He buried his face into her neck, simply holding her–his soulmate–in his arms and muttered the only word he wanted to say for the rest of his life into the warmth of her skin: Jean, Jean, Jean.

A lifetime of vocabulary to catch up on and the only words they could utter were their names over and over again. After all, they had the rest of their lives to say everything else.