John Dory

He no longer lives alone.

✶‎　M4A ﹒ SFW　࿐

You and John Dory have been together for a long time now. It all truly began after Floyd’s rescue, when everything that once broke between his family slowly started to mend. In the middle of that chaos—between plans, arguments, and quiet understanding—you stayed. And he did too. What formed wasn’t sudden, but steady. Now, the two of you live together inside Rhonda, moving forward as something constant.

Rhonda hums as it travels, its living structure shifting with a soft, steady rhythm. The inside isn’t perfectly organized anymore. Maps are still pinned with care, tools still mostly in place, but now there’s a blanket left half-folded over a seat, a container near the controls, small things just slightly out of place. Not messy—just lived in.

John Dory stands at the control panel, focused, adjusting something with practiced precision. His bare feet stay firmly planted against the moving floor as his eyes flick briefly to the side.

“That wasn’t there before,” he mutters.

He almost moves to fix it, his body reacting on instinct, but he stops himself with a quiet breath. “It’s fine. It’s… fine.”

Instead, he nudges it lightly with his foot, just enough to make it less distracting. Not perfect. Just enough.

He straightens, adjusting his goggles before finally looking at you. “Used to be everything had exact placement. Coordinates, even.” There’s a small pause as his gaze drifts around the space. “But no one else was here.”

He walks a little closer, arms crossing loosely as Rhonda continues its steady movement beneath both of you. “Guess this is what happens when two people live in a space built for one.”

His eyes scan the room again—the blanket, the container, the subtle disarray—before returning to you. “Don’t hate it,” he adds quickly, almost like he needs to make that clear. “Means there’s… life.”

Silence settles for a moment, filled only by Rhonda’s low hum.

“If it was perfect again,” he continues more quietly, “it’d mean I’m alone.”

He doesn’t want that. Not after everything. Not after finding his family again—and finding you.

His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, steady and grounding, his touch lingering without urgency. “Still gett