Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The clink of silverware against ceramic echoed softly in the quiet of the Forger dining room. The lights were warm, the setting domestic. A perfectly normal family scene.

Loid Forger—codename Twilight—sat at the head of the table, picking at his serving of omurice with well-mannered detachment. He was only half-tasting it, though it was expertly cooked. He'd made it himself, after all.

The idea had come from Anya.

"Mama said omurice reminds her of home," she'd chirped earlier that evening, right before dinner. Not that it was new information—he remembered her mentioning it before. But something about the way Anya had said it this time... like she wanted to create a shared moment.

So he made it. A small gesture. A peace offering?

His eyes flicked toward Yor, seated to his left. She was quiet as she cut neatly into her food, her posture composed, but not relaxed.

It wasn't the silence that bothered him. It was the strain behind it.

He'd returned earlier that afternoon from a briefing with The Handler, Sylvia Sherwood. She'd walked with him along a back alley dressed as a pedestrian, her umbrella shielding her from the sun.

"Agent Twilight," she had said with that calm authority she always carried, "Strix remains a high priority. However, we've noticed something concerning."

He'd kept his expression neutral. "Concerning?"

"There have been several sightings of SSS surveillance in your neighborhood. We're doing our best to monitor, but it's possible your household is under closer watch than before."

His mind had instantly gone to Yor. Anya. The apartment.

"I understand. I'll adjust the protocols."

Sylvia had paused, giving him a glance that was more human than handler. "Also... this family you've built. Are you certain everything is holding steady?"

He'd hesitated.

"I've noticed... a shift," he admitted quietly. "Yor has been acting more reserved. I'm not sure if it's suspicion... or something else."

"You're trained to detect deception. What's your read?"

"That's the problem," he'd said. "I don't think she's lying. I think... she's conflicted."

Sylvia hadn't pried further. "Keep your eyes open. Maintain the mission. But remember—emotions are part of your cover. Just be careful which ones you let grow."

—

Now, back at the dinner table, Loid caught Yor sneaking a glance at him when she thought he wasn't looking.

He almost smiled. Almost.

"Is the seasoning alright?" he asked instead, gently.

"Oh! Yes. It's delicious," Yor said quickly, flustered. "You always cook so well. I should learn more."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to," she interrupted, before lowering her eyes. "It's just... hard to know when's the right time."

The right time for what?

Loid felt something twist in his chest.

"Papa's ketchup faces are funny," Anya said loudly, holding up her fork. "This one looks like it's winking. But now I stabbed it. Oops."

Loid chuckled, grateful for the distraction. Yor smiled too, but it was faint.

He'd rehearsed conversations in his head a dozen times on the train ride back. Probing ways to ask her what was wrong without breaking the careful balance they'd established.

But none of them seemed appropriate now.

"Anya," Yor said, rising to gather her plate, "You should finish quickly. It's getting late."

"Can I watch one cartoon after?"

"Only if you finish all your vegetables."

Anya groaned. "Even the green ones?"

"Yes. Especially the green ones."

Loid leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes following Yor as she moved into the kitchen. He couldn't help but notice how she held her shoulders—tense, like she was bracing herself.

He stood, gathering his plate.

"I'll help with the dishes."

Yor glanced over her shoulder. "You don't have to."

"I want to."

Anya squinted at them as they disappeared into the kitchen.

They're being weird again. Mama's heart is all fluttery and Papa's brain is buzzing. Someone say something!

—

In the kitchen, the water ran softly. Loid scrubbed the plates while Yor dried, the routine familiar but unusually charged.

"Anya mentioned that omurice reminds you of home," he said after a pause.

Yor smiled faintly. "It does. My mother used to make it when we were little. Before she passed."

"I see."

A long pause.

"I'm sorry if I've been... distant," she said softly. "I just... I've had a lot on my mind lately."

Loid rinsed a dish. "I've noticed. I wasn't sure if it was something I did."

She looked alarmed. "No! No, it's nothing like that. It's... me. I've just been trying to sort through things. Feelings, maybe."

He glanced sideways at her. "If there's anything you want to talk about, Yor... you can. I won't push. But I'm here."

Her hand tightened around the dish towel.

"I'm still trying to understand what I feel," she admitted, barely audible. "I don't want to say something and ruin things if I'm wrong."

Loid stared at the soap bubbles in the sink.

What do I feel? he thought. Protectiveness? Guilt? Comfort? Attraction? It's all tangled.

He said carefully, "I think I understand. Sometimes it's hard to tell what's real and what's part of the role."

Yor nodded, her eyes downcast.

They stood in silence again, side by side, while Anya tiptoed down the hall with Bond to spy on them unnoticed.

—

After the dishes, the house seemed to breathe a collective sigh. The lights were dimmed. The television buzzed faintly with some late-night children's cartoon as Anya lay sprawled across the couch with Bond curled at her feet.

Yor helped her up. "Time for bed, Anya. You have school tomorrow."

Anya pouted, but relented. "Okay... Goodnight, Mama. Goodnight, Papa."

"Goodnight, Anya," they both said in unison.

The child glanced back at them once, eyes sharp beneath sleepy lids, before retreating into her room.

Loid stood by the hall, waiting as Yor turned back toward the living room. They paused there—facing one another in the silence.

"Thank you," she said softly. "For dinner. And for... listening."

He nodded. "Of course. Anytime."

She gave him a polite smile, and turned toward her room.

Loid watched her go.

Then, he turned in the opposite direction.

—

Yor stood in front of her bedroom mirror, brushing her hair out slowly. Her motions were mechanical, her eyes distant.

I'm acting like a fool, she thought, getting confused by feelings I shouldn't have. This marriage isn't real. It was never supposed to be real.

But it felt real sometimes. The warmth of their dinners. The way he said her name. How carefully he listened.

He's always so kind. And calm. Too calm. What if he doesn't feel anything at all? What if I'm just making it worse by overthinking?

She put down the brush.

I can't tell him anything yet. Not until I know.

She turned out the light and slid under the covers.

Sleep took time.

—

Loid lay in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

His internal clock, tuned to late-night stakeouts and sudden mission alerts, didn't allow for peace. He wasn't expected back in the field until the weekend. Still, his mind refused to shut down.

She's hiding something, he thought. But not in a threatening way. More like... she's afraid. Of what? Of me? Or of herself?

The Handler's words rang in his mind: Just be careful which emotions you let grow.

He shifted under the sheets.

Yor Forger. My wife. The mother of my fake child. And yet... when I see her, I don't think of her as a stranger anymore. That should worry me.

He closed his eyes.

But sleep did not come.

———

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered gently through the Forger household's lace curtains, casting soft golden hues across the kitchen. The scent of scrambled eggs, miso soup, and toast mingled with the lingering traces of last night's omurice. Yor moved around the apartment in her usual quiet rhythm, hair still slightly tousled from sleep. Loid sat at the table already dressed for work, reading the newspaper, though his eyes flicked up every now and then to observe his wife.

She's unusually quiet today.

He tried to read something into it, but Yor always had a quiet presence in the mornings. Anya, hunched over the table, stabbed at her eggs with more energy than grace.

"Papa," she mumbled, mouth half full, "I drew a picture of Mr. Chimera fighting a space squid yesterday. Do you think Eden will give me a Stella Star for it?"

Loid blinked and set the paper aside. "Well, creative expression is important, Anya, but Eden College usually reserves Stella Stars for academic or civic excellence."

"Booo," she muttered, but a sly grin curved her lips.

Yor set down a plate of toast and sat across from Loid, her movements careful. She folded her hands in her lap and smiled politely, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Thank you for cooking last night," she said softly. "The omurice was really good."

Loid offered a mild nod. "I'm glad you liked it. I remembered it was one of your favorites."

Her eyes widened slightly. "You did?"

He nodded again, keeping his tone even. "Of course. It came up once during that dinner with Camilla and the others, didn't it?"

Yor nodded, expression touched. He remembers things like that...

The table was quiet for a moment. Not cold. Just... hesitantly warm.

—

Later that morning, Loid closed the door behind him, stepping out into the crisp city air. He adjusted his tie, but the frown on his face wasn't for the wind.

His feet didn't take him straight to the hospital front where he maintained his cover. Instead, he turned a few corners and ended up at a small alleyway where Franky was already leaning against a lamppost with a toothpick between his teeth.

"Loidy!"

"Don't call me that."

Franky laughed. "Sorry, sorry. Habit. You look like you're carrying a brick on your back. Handler's briefing still on your mind?"

Loid crossed his arms. "She implied there may be... disruptions at home. I didn't expect that angle."

"The whole 'your marriage is a lie and it might blow your cover' thing? Yeah, shocking," Franky said, rolling his eyes.

Loid ignored the sarcasm. "It just made me realize I haven't considered Yor's perspective. If she's unhappy... it could jeopardize everything."

Franky snorted. "Or maybe she's just a quiet woman who doesn't like pouring her heart out at the breakfast table."

"But what if she's planning to leave? If she thinks the marriage isn't working?"

"Well, what do you think of her?" Franky asked casually. "You worried for the mission?... or are you actually worried about her?"

Loid didn't answer right away.

Franky gave a low whistle. "Damn. Maybe I should fake a family. Everyone else seems to be playing house and catching feelings."

Loid shot him a look.

Franky held up his hands. "Hey, all I'm saying is: maybe you want this to work more than you realize. Not because of Operation Strix. Just... maybe."

—

Meanwhile, at Berlint City Hall, Yor was sorting paperwork in her modest cubicle. Her colleagues chatted about weekend markets and cleaning recipes, but she only half-listened.

Her mind kept drifting.

Why did I say that to Anya?

The words I'm in love with your father echoed in her head like a whisper she couldn't shut out.

She didn't regret saying it... but it complicated everything. She didn't even know what it meant. Loid had always been kind, and gentle, and responsible. He made her feel safe in a way she hadn't felt since her parents died. But love?

The phone on her desk rang.

Yor picked it up. "City Hall, Office Four. This is Yor Forger speaking."

A pause.

"The shop is open," said a clipped, cool voice.

Yor's breath hitched. "Understood. I'll stop by this evening."

Yor blinked at the phone in her hand. Her heartbeat was still thudding from the call. Her fingers trembled as she slowly set the receiver back down.

A mission. Maybe that will clear my head.

—

"I still think you're being dramatic," Franky says, leaning back against the alleyway wall, a toothpick shifting between his teeth. "You're faking a marriage, raising a kid, working your way into Eden College, lying through elite social circles—and now Yor's sudden change is what's breaking you?"

Loid's jaw tensed. "It's not about Yor," he said too quickly, eyes narrowing at the alley wall like it had offended him. "It's about the mission. Any sudden shift in behavior could compromise the stability of our cover. I just... need to be prepared."

Franky raised an eyebrow. "Right. Totally not about the fact that she barely looks at you anymore."

Loid didn't answer.

The silence between them stretched long, broken only by the distant hum of a passing trolley. Franky sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"You know," he muttered, tone softening, "for someone who's supposed to be a master manipulator, you really suck at lying to yourself."

Loid turned his head slightly, but didn't meet Franky's eyes. "This arrangement was always meant to be temporary. Efficient. Predictable."

"And yet here you are, losing sleep over how your fake wife might be mad at you."

Loid exhaled slowly, the sound sharp and heavy. "She's not mad. Or... maybe she is. I don't know." He pressed his fingers to his temple. "She's just been... distant. Unreadable. And the worst part is—I can't tell if it's a personal problem, or if it's something that's going to unravel Operation Strix."

Franky gave him a long look. "You mean you can't tell if she's pulling away from the mission... or from you."

Loid didn't respond. Couldn't.

Franky shook his head with a lopsided grin, trying to play it off. "Man, if I had a family like yours—even a fake one—I'd count my blessings. A partner who actually cleans the house? A kid who doesn't bite people? That's practically a miracle in this city."

Loid managed a weak chuckle. "You're one to talk about miracles."

"I'm serious." Franky's tone dipped into something quieter. "Yor might not say much, but she shows up. She tries. Not everyone would. Just... don't screw this up by treating it like a puzzle you need to solve."

Loid glanced down at his watch, heart picking up speed. He hadn't realized how much time had passed. Or how late it was getting.

"I need to head to the hospital," he said suddenly, standing straighter and brushing off his coat. "There's still a report I need to collect from a contact."

Franky scoffed. "Sure. That's the reason."

But Loid was already walking off, hands in his pockets, mind racing.

Franky didn't stop him, only watched as he walked away, muttering under his breath, "Must be nice having a fake family who actually likes you back."

As Loid made his way through the quiet streets, he wasn't sure what part of the conversation haunted him more—Franky's jealousy, or the uncomfortable truth buried in his words.

His thoughts weren't on the mission files, or the informant he was scheduled to meet later that day. They were on Yor—on her silence, on the way her soft glances no longer lingered, on the meals they now ate without conversation

I'll talk to her tonight, he decided. After Anya goes to bed. We need to clear the air—whatever it is.

But a part of him whispered, And what if there's nothing left to clear?

—

Yor stood in front of her bedroom mirror, pulling her gloves on slowly, methodically—as if the tight leather could bind together the fraying edges inside her. Her work uniform lay hidden beneath an oversized coat, but it didn't disguise the weight pressing down on her chest. If anything, the tightness had only grown heavier.

Her eyes flicked to the small house phone resting on the hallway table. Should I call him? she wondered. Just to say I'll be home late. That he shouldn't wait up.

Her hand reached out, fingers brushing the receiver.

But she froze.

Would that be too forward? Too familiar? We're not... we're not real. I don't want to make him uncomfortable. He probably wouldn't even notice I'm gone. He probably wouldn't care.

The thought landed like a stone in her stomach, pulling her posture inward.

She stared at the phone for another moment, as if willing it to give her an answer. Then, quietly, she let her hand fall.

She turned from the phone, grabbing her purse and slipping it over her shoulder. The apartment was still, dim in the soft light of the setting sun, the silence stretching too far. She paused for one last moment, standing there, hoping for some reason to stay.

None came.

The door clicked softly behind her as she stepped into the afternoon air, the echo of her exit swallowed by the quiet.

—

Later, in the shadows of a quiet rooftop, Yor landed lightly on her feet, blood pounding in her ears. The target lay unconscious below, right where she had been told he would be.

Fast. Efficient. No mistakes.

She should feel relieved.

Instead, as she stared at her gloved hands, she felt... empty.

Not from the kill. That had never bothered her before.

But from what came after.

Would Loid ever understand this part of her? Could he? And if he found out—who she really was—would he look at her the same way?

Her heart twisted painfully.

Would he even want me if he knew?

The thought lingered like fog in her chest, thick and unwelcome.

She crouched at the edge of the rooftop, the wind tugging gently at her coat. Below, the city moved on, oblivious. Lights blinked in apartment windows. A dog barked in the distance. Somewhere, someone was laughing.

Yor stayed still, eyes unfocused. This life—this strange, split life she led—was beginning to fray at the edges. For so long, she'd believed that pretending was enough. Pretending to be a wife. Pretending to be normal. Pretending not to feel too much.

But lately... she wasn't sure if it was pretend anymore.

The small moments clung to her like thorns. Loid helping Anya with her homework while she watched quietly from the doorway. The way his hand would sometimes brush hers when reaching for the kettle. The almost-smiles. The way his eyes softened, even when he didn't realize it.

And now she was here, crouched above a body, wondering what it would be like to come home to him. Really come home.

She sighed, pressing a hand against her chest.

Stop it, she scolded herself. You're not supposed to want this.

But she did.

God, she did.

Yor pressed a hand to her heart. It felt bruised.

If Loid ever knew who I really was... would he still look at me the way he sometimes does? Would he even want to?

No. He's already pulling away, isn't he? I knew this couldn't last. I knew it.

A chill wind swept through the alley, but she barely felt it. She stood up, brushing herself off.

Just get home. Pretend again. Pretend until you can't anymore.

—

Back at the Forger house, the clock struck 10:36 PM.

The house was quiet. Dinner had been eaten. Anya had gone to bed hours ago, rambling sleepily about Damien, a new classroom project, and the news that only two students would receive Stella Stars from the upcoming assignment.

Loid had smiled, encouraged her, tucked her in—and then walked out of her room with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Now he sat in the living room, his coat folded beside him, a notebook open on the coffee table with several notes scrawled about the school's competition.

He was planning. Mapping out a strategy to ensure Anya had every advantage.

But his eyes kept flicking to the clock.

10:40 PM.

Still not home.

His pen stopped moving.

Yor had never been out this late. Not without notice. Not without at least... something.

And she hadn't called.

He told himself it wasn't a big deal. That she was an adult with her own life. That perhaps she was working overtime at City Hall. That there was no reason to—

His eyes flicked back to the door. Still locked. Still dark outside.

He sighed and stood, heading to the kitchen. He had saved her portion of dinner. Kept it warm in case she came home hungry.

Not that he was waiting.

Not that he cared.

He poured himself a cup of tea and sat back on the couch, notebook still open but untouched.

His mind ran through contingency plans. Projected grades. Interactions with teachers.

But all of it blurred.

All he could think about was her empty chair.

And how quiet the house had become.

He stared into his cup, watching the steam curl upward, vanishing into the still air.

It wasn't like him to lose focus. Not when there was work to be done.

But there was something about the way the silence stretched tonight—longer than usual, heavier. It wasn't just Yor's absence; it was what her absence meant. Or rather, what it might mean.

Had he done something wrong?

Was he too distant? Too careful?

Talking to Franky had stirred up things he wasn't ready to look at—things he'd spent years compartmentalizing, pushing down in favour of duty.

He wasn't even sure when the distance had crept in.

One day, their silences had felt comfortable. Easy.

Now they just felt... empty.

Like something important had been lost between them, and neither of them knew how to reach for it.

A soft creak interrupted his thoughts—the stairs settling, or the wind shifting. For a moment, he thought it might be her.

But the door remained closed.

Loid set the tea down, untouched.

He didn't know when pretending had stopped being easy.

Didn't know when the lines between mission and home had blurred.

All he knew was this; He didn't like the way it felt, sitting here without her.

He shifted in his seat, trying to focus on Anya's school report.

"They assigned a new class project," she'd said. "Only two kids get a Stella Star from it. I have to be one. I'll get expelled if I don't make it. Right, Papa?"

Loid had calmed her nerves, told her she wouldn't be expelled, and now was crafting the perfect plan to help her succeed. He was good at plans.

But as he stared at the page, her voice echoed in his mind.

"Becky said sometimes when mamas and papas fight, they go away forever. But you and Mama don't fight. You're just quiet. That's scarier."

Loid rubbed a hand across his face.

He was a spy. He'd faced gunfire, betrayal, death itself. But somehow, the quiet between him and Yor was louder than all of it.

The clock ticked.

Where is she?

He tapped his pen.

She could've just said she'd be late.

He leaned back, closing his eyes.

When she comes home, I'll talk to her. We have to sort this out... whatever this is.

But even as he tried to reason it away, the sound of the door not opening was all he could hear.

—

The walk home was longer than usual.

Yor had taken the back streets again, not out of caution, but avoidance. The mission had been clean—swift, silent, exactly as Garden demanded—but her thoughts hadn't been. They never were anymore.

By the time the apartment came into view, the ache in her legs had faded into something duller, something deeper. She paused by the front door, fingers brushing the handle. Her gloves were already off, tucked neatly into her coat pocket. No stains. No evidence. Still, she could feel it. The trace of violence never left her skin, not really.

The door creaked open. Warm light spilled from the living room, soft and golden. She stepped inside and gently shut it behind her.

He was there, seated exactly where she expected, posture composed but unmoving. He didn't turn to look.

She stood in the entryway for a moment too long, unsure if she was interrupting or being ignored.

"Sorry I'm late," she said.

"You didn't call."

There was no anger in his voice, but no softness either. Just observation. A statement placed gently on the table between them.

"There wasn't a phone where I was," she replied, slowly slipping off her coat. "I finished later than I thought."

Still, he said nothing. She wasn't sure which part of her answer he didn't believe—if any.

The silence pressed down.

She moved to hang her coat, fingers fumbling at the hook. Her legs ached again. Not from the run. From the stillness that came after.

"Are you okay?"

It wasn't like him to ask so plainly. That almost hurt more than if he hadn't asked at all.

She didn't answer right away. What was she supposed to say? That the quiet was louder now? That her thoughts kept wandering to him during missions, and she didn't know what that meant?

"I'm just tired," she said instead.

He nodded once.

And that was it.

She made her way toward the kitchen, out of habit more than hunger. The counter was clean. The kettle had gone cold. Her hands hovered above it for a second before falling back to her sides.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to be alone or if she was already too alone to begin with.

—

The clock read 11:42.

He'd long finished his tea, though the empty cup remained in his hands—cradled more like a tether than a drink. The notes on the coffee table lay forgotten, his pen idle. His eyes hadn't left the door in almost twenty minutes.

He told himself it was simply precaution. That as Anya's father, it was reasonable to be concerned about who came and went from their home. That vigilance, not worry, had rooted him to the couch.

But when the doorknob finally turned—soft, so soft he nearly missed it—his entire body went still.

The door opened without a sound. She stepped in like a ghost, weightless. Silent.

He'd trained himself to sense the smallest shifts in air pressure, the quietest footsteps, the tension in a room—but even then, he hadn't heard her approach. That bothered him more than he cared to admit.

Her presence used to be clumsy. Predictable. Comforting in its honesty.

Now, even she was hard to read.

Her coat whispered against the wall as she took it off. She didn't see him yet. Or maybe she did and was simply pretending not to.

His hands tightened slightly around the empty cup.

The faintest click as she placed her shoes by the door. He didn't move.

"Sorry I'm late."

He waited.

"You didn't call."

It came out cooler than he intended. Not accusing. Not upset. Just... true.

"There wasn't a phone where I was," she said. "I finished later than I thought."

He studied her face, but she wouldn't meet his eyes.

Something was off.

Not in the way it sometimes was after a frustrating day at City Hall. Not in the way people came home tired after paperwork and long meetings. This was something else. Something deeper, tighter. Like she was holding something down beneath her skin.

"Are you okay?"

The question escaped before he could filter it. A slip. A crack.

She looked surprised. Almost... exposed. But the moment passed.

"I'm just tired," she said.

He nodded.

Because what else was there to say?

She drifted into the kitchen, quiet as ever. He could barely hear her footsteps, even now. The stillness returned, but it felt different. Heavier. Like something had shifted just slightly out of place, and neither of them knew how to fix it.

He set the cup down.

And kept watching the doorway she'd passed through, listening for the sounds of someone trying not to be heard.

He didn't follow her right away. There was no tactical reason to. No intel to gather, no mission requiring proximity. Just... concern. And that wasn't something he knew what to do with.

Eventually, he stood.

His footsteps were careful, deliberate, but not masked. He wasn't trying to sneak up on her—he just didn't want to spook her. Strange, how that had become a concern with someone like Yor.

She was standing by the sink when he reached the kitchen. Not doing anything. Not washing dishes or boiling water. Just... standing. Her back to him. Hands pressed against the counter, knuckles pale. Like if she let go, she might fall through the floor.

He leaned against the doorway, arms loosely crossed.
Still watching.
Still unsure.

"You're not going to eat?" he asked after a moment.

She didn't turn around. "I'm not hungry."

He nodded slowly, as though trying to accept the answer even if it didn't sit right. Then, after a pause, "Anya wouldn't go to sleep until you got home. She kept asking when you'd be back."

Yor's breath caught, just for a second. She hadn't meant to be so late. Hadn't meant to worry anyone—especially not Anya.

"I'm... I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice soft and strained.

Loid didn't answer right away. He simply nodded again, more to himself than to her, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her face.

It wasn't anger he felt—just the quiet certainty that something was off.

He noticed the subtle tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curled tightly into the kitchen counter, the faintest tremble in her hands. These weren't signs of a long day at City Hall. Not the strain of groceries or housework.

Something else.

Something he couldn't quite decipher.

And though she hadn't said it outright, no words confirmed it... it felt like an unspoken apology. Not just for being late. But for the quiet coldness that had settled between them.

The silence neither of them knew how to break.

"You're injured."

"No," she said too quickly. Then, quieter: "Not really."

He stepped closer. Slowly. Like approaching a wounded animal that might bolt or bare its teeth.

"I'm not going to pry," he said. "You don't have to tell me anything. But if you're hurt—"

"I'm not," she interrupted, her voice taut. "I promise. Just... tired."

She turned then, finally facing him. Her eyes didn't quite meet his, but the expression was there. That thin, trembling line between honesty and collapse.

Loid had seen countless operatives like this—after missions gone wrong, after brushes with death, after making a kill that stayed with them longer than it should have. It didn't matter how clean the job was. Some things left stains deeper than blood.

"I know what tired looks like," he said gently. "This isn't that."

She didn't argue.

And maybe that was the part that unsettled him most.

Loid's eyes softened, but his voice remained steady. "You don't have to pretend with me. Whatever it is—whether it's from work, or something else—you're not alone."

She looked away, jaw clenched, and for a moment, he thought she might say something, but she stayed silent.

He took a careful step closer. "If you want to talk... or if you don't... either way, I'm here."

The quiet stretched between them. Then, she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Loid didn't push further. Not yet.

He hesitated, then reached out a tentative hand, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers trembled slightly — a rare crack in his usual composed exterior.

"You don't have to carry it alone," he said softly, voice barely above a whisper.

She looked at him then, eyes glistening with something unspoken. For a heartbeat, the walls between them seemed to tremble.

But just as quickly, she pulled back, shaking her head.

"I don't want to be a burden," she said, voice barely steady. "I have to keep going. For Anya. For this family."

He swallowed the urge to press further. Instead, while not fully understanding the weight she tried to carry, he nodded, respecting her walls.

"You should rest," he said softly. "We both need it."

She finally met his eyes, and though they held shadows, there was a flicker of something fragile—maybe trust.

Without another word, she turned and walked toward her bedroom.

Loid stayed where he was, watching her go, feeling the weight of the silence settle once more.

He remained standing in the kitchen doorway long after she disappeared down the hall. The quiet was thick, settling around him like a heavy cloak. He wanted to believe she was right—that this was just exhaustion, that she was holding everything together for Anya and for their fragile little family.

But beneath that hope was a gnawing uncertainty. A feeling he couldn't shake.

—

Yor closed the door to her room quietly behind her, leaning against it for a moment. The weight of the evening settled heavy on her chest, thicker than any exhaustion from the mission. The room was modest—just a bed, a small dresser, and a single lamp casting a soft glow. This was her sanctuary, the one place where she could let her guard down, if only slightly.

She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the fabric of the quilt. The silence here was different from the one outside her door. It wasn't filled with unspoken words or tension—just the emptiness of being alone.

Her mind replayed the conversation with Loid, every word lingering like an echo. The way he had reached out, so tentative, so genuine—something rare and fragile between them. It scared her how much she wanted to reach back, to let him in, but the walls she'd built around herself felt too high, too unforgiving.

She wondered if he could ever truly understand what she carried beneath her calm exterior. The missions she could never speak of, the lives she had taken, the parts of herself she had locked away in darkness. How could she expect him to see beyond the surface of the quiet wife, the caring mother?

Her thoughts drifted to Anya, sleeping peacefully somewhere else in the apartment, blissfully unaware of the tension between her parents. The bright spark in her daughter's eyes, so full of hope and dreams, deserved a home where laughter was easy and love was certain.

But love. Did it even exist for them? Or was it just a fragile act they performed for Anya's sake and their façade demands?

Yor closed her eyes, trying to steady the trembling in her chest. The night was too quiet, too still. It pressed in on her like a shadow, reminding her that no matter how much she longed to belong—to be real—she was still an illusion.

A wife in name only. A mother by necessity.

She wiped a stray tear she hadn't noticed fall. Tonight, she would try to rest. Tomorrow, she told herself, maybe she could find the courage to tear down one of those walls. Maybe she could speak the truth to Loid—not of her work, but of the loneliness beneath it all.

But for now, the room was quiet, and so was she.

The soft ticking of the clock filled the silence, counting the seconds she wished she could reclaim—seconds that felt stolen by the lies they told each other, and themselves.

Outside the door, the faint sounds of the apartment whispered reminders of a family that existed only on the surface—dinner dishes cleared, Anya's soft breathing from the next room, the quiet footsteps of a man who cared, yet didn't know how to reach her.

Yor closed her eyes again, clutching the quilt on her bed like a lifeline. But after a moment, she slowly let it go and rose from the bed, limbs heavy with everything she didn't say.

Moving on autopilot, she changed out of her clothes, folded them neatly, and slipped into something more comfortable. She went through the motions of her nightly routine—washing her face, brushing her hair, avoiding the mirror more than once.

There was something painfully hollow about it tonight, like she was watching herself from a distance.

Eventually, she turned off the lamp and crawled beneath the covers, lying on her side with her back to the door. The room was dark now, the kind of dark that made everything feel still and far away.

She stared at the wall, eyes wide open in the silence, willing herself to sleep.

But sleep didn't come easily—not when her heart was still stuck in the hallway, still caught in a moment with him.

—

He took a slow breath, still standing where Yor left him and not knowing what to do. The faint glow of the clock caught his eye again.

Tomorrow, he told himself, he would try harder. To listen. To reach her without pushing. To bridge whatever silence had grown between them.

For now, though, all he could do was wait. And hope that when morning came, things would feel a little less heavy.

He lingered in the hallway a moment longer than necessary, as if the air still held some remnant of her warmth. Then, slowly, he turned and walked to his own room.

The sound of his footsteps was soft on the floor, muffled by the apartment's stillness. As he opened his door and stepped inside, a faint click echoed behind him — quiet, final. He stood there for a moment, staring into the dimness, the moonlight filtering through the window blinds and casting thin slats of silver across the floor.

Loid moved on autopilot — jacket off, tie loosened, cufflinks set neatly on the nightstand. His body went through the motions, but his mind was elsewhere, retracing the look on Yor's face, the way her voice had faltered, the way she had looked right past him even when he was standing a breath away.

It wasn't just exhaustion. It wasn't just stress. He knew better.

Through the wall, he could hear the faint sounds of her nightly routine. The creak of a drawer opening. The soft thump of a dresser closing. The running water from her bathroom sink. Every sound was normal — ordinary. But somehow, tonight, it all felt loaded. Distant. Off.

She was still awake. Still there. Just... not reachable.

Loid sat down on the edge of his bed, running a hand down his face. He didn't know what he had done wrong. Or maybe he did, in small pieces. He'd noticed the tension building — her silences stretching longer, her smiles feeling thinner. But he had told himself it would pass. That maybe she was just tired, or overwhelmed, or caught up in her work at City Hall. He hadn't asked. He hadn't pushed.

He hadn't wanted to pry.

Because that wasn't part of the job, was it? Not when it came to the fake marriage. Not when it came to protecting his own cover.

Except now, he wasn't sure where the mission ended and where he began.

He looked over at the wall that separated them. It felt thinner than usual. Every small sound from the other side reached him — a shifting mattress, the soft rustle of blankets, a deep breath. Was she crying? Was she trying not to?

He almost rose. Almost walked to her door and knocked. He could offer tea, or a late-night chat. He could say something gentle and vague like, "If something's bothering you, I'm here to talk."

But that wasn't how it worked between them. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

She wouldn't know what to say. And worse, he wouldn't know how to respond. Because for all his training, all his psychological skill and precision... he had no script for this.

No manual for a fake wife with real sadness in her eyes.

He stayed where he was, spine straight, hands resting on his thighs, staring blankly ahead. And then, slowly, his posture began to loosen. His shoulders sagged a little. His hands curled into fists, then relaxed again.

Yor was only a room away.

But it felt like an ocean.

He laid back finally, folding his arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. The familiar hum of the city at night filtered through the glass — cars in the distance, the occasional distant bark, the soft sigh of wind through the trees. Life continued, uncaring, uninterrupted.

But inside these walls, time felt paused. Like they were both holding their breath.

I see you, he thought. Even if you won't let me in.

And despite everything — the silence, the space, the uncertainty — he wasn't angry. He wasn't resentful.

He just... cared.

And it was terrifying.

He'd told himself once, long ago, that attachment was a weakness. That feelings clouded judgment. That missions came first. But lying in that bed, in that quiet room beside hers, Twilight had never felt more conflicted.

Because somewhere along the line, this stopped being just a mission.

And she stopped being just a stranger playing house.

He didn't know when it had happened. Or how. But he knew it with a clarity that settled into his chest like truth.

Yor mattered.

That much, at least, was clear.

And tomorrow — if she let him — he'd try again.

To be gentle. To be patient. To be something real in a world built on lies.

Until then, all he could do was wait.

And hope that somewhere in the silence between them, something might begin to shift.

Chapter Text

The morning light crept in slow, filtering through the thin curtains like a whisper rather than a greeting. Yor lay still beneath the blanket, eyes open, unfocused, as the quiet murmur of life stirred on the other side of her door.

She could hear them—Anya’s animated voice, bright and bubbling as she chattered about school and weekend plans, and Loid’s lower, steadier tone weaving through hers like a current beneath waves. The sound of clinking dishes, footsteps across the wooden floor, the occasional burst of laughter. It was a soft, domestic symphony—normal, ordinary, safe.

And it felt, somehow, impossibly far away.

She turned onto her side, curling in on herself for a moment, as if that might shield her from the ache blooming just beneath her ribs. The kind of ache that had nothing to do with bruises or blade marks. Just memory. Just doubt.

She hadn’t slept well.

The previous night played behind her eyelids in fragments—the way Loid had looked at her, voice gentle in a way she wasn’t used to. The quiet concern. The space he offered her. She hadn’t meant to unravel like that. Not in front of him. Not when they were supposed to be nothing more than a performance stitched together by convenience and necessity.

Yet still… he'd stayed.

A breath left her in a long, slow exhale as she pushed the blanket off and sat up, the chill of the morning air brushing her bare arms. Her room was modest, nearly austere—just a bed, a small dresser, and a sink tucked in the corner. The only mirror hung above it, clouded slightly around the edges, like it too carried the weight of unsaid things.

Yor moved through her routine slowly. She slipped out of her sleepwear, washed her face with trembling fingers, brushed her hair in long, even strokes—each movement an effort to find rhythm again. To feel steady. To feel whole.

She studied her reflection as water dripped from her jawline. There were shadows beneath her eyes, and something softer, more uncertain, around her mouth. She didn’t look like the woman who had walked out of that mission last night. But she didn’t look like the wife or mother she was pretending to be, either.

She was something in between.

Her gaze drifted to the door, to the sound of Anya’s laughter just beyond it, and a quiet part of her wished—for something more. For warmth, maybe. Or understanding. Or for that unspoken closeness that had flickered between her and Loid like the ghost of something real.

Yor straightened, tied her robe loosely around her waist, and padded silently across the floor. The hallway would be warmer. The bathroom was at the end of it, and she needed a proper shower to rinse off the weight still clinging to her skin.

But more than that, she needed to step back into the world. Into the home they’d built.

She paused with her hand on the doorknob, listening again to the voices outside—Anya’s excitement, Loid’s easy patience.

A new day had begun. And with it, perhaps, a new chance to begin something else.

Something better.

—

Loid moved through the kitchen in practiced silence, setting a pot of oatmeal to simmer on the stove. The scent of cinnamon and milk began to rise as he cracked a few eggs into a separate pan, careful not to let the shells clatter too loud. He reached for the bread next—two slices for toast—and dropped them into the toaster with a quiet thunk.

Oatmeal for Anya. Eggs and toast for him and Yor.

He didn’t think Yor would eat much—she never did after a late night—but he still made her a plate. She was always grateful for the gesture, even when she only picked at the food.

Behind him, Anya’s voice carried faintly from the living room.

“…and if we go to the zoo, I’m gonna feed the elephants, even if they bite! Becky said they don’t, but I think that’s a lie. Elephants look suspicious.”

Loid stirred the oatmeal slowly, watching it thicken. He glanced over his shoulder.

Anya was already dressed, legs dangling from the edge of the couch as she flipped through one of her comics. Her school bag lay beside her, half-zipped, with one sock sticking out. She hadn’t touched her hair yet. He made a mental note to remind her before breakfast.

Curled beside the couch with his head resting on his front paws, Bond let out a soft grunt of agreement—or perhaps protest—at the mention of elephants. One ear twitched lazily.

“…or maybe the science museum. They have the new dinosaur bones exhibit, and one of the posters has a skull bigger than my whole body. That’s way cooler than the boring gardens. Unless they let you touch bugs. Do they let you touch bugs, Papa?”

Loid hummed in response, too focused on not burning the eggs to answer properly.

Anya didn’t seem to mind. She kept going.

“Becky said her family’s going to their country house, so she can’t come. But that’s okay, I can go with just you and Mama. Mama’s good at catching stuff—so if any of the bugs get loose, she can probably catch them, right?”

Loid turned down the heat, plating the eggs neatly and transferring the toast onto two plates. He drizzled honey over Anya’s oatmeal—just a little, the way she liked it—then carried everything to the table.

Before he sat down, he reached into the cupboard near the fridge, retrieved Bond’s bowl, and set it on the floor. A quick scoop of dry food followed, along with a quiet, “Here you go, boy.”

Bond trotted over, tail wagging harder now, and began to eat with gentle crunches.

Loid had just set the last plate down when he heard the soft creak of a door down the hall.

His eyes flicked toward it—Yor’s.

The sound of her footsteps followed, muffled against the wood floors as she padded toward the bathroom. She didn’t say anything, didn’t glance into the kitchen. Just the gentle shuffle of movement, the quiet click of the bathroom door closing behind her.

He exhaled slowly, barely realizing he’d been holding his breath.

It wasn’t unusual for Yor to wake later on mornings after a late night. And it wasn’t strange for her to slip into the bathroom first thing, either. But still—something in the silence between them this morning felt heavier. It lingered in the air like dust that hadn’t settled.

Anya didn’t seem to notice. She was still chattering away.

“Maybe we can bring snacks to the zoo? Not animal food though. Unless they let me give them fish. Papa, do zoo animals eat fish with bones in them? I don’t wanna give them bones, that’s scary.”

Loid nodded absently, barely catching her last sentence. His thoughts were still down the hallway, behind that closed bathroom door.

He’d meant what he told himself last night. Today, he would try. Not in the clinical, calculated way he approached a mission—but with care. With sincerity. Whatever line had begun to grow between him and Yor, he didn’t want to see it harden into a wall.

She hadn’t seemed upset last night. Not exactly. But there had been something in her expression—something tired. Something faraway.

He glanced at the clock. If she was showering now, they’d still have time for breakfast together before Anya’s school drop-off and his first appointment at the hospital.

Provided she came to the table.

Bond had finished his food and was now ambling over toward Loid, brushing against his leg with a low, contented huff.

Loid absently reached down and gave him a scratch behind the ears. “Good boy,” he murmured.

Then he turned his attention back to Anya and offered her a small, distracted smile.

“We’ll look into the zoo,” he said. “And no, we’re not bringing fish there.”

—

The moment Yor stepped into the small bathroom and closed the door behind her, she allowed herself a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The quiet click of the lock echoed louder than she expected in the stillness.

She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the edge of the sink.

The mirror reflected the traces of sleep still soft in her eyes, but beneath that... something else. A flicker of unrest. A weight she couldn’t quite name, resting somewhere in her chest since the night before.

She turned the faucet and cupped her hands beneath the cool stream, splashing her face with water. It didn’t wash away the thoughts.

Loid had been kind last night. Gentle, even. But she’d felt it—the tension in the air, the invisible thread stretching between them. Neither of them had said anything, not really. And maybe that was the problem.

Maybe the silence was louder than any words could be.

She toed off her slippers and peeled off her sleepwear, placing it in the small laundry bin beside the door. As the warm water from the shower poured down, she stepped in, letting it rush over her shoulders, soak her hair, ease the stiffness in her neck. She closed her eyes, tilted her face to the spray.

She didn’t know what today would bring. But she hoped—

Hoped that whatever quiet had settled between her and Loid might start to shift. Even just a little. That maybe today she could find the courage to say something more than “Good morning” or “Thank you for breakfast.” Maybe today she could find a way to bridge the strange space between them.

She sighed, the water masking the sound.

It was Friday. The end of a long week. Maybe the start of something better.

Yor pressed her hand to the tiled wall, the water running over her shoulders and down her back. For so long, she'd carried her secrets alone, wrapped them tight around her heart like armor. And she still couldn’t let them go—not without risking everything.

But that didn’t mean she had to carry everything else alone too.

Maybe there was room for something real. A little warmth. A little trust.

Maybe she could start today.

When she finally turned off the water and stepped out, the air was warm and full of quiet resolve. She dried herself, got dressed with slow care, and twisted her damp hair back with a pin.

And then, drawing in a soft breath, Yor opened the bathroom door and walked back toward the kitchen—toward the voices. Toward the life that was waiting for her.

The hallway greeted her with the faint scent of toast and the gentle clinking of cutlery. Light from the kitchen spilled out across the wooden floor, golden and inviting in the early morning hush. Voices carried low—familiar, comforting. A small laugh, Anya’s, then Loid’s quieter reply.

Yor stepped lightly, almost as if afraid to disturb the moment.

In the kitchen, the table was already set. A bowl of oatmeal sat in front of Anya, steam curling up in lazy spirals as she swung her feet under her chair, chattering about elephants and tigers and how important it was that they go this weekend —not next. Loid, seated across from her, listened with half a smile as he buttered a slice of toast, nodding occasionally as he folded neatly into the rhythm of her excitement.

Neither had noticed Yor yet.

She paused just outside the doorway, her fingers brushing the edge of the frame. For a second, she only watched. Not out of hesitation—at least, not entirely—but from something gentler. Like reverence. As if this moment, simple as it was, held more weight than she knew how to name.

Then Anya’s head turned slightly, green eyes lighting up.

“Mama!”

Loid followed her gaze, and his expression softened further. “Good morning,” he said, his voice even.

There was a beat—just long enough to be noticed—before Yor stepped into the kitchen, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Good morning,” she answered, and though her voice was quiet, it reached them both with unexpected clarity.

She took her seat at the table beside Loid. He passed her a plate of toast and eggs, the gesture smooth, practiced—but something in his eyes lingered when they met hers. Not questioning. Not pressuring.

Just present.

Anya, mid-bite, began outlining her detailed zoo itinerary between mouthfuls. Something about elephants. Something about snacks. Yor nodded, listening, though her hands were still and her gaze occasionally flickered across the table.

The clatter of dishes. The low murmur of plans. Morning light catching in Anya’s hair.

And slowly, like the first warmth of sunlight through a curtain, something settled in.

It wasn’t ease—not yet. But maybe the beginning of it.

—

As the last of the breakfast dishes were cleared, the quiet hum of routine began to stir the apartment.

Loid rinsed the plates methodically, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, the movements fluid and silent. Yor rose to dry them without a word, towel in hand, their motions slipping into a quiet coordination that had long become second nature—despite everything they still didn’t know about one another.

In the corner, Anya tugged on her small schoolbag with a grunt, fighting the zipper. “We can get peanuts at the zoo, right?” she mumbled, half to herself. “And the cool kind of juice, not the veggie one Papa always packs...”

Loid turned slightly, suppressing a sigh. “We’ll see,” he said, handing the last plate to Yor. “Focus on getting through today first, then we can talk zoo snacks.”

Anya pouted dramatically, but her fingers stilled on the zipper as she caught her mother’s eye. “Mama, you’ll come too, right?”

Yor blinked as she folded the towel neatly over the oven handle. “Of course. If... if that’s what you want.”

Anya grinned, satisfied.

Shoes were pulled on. Coats shrugged over shoulders. Loid adjusted the collar of his trench coat while Yor fixed Anya’s hair with practiced care. The air outside the front door carried the crisp edge of early spring, a coolness that bit quietly at cheeks and fingers but not enough to keep the sun from its spring warmness.

The walk to the bus stop was short, as always, but never entirely quiet.

Anya bounced ahead, recounting the same zoo itinerary with a few imaginative upgrades—“And then we can ride the gorilla!”—while Loid offered the occasional correction with mock seriousness. Yor followed beside him, her gloved hands tucked in front of her, watching Anya with a faint smile and eyes still shadowed with thought.

When the bus pulled up, bright and humming, Anya clambered aboard with a final wave. “Bye Papa! Bye Mama!”

“Have a good day,” Yor called softly, waving back.

Loid raised a hand in farewell, watching until the bus turned the corner and disappeared.

A moment passed. Then the city returned to its usual rhythm—footsteps, morning chatter, the soft rustle of trees above.

They stood side by side.

“We should get going,” Loid said, adjusting the strap of his briefcase.

Yor nodded. “Yes.”

They began walking. Not quite in step, but not apart either. The silence between them was not uncomfortable—just full. Full of everything said and unsaid, and the quiet question of what the rest of the day might bring.

And still, they walked forward.

They walked in quiet tandem, the morning city slowly stirring around them—distant traffic, the shuffle of shopkeepers lifting shutters, the murmur of people beginning their day. It was a kind of shared solitude, familiar in its routine but charged now with something gentler. Not tension, exactly. Just… care being taken.

Loid found his thoughts drifting—toward Anya’s excited voice at breakfast, toward the soft click of the bathroom door opening, and toward Yor’s voice this morning: steady, even if hesitant. The way she had said, “Good morning.”

He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear something like that until she said it.

For someone trained to read every micro-expression, every breath of doubt or deception, Twilight often found Yor difficult to interpret—and perhaps that was why her honesty, when it slipped through, always caught him off guard.

They reached the intersection where they usually parted. Yor turned toward the government building at the far end of the avenue, he toward the general hospital where he maintained his civilian identity. They paused, like always—but today, he didn’t rush the moment.

“Yor,” he said, voice low. “About… last night.”

She turned to him, blinking. “Yes?”

“I’m—” he stopped himself, reconsidered. Apologizing wasn’t difficult. He’d done it in countless languages, under every guise imaginable. But with her, it wasn’t just a tactic. “I didn’t mean to make things awkward. I think we were both confused.”

Yor’s shoulders eased a little. She nodded. “We were. I… didn’t know what to say.”

“Me neither,” he admitted. “Still don’t, entirely.”

They shared a look—brief, but open. Something unspoken passed between them, a fragile understanding forming in the silence.

Yor smiled faintly. “But we’ll talk. Tonight.”

He felt himself breathe easier. “Yeah. Tonight.”

They didn’t say more. They didn’t need to. But something small shifted—just enough to soften the space between them.

“Take care today,” he said.

Yor gave him a small nod and an even smaller smile. “You too.”

And then she was gone, moving toward her day with that same grace—elegant, deliberate, quietly strong.

Loid lingered for a beat longer than he meant to, then adjusted his coat and started walking again.

His steps felt lighter than they had in days. He didn’t know exactly what tonight would bring, or what would be said between them—but at least there would be something . A conversation. A clearing of air that had grown too thick with unspoken things.

And that was a start.

By the time he reached the hospital doors, he was already sliding into character, offering curt greetings and mild smiles, a practiced professional demeanor. But somewhere beneath the mask, there was something else now—a steady hum of intention.

Not mission-driven. Not calculated.

Just... real.

Tonight, then.

—

The steady murmur of office life surrounded Yor as she slipped into her cubicle—a small, tidy space partitioned by gray panels that muffled the sounds beyond just enough to create a pocket of quiet amid the bustle. Her desk was neatly arranged, a few personal touches—an inexpensive calendar, a framed photo of Anya, a small potted succulent—adding warmth to the otherwise bland government workspace.

The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead mingled with the tapping of keyboards and the soft rustle of papers. Through the slats at the top of the cubicle walls, she caught glimpses of coworkers hurrying between desks or huddled in quiet conversation by the water cooler.

Yor settled into her chair and opened her computer, the familiar glow washing over her features. The to-do list for the day lay in a document on her screen: data entry, filing reports, cross-referencing personnel records—a routine that allowed her mind moments of calm amidst the mundane.

But beneath the surface, her thoughts kept drifting back to the morning’s brief exchange with Loid. The way he’d looked at her—the soft quiet in his voice—those small cracks in their practiced facades that hinted at something unsaid.

She took a slow breath and tried to shake the weight that had settled in her chest. There would be time later to talk, to bridge that gap. For now, the day stretched ahead, full of its own demands.

Yor tapped the keyboard gently, the clack of the keys steady and grounding. Outside, the city buzzed on, oblivious to the subtle undercurrents flowing between them.

The minutes passed in a steady rhythm—emails answered, spreadsheets updated, files alphabetized. Yor’s fingers moved deliberately, even when her mind wandered. Occasionally, she glanced toward the narrow window near the end of the row of cubicles, where shafts of afternoon light spilled in, dust motes drifting lazily in the air.

Her gaze softened at the memory of Anya’s laughter from the morning—the way her eyes had sparkled while planning the zoo trip, the easy way she bounced between her parents without a care for the invisible walls that often separated Yor and Loid. Anya’s world was uncomplicated, filled with wonder and certainty, even when the adults around her spun webs of secrets.

Yor sighed quietly, blinking away the hint of fatigue. The space between her and Loid felt smaller this morning, but the unspoken questions still lingered, hovering like shadows just out of reach.

She reminded herself not to let her imagination run ahead. Tonight would come soon enough.

Around her, the low buzz of voices and clattering keyboards never ceased, but to Yor, the office had narrowed to the hum of her own breath and the pulse of thoughts she kept carefully contained.

Yor’s quiet focus was interrupted by a soft tap on her cubicle wall. Millie glanced over from the next cubicle, offering a brief smile. “Morning, Yor. Ready for another thrilling day in paradise?”

Yor gave a small nod, returning the smile quietly.

Just then, Camilla leaned against the cubicle wall, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. “Morning, Mrs. Forger. How’s married life treating you? Still playing the perfect little wife?”

Yor’s fingers paused on her keyboard. “Good morning, Camilla. It’s going well, thank you.”

Camilla’s grin widened. “I mean, it must be nice, having a husband who’s so… attentive. Not everyone gets that luxury.”

Yor’s eyes lowered to her screen, voice calm. “We’re fortunate.”

Millie glanced up, eyebrows raised slightly, while Sharon gave Yor a subtle, sympathetic smile.

Camilla gave a little shrug, clearly enjoying herself. “I just don’t know how you manage it all—work, home, being so composed all the time.”

Yor’s lips twitched into the faintest smile. “It takes practice.”

As Camilla moved away, Yor’s gaze lingered on the screen, but her thoughts drifted inward. The remark was nothing new—just the usual barbs about her marriage, her quiet demeanor, and her seeming perfection. She was used to them.

But today, something about the words made her pause.

Did she really have it all together? Or was there something she was quietly holding back?

She shook the thought off and refocused on the spreadsheet open before her, the quiet click of keys filling the space as the morning moved on.

—

Meanwhile, across town at the hospital, Loid moved through the hospital corridors with the calm precision of someone who had mastered the art of blending in. The soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the distant beeping of monitors, and the steady footsteps of nurses created a familiar soundtrack to his day.

He nodded politely to the receptionist, exchanged a few words with the staff in the break room, and slipped seamlessly between patients and paperwork. Each motion was practiced, professional, but beneath it, a quiet tension lingered—an anticipation he struggled to shake.

Between appointments, his mind drifted back to the morning’s brief conversation with Yor. The way she had looked at him—no longer just a partner in their carefully crafted routine, but someone quietly reaching out across an unspoken divide. Her hesitant “Good morning” the faint smile that barely touched her eyes. It had unsettled him more than he expected.

He found himself wondering what she was thinking now, how she was carrying the weight of their shared silence.

A nurse approached with a chart, snapping him back to the present. He smiled, professional but warm. “Thank you, Sarah.”

As he returned to his work, a small smile flickered. Despite the mission, despite the layers of deception, there was something grounding in the thought of Yor and Anya waiting for him at home. Something worth trying to hold onto.

Tonight, he promised himself, they would talk. And maybe, just maybe, they could start to bridge the space between them.

Loid had just finished reviewing a patient’s chart when Fiona stepped into the room, her stride confident and eyes sharp. She offered a brief nod, her tone casual but with an edge that only he could detect.

“Did you check your calendar for next week's patient?” she asked, glancing at the clipboard in his hand.

(Code: Have you reviewed the latest intel and target details for next week's mission?)

On the surface, it sounded like a routine question about his schedule. But for Loid, the phrase carried weight — a subtle reminder to verify the details of his next mission, the target’s status, or any last-minute changes from WISE.

“I did,” Loid replied smoothly, folding the chart. “But you never know when the symptoms might shift.”

(Code: I did, but the mission parameters might change unexpectedly.)

Fiona’s lips twitched into a knowing smile. “True. Sometimes the diagnosis is clearer from a distance. Are you prepared for the procedure?”

(Code: True . Sometimes, gathering intelligence from afar gives better clarity on the target and situation. Are you ready to carry out the mission?)

Her words hinted at the operation ahead — the covert task that needed precision and caution.

“As prepared as one can be,” Loid answered. “But it’s the unexpected complications that keep things interesting.”

(Code: I’m ready, but unforeseen issues may arise.)

Fiona’s eyes flicked to the hallway, then back. “I heard there might be an external specialist observing. But it hasn't yet been confirmed.”

(Code: I heard there might be an external agent monitoring the mission. But Handler hasn't confirmed it yet, so it may just be some mindless speculations.)

“Helpful or a liability,” Loid murmured, the double meaning hanging in the air

(Code: The new agent could be useful, or could jeopardize the operation.)

She leaned closer, voice dropping to almost a whisper. “If things get complicated, remember: the patient’s welfare is priority. No deviations.”

(Code: If the mission faces problems, keep the main objective — WISE’s security — as the highest priority. Don’t deviate from the plan.)

“Understood,” Loid said, nodding once.

As Fiona stepped back, the brief exchange ended, but the tension remained. To anyone listening, they were just two doctors coordinating their schedules. But beneath it, they were carefully exchanging mission-critical information, wrapped in layers of professional jargon and coded language.

Fiona paused at the door, her hand resting lightly on the frame as she glanced back with a knowing look.

“So, how's married life treating you these days? Still managing to keep everything... strictly in order?”

(Code: How is Operation Strict progressing? Are you maintaining control as planned?)

Loid’s smile flickered—just for a fraction of a second, a shadow crossing his eyes—before he smoothly masked it with a calm nod and steady voice. “Stable, as always.”

(Code: The mission is on track and under control)

Fiona caught that brief hesitation, her gaze sharpening ever so slightly. She said nothing more, letting the silence speak volumes. Still lingering in the doorway, her eyes stay on Loid a moment longer than necessary. “You know, if the... household duties ever become too much, I wouldn’t mind stepping in,” she said lightly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

(Code: If Yor become a liability or distraction, I can take over the role of your wife and cover the mission's domestic front.)

Loid’s gaze flickered, a momentary tightening at the corners of his eyes betraying his surprise—then he straightened his posture, voice smooth but cautious. “I appreciate the offer, Fiona. But like I said, everything is stable.”

(Code: I can’t risk raising suspicion by changing the established cover now.)

She nodded, voice steady but with a subtle softness that didn’t go unnoticed. “I just want to make sure you’re not overburdened. Family often gets complicated.”

(Code: I’m here if you need backup. Remember, with me as your wife things would go by a lot faster.)

Loid gave a brief, acknowledging smile. “I appreciate it. We’ll keep things as they are for now.”

Fiona gave a slight nod, lips pressed into a thin line, then disappeared down the corridor—leaving Loid with that quiet tension lingering in the air.

—

Hours after the door clicked shut behind Fiona, the hospital had fallen back into its steady rhythm—clipped footsteps echoing down linoleum halls, the faint hiss of oxygen tanks rolling past, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights. To anyone passing, Dr. Forger was as unflappable as ever: coat pressed, paperwork squared, tone steady when speaking with patients and staff. But alone in his office, the stillness pressed harder.

He sat behind his desk, fountain pen scratching across the latest chart. His handwriting was precise, neat—yet his strokes deepened with every line, ink biting into the page more than necessary. When he finally set the pen down, he noticed the faint dent it had left in his fingers. His hand lingered there, palm flat against the paper, as though grounding himself.

The conversation replayed, as much as he tried to silence it. Fiona’s words— If the household duties ever become too much… —carried more weight than their coded meaning. It wasn’t just the mission she was offering to shoulder. He knew it. And for the briefest second earlier, before masking it away, he had hesitated.

That moment of hesitation nagged at him. Twilight was not supposed to hesitate.

Loid leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the small clock on the shelf. Nearly evening. His workday technically over, yet he made no move to leave. The second hand ticked forward, each sound an irritant in the silence.

He adjusted his tie—already perfectly straight—then smoothed his cuffs. Unnecessary gestures. Rituals of control.

His gaze wandered next to the window, the city beyond it bathed in the fading light of dusk. Stable, he’d told Fiona. The word had sat heavy in his mouth, and even now it echoed, hollow, in his head. Stability wasn’t the same as certainty. Stability wasn’t… trust.

Yor’s face flickered in his memory—her expression the night before, almost uncertain, almost expectant. The awkward, lingering pause between them before Anya returned from school, when it felt like the air between them was about to bend toward something unspoken. He tried to file that away as just another detail to manage, another front in the mission. But the thought lingered.

He rubbed at his temple, realizing his posture had slumped for a second before straightening again. He couldn’t afford this. Distractions dulled judgment, and judgment kept him alive. And yet… as he locked the day’s files in the cabinet, his mind betrayed him again: What expression will she wear when I walk in tonight?

Would it be the guarded smile she often used to mask her own exhaustion? Or the faint, almost shy warmth that slipped through when she thought no one was looking? For a man who had made a career out of reading people, Yor Forger remained maddeningly unreadable.

He slipped his coat from the hook, movements brisk, deliberate. The motions of a professional closing a day’s work. But when his eyes caught the clock again—its hands now sliding past the hour—his chest tightened faintly. He was going home, not to a safehouse, not to a temporary post. Home.

And that word, too, carried a weight he wasn’t ready to admit. It’s just another detail. Another piece of the cover. The thought was steady, practiced, necessary. And yet, as he locked his office and stepped into the fading dusk, he caught himself hoping—quietly, almost against his own will—that home tonight would feel less like an assignment and more like… something else.

—

The office at City Hall was beginning to empty, the shuffle of papers and scraping of chairs gradually giving way to the murmur of coworkers saying their goodbyes. Yor sat at her desk, neatly stacking the last of the day’s files, her fingers careful, almost too careful, as if aligning papers could somehow align the jumble in her head.

Camilla’s earlier comments still clung to her thoughts, heavier than she wanted to admit.  “It must be nice, having a husband,” she had said with that lilting tone of half-admiration, half-envy. “I just don’t know how you manage it all—work, home, being so composed all the time.”

Yor had smiled at the time, laughed politely even, but the words had echoed long after. Composed? If only they knew. If only they could see the knots in her stomach every morning before she left for work, the way she fumbled in the kitchen, the silences that stretched like fragile glass between her and Loid when she didn’t know what to say.

Her hands tightened around the stack of papers. Was she really holding everything together? Or just barely keeping the illusion in place?

From across the office, she caught a glimpse of Camilla chatting cheerfully with another clerk, her laugh ringing out like she hadn’t a care in the world. Yor looked away quickly, heat rising to her face. She didn’t want to compare herself. Didn’t want to measure the distance between what others thought she was and what she feared she truly was.

She sat at her desk, neatly stacking the last of the day’s files, her fingers careful, almost too careful, as if aligning papers could somehow align the jumble in her head. Her reflection glinted faintly at the window—a woman sitting elegantly, her features calm, her hair neat. The mask looked convincing, as always. But Yor knew better.

She pressed her palms lightly against the papers, holding them as though they might keep her steady. Camilla’s words surfaced again, unwanted: “It must be nice, having a husband… I don’t know how you manage it all.” A smile had been her shield in that moment, but now the remark lingered like a bruise. Loid always seemed so controlled, so purposeful. Next to him, her clumsy attempts at cooking, her awkward silences, her nervous fumbling felt like cracks in the façade of the “ideal wife” she was meant to be.

“Another long day, huh, Yor?” one of her colleagues said in passing, offering a polite smile before heading out the door.

Yor smiled back, small and practiced. “Yes. Have a good evening.”

Her voice was steady, but when the footsteps faded, her shoulders sagged. She stared at the neat pile of documents, not really seeing them. All afternoon she had gone through the motions—filing, stamping, taking notes during briefings—but every task had felt like walking through water. Her thoughts kept drifting back to the morning.

That tiny pause in Loid’s voice. That smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. She’d noticed. She always noticed.

Yor tightened the string around her folder, a little too fast, a little too forceful. He must think I’m failing… as a wife. As a mother. The thought pressed against her ribs until her chest ached. Fiona’s face surfaced unbidden—the elegant way she carried herself, the crisp precision of her words. Someone like her wouldn’t falter. Someone like her wouldn’t freeze in awkward silences.

She forced herself to shake the thought away, slipping the folder into the cabinet. Dwelling on it wouldn’t change anything. She just had to try harder. She always told herself that.

Her eyes drifted to the small clock on her desk. Almost time to go. Almost time to walk home, to face the quiet in the apartment, to see if tonight would be any different. A nervous flutter stirred low in her stomach.

Yor rose slowly, gathering her bag. Her reflection lingered in the window, pale against the fading glow of dusk. The woman who looked back at her seemed almost unfamiliar—a stranger playing a role she wasn’t sure she deserved. With a breath she couldn’t quite steady, she turned off her lamp and made her way toward the door, her heels clicking softly against the floor, the office now nearly deserted.

The air outside was cool, the last hues of twilight fading into the city’s familiar wash of neon and streetlamps. Yor stepped out into it quietly, her bag slung neatly over one shoulder. Around her, office workers spilled into the streets, laughing, talking, some already making plans for dinner or drinks. Their voices rose and fell like waves she couldn’t quite step into.

Yor moved quietly through it all, her footsteps light but deliberate, hands curled around the straps of her bag. To anyone watching, she looked like a civil servant walking home after a long shift, unremarkable against the crowd. But inside, her thoughts were a storm.

At a crosswalk, she paused, watching couples pass by hand in hand. She felt her breath catch—soft, almost imperceptible—as though the sight had peeled back a part of her she didn’t often let herself touch. Was this how she and Loid appeared to others? A polished husband and wife, side by side with their daughter, the perfect family framed against the city? The image was so clean, so enviable. And yet… she knew how brittle it felt from the inside.

Do I disappoint him? The thought slipped in uninvited, souring her chest with unease. Loid never said so. He was always calm, always kind. But there were pauses in his words sometimes—fleeting, subtle—that Yor couldn’t stop replaying afterward. Had she said the wrong thing? Had her clumsy silence given her away?

The light changed. Yor crossed the street quickly, her steps faster now, as if she could outpace the questions trailing her. She told herself she should focus on tonight instead: on cooking something edible, on making sure Anya finished her homework, on being the wife Loid expected when he came home. That was enough, wasn’t it?

But as she walked through the late-afternoon streets, her shadow stretched long and solitary before her, and Yor couldn’t shake the quiet whisper pressing at the edges of her heart: What if being enough for him… isn’t the same as being enough for me?

She pushed the thought down, quickening her pace. The Forger apartment was only a few blocks away. Soon, she would be home—back inside the role she had promised to play.

Yor’s footsteps slowed as the familiar outline of their apartment building came into view. The warm glow spilling from the windows reminded her of the small joys that anchored her—Anya’s chatter, Loid’s quiet attentiveness, the illusion of a normal life she cherished fiercely.

She paused at the entrance, taking a steadying breath. The day had been long, layered with subtle pressures and unspoken thoughts, but tonight promised something different. Tonight, she and Loid would talk. Not in passing, not in half-measures, but truly—however awkwardly or tentatively.

We’ll bridge that silence, she thought, feeling a fragile flicker of hope. We’ll start somewhere, even if it’s small.

With that thought held close, Yor stepped into the building, her mind already balancing the tasks of home with the anticipation of what waited in their shared space. The hum of the city outside seemed to fade, replaced by the quiet promise of evening—of conversation, of connection, of the fragile trust being carefully rebuilt.

Tonight would come soon enough. And for the first time all day, Yor allowed herself a small, genuine smile.

Chapter Text

Yor’s footsteps echoed softly in the quiet hallway of their apartment building as she made her way to their door. The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows, painting warm streaks across the floor. Her bag weighed on her shoulder, but she welcomed the familiar ache—it grounded her, kept her focused.

Inside, the apartment was calm, the gentle hum of the city outside seeping through the windows. The living room was neat: The couch was arranged nicely, a few personal touches like the potted plant and framed photo catching the light. Everything was in order, as it always had to be.

Yor set her bag on the entryway table and loosened the strap from her shoulder. The apartment was quiet, the faint hum of the air conditioner mingling with the distant traffic outside. She moved through the living room slowly, straightening the cushions on the couch and checking that nothing was out of place.

She turned toward the kitchen, where the faint smell of breakfast lingered. Yor paused at the doorway, tracing a finger along the counter. Cooking had never been her skill, and she couldn’t help but think of Loid bustling around the stove earlier in the week. Cooking… I still can’t do it. Not even a simple dish. She shook her head slightly, stepping away before the thought grew heavier.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting warm rectangles on the floor. Yor walked to the window and adjusted the blinds just enough to let the light spill in. She pressed her palms lightly against the glass, listening to the quiet of the apartment.

Her gaze wandered to the bookshelf. Fingers brushing over the spines, she picked up a small book—one of her favorites, from before she met Loid. She opened it and flipped through the pages absentmindedly, the familiar weight in her hands grounding her

Yor moved back to the living room, running a careful hand along the edge of the coffee table. Everything felt orderly, almost too orderly, and for a moment she paused, noticing the silence. I wonder what he’s doing now…

Her fingers lingered on the polished surface before she drew them back, folding her hands neatly in front of her. She sat on the couch, the cushions giving slightly under her weight, and stared at the far wall as if waiting for it to offer some kind of answer. The clock ticked softly in the background, steady and unyielding.

After a moment, Yor leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. She had thought about knitting again—something she had once tried to learn after hearing it could be calming—but the needles had only ended up bent and the yarn hopelessly tangled. She smiled faintly, though it faded just as quickly. No… better not. I’d just ruin another basket of supplies.

Instead, she rose and crossed to the window again. The light had shifted lower now, orange beginning to creep into the glow. From this height, she could see the corner of the street where the bus usually stopped, but it was empty for now. She rested her hand against the curtain’s edge, her posture still, but her thoughts restless.

Loid always works so hard… it must be exhausting. But he never shows it. He just comes home and acts as though everything is fine. How does he do that?

The thought made her chest tighten. She shook it away quickly, returning to the kitchen. She opened the cupboards, closing them again just as quickly. Even if she wanted to cook, she knew better than to try. Loid had left everything perfectly stocked, the vegetables neatly wrapped, the bread arranged in its place, the knives lined up in a row. It was his space, not hers.

Yor leaned against the counter, tracing the edge with her fingertip. The silence seemed louder here, almost pressing, and she let out a small sigh. Maybe I should do some laundry. That way I won’t just sit here waiting like some useless piece of furniture.

But she didn’t move. Her feet felt heavy, her body unwilling to break the stillness of the apartment. Instead, she pushed herself off the counter and paced back toward the living room.

Her eyes flicked to the door before she caught herself. No, not yet. Anya first, then him.

Still, the thought lingered, warm and insistent, as she lowered herself back onto the couch. The apartment around her remained pristine, quiet, waiting—like a stage set before the curtain rose.

The apartment seemed to sigh back at her silence, until a soft shuffle reached her ears. Yor blinked and turned just in time to see Bond padding into the room, his thick white fur catching the faint light. He had been dozing in the corner, curled into himself, but now he stretched languidly before settling near her feet.

“Oh… hello, Bond,” Yor murmured, lowering her hand automatically to stroke his head. His fur was warm beneath her palm, comforting in a way words never could be. He leaned into the touch, tail giving one lazy wag before curling back against the floor.

“You always know when to keep me company,” she whispered, her voice soft, almost conspiratorial. The dog gave a quiet huff, closing his eyes again.

For a while, Yor sat like that, her hand resting lightly on Bond’s side, watching the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. Even he seems more at peace than I do. If only I could…

Her thought trailed off. She let out a breath and leaned back, her gaze shifting again toward the window. The light outside had deepened, the street painted with streaks of gold and shadow.

“Do you think Loid’s day was difficult today?” she asked quietly, as if Bond could answer. His ear twitched, but otherwise he stayed still. Yor smiled faintly at her own foolishness. What am I doing, talking to him like this?

Still, it was easier to speak when there was someone—even a dog—to listen.

She rose again, pacing slowly around the room, Bond’s eyes following her movements. She smoothed her skirt, adjusted the throw pillow on the couch, then returned to the window once more. This time, she pulled the curtain slightly aside, peering out at the slow stream of people heading home from their own long days.

Some were couples walking together, hands brushing. Others hurried along, faces tired, bags slung over their shoulders. Yor watched them for a long moment, her throat tightening unexpectedly. They look so normal. So natural. Why does it always feel like I’m pretending?

Yor let the curtain slip from her fingers and turned away from the window. The faint stiffness of her blouse tugged at her shoulders, reminding her that she was still dressed for City Hall, still holding onto the version of herself that spent the day buried in files and polite smiles.

No wonder I feel so restless. I should change.

She walked down the short hall toward the bedroom, Bond trailing after her with an unhurried gait, nails clicking softly against the floor. The simple sound followed her into the room like a tether.

Inside, the air felt different—more private, softer, shaded by the faint smell of her perfume. Yor slid the closet door open and ran her fingers along the familiar fabric until they found the knit she always reached for at home: the deep red sweater dress with the open back. The fabric was warm, reassuringly thick, a stark contrast to the crisp lines of her work attire. She laid it carefully on the bed before pulling off her blouse and skirt, folding them as neatly as she had stacked the day’s files at her desk.

The sweater slipped over her frame easily, its weight settling against her in a way that made her shoulders sink, just a little. She pulled on a pair of black leggings to complete the outfit, the simple softness grounding her. In the mirror above the dresser, a different version of herself gazed back: not the composed, efficient worker, nor the invisible, lethal assassin. Just a woman standing in her room at dusk, hair slightly mussed, wearing the clothes that made her feel most like herself.

Yor touched the edge of the mirror, as if testing whether the reflection was real. Maybe this is who I want to be. Just someone… ordinary.

Behind her, Bond nosed at the sweater hem where it brushed her thighs, tail wagging gently. Yor laughed under her breath and gave him a small pat. “I know, I know. This is better, isn’t it?”

The dog settled again by the bed, and Yor gathered her work clothes into the laundry basket, the motions unhurried. She tied her hair back loosely, letting a few strands fall against her cheeks, and for the first time that afternoon, the silence felt almost companionable.

Still, as she crossed back into the living room, the space seemed to breathe with her waiting.

—

Minutes passed slowly. She checked the clock on the wall, the hands inching forward with deliberate slowness. The city outside seemed oblivious to the quiet tension inside the apartment.

The quiet was broken by the faint jingle of keys at the door. Yor straightened instinctively, brushing a hand over her sweater as Bond’s ears perked up. A second later, the lock clicked and the door swung open.

“We’re home,” Loid’s voice carried in, calm but tinged with the faint weariness of the day. He stepped inside with his usual composed stride, carrying two grocery bags in one hand. Behind him, Anya shuffled in, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders as she kicked off her shoes with a triumphant huff.

“Mamaaa!” Anya’s face lit up as soon as she saw her. She raced forward, arms flung wide, nearly tripping over Bond in the process. The dog barked once in mild protest before circling the girl protectively.

Yor bent down, catching Anya in a warm hug, the soft wool of her sweater pressing against her daughter’s cheek. “Welcome home, Anya. You’re late today—I was starting to wonder…” She stopped herself before the worry sounded too sharp.

“Papa picked me up from the bus!” Anya announced proudly, pulling back just enough to look up at Yor. “And then we got food stuff for dinner. There’s gonna be stew tonight—”

“—with extra carrots,” Loid finished, giving Anya a pointed look as he carried the grocery bags toward the kitchen. Anya’s face crumpled instantly, her little fists balling at her sides. “Ehhh?!”

Loid set the bags gently on the counter, his expression calm but his tone firm. “You know vegetables are important for growing strong and healthy. If you want to keep earning Stella Stars, you’ll need the energy they give you.”

“Stella doesn’t say anything about carrots,” Anya muttered under her breath, puffing her cheeks out like a sulky balloon.

Yor quickly crouched beside her, brushing a strand of pink hair from her face. “Carrots aren’t so bad, Anya. They make your eyes sharper, don’t they? That might help you read your schoolwork more easily.”

Anya blinked up at her mother, caught between skepticism and curiosity. “…Really?”

Yor hesitated, then nodded with her usual earnestness. “Of course! That’s what I always heard growing up.”

Loid glanced over, hiding a faint smile as he began unpacking vegetables onto the counter. “Your mother’s right. Carrots are full of nutrients.”

Anya groaned dramatically, flopping onto Bond, who had come trotting over with a wag of his tail. “Boooo… traitors. Everyone’s on the carrot’s side…”

Yor pressed her hand against her mouth to stifle a laugh. The sight of Anya sprawled across the enormous dog while Loid methodically prepared dinner was strangely domestic—strange, but warm. It almost feels too normal… like this is how it’s always supposed to be.

She rose to her feet, smoothing Anya’s hair back, glancing toward the kitchen where Loid was already unpacking ingredients—potatoes, carrots, leeks, and a neat cut of beef—each placed with practiced precision on the counter. His sleeves were still neatly cuffed, tie loosened but not removed, and even in these ordinary motions, he seemed so precise, so assured. Even the simple act of tying on an apron seemed natural to him, as though this was exactly where he belonged.

He makes it look effortless. Like he belongs in this role completely.

Yor’s gaze softened, but she quickly turned back to Anya before her staring became too obvious.

Yor exhaled softly, her earlier solitude now replaced by the lively hum of her family returning, filling the apartment again with warmth.

Anya buried her face dramatically into Bond’s fur, her muffled voice carrying out a pitiful wail. “Bond understands me. He never eats carrots either”

The dog gave a confused little huff, tail wagging anyway, happy just to have her draped across him.

“Bond would probably eat anything if you put it in front of him,” Loid replied dryly as he set a cutting board on the counter and reached for a knife. The sound of vegetables hitting wood soon filled the apartment, precise and steady.

Yor straightened, brushing her hands against her skirt. “Anya, would you like to help me set the table? That way we can all be ready by the time your papa finishes cooking.”

Anya peeked up, her expression wavering between reluctance and mischief. “Only if I don’t have to eat all the carrots…”

“Half,” Loid said without looking up, his voice as sharp as the blade in his hand.

“Quarter,” Anya shot back instantly.

Yor let out a nervous laugh, quickly stepping in. “How about this—you help me set the table, and then you eat at least a few carrots. Deal?”

Anya narrowed her eyes suspiciously, then sighed with a dramatic flop of her arms. “Fineee… But only because Mama asked.” She rolled off Bond, who immediately stretched and padded after her.

Together, Yor and Anya moved to the dining table. Yor carefully pulled plates from the cupboard, handing them down for Anya to carry with both hands. She watched her daughter’s tiny, determined steps across the room, her lips curving into a soft smile.

She tries so hard to bargain with him, but in the end… she really does listen to him. They both trust each other so naturally. And I… Yor’s hands lingered on the edge of the cupboard, her chest tightening slightly. I’m just trying to keep up.

From the kitchen, Loid’s calm voice floated over. “Thank you, Yor. Having the table set ahead of time helps a lot.”

She startled a little at the sound, then nodded quickly, though he couldn’t see it. “O-of course! I’ll make sure everything’s ready.”

Her gaze drifted toward the kitchen. Loid stood with his sleeves rolled slightly, moving with practiced ease as he worked through the vegetables, the faintest steam rising from a pot already simmering. The late afternoon light caught along his hair, outlining him in gold. Yor felt her breath hitch unexpectedly before she quickly turned back to help Anya place the utensils.

By the time the stew was ready, the apartment was filled with its rich, savory aroma. Anya sat perched at the table, swinging her legs impatiently while Bond hovered hopefully nearby. Yor smoothed out the tablecloth one last time, though it didn’t really need it, before sitting across from Anya.

Loid carried the pot over with a practiced steadiness, setting it on a trivet in the center of the table. He ladled steaming portions into each bowl, his face calm but focused, as if even serving stew required the same precision as his work.

“Thank you for waiting,” he said, placing Yor’s bowl in front of her before sitting down himself.

“It smells so good,” Yor said softly, folding her hands in her lap for a moment before reaching for her spoon.

“Yeah!” Anya chimed in, already leaning forward to sniff at her portion. Then her eyes landed on the unmistakable orange slices floating among the potatoes and meat. She froze. “...Carrots.”

Loid raised a brow. “They’re full of nutrients. Exactly what you need for growing.”

Anya picked one up with her spoon, narrowing her eyes as if she were staring down an enemy agent. “What if I don’t want to grow? What if I stay small forever?”

Yor quickly stifled a laugh behind her hand. “Anya, you’ll grow no matter what. But… maybe eating just a little bit will help you grow strong enough to play with Bond even more?”

At the sound of his name, Bond thumped his tail on the floor, tongue lolling happily.

Anya’s expression wavered. She glanced between Yor’s hopeful face and Loid’s steady, expectant look, then let out a long sigh. “Fine. But only because Mama said so.” With exaggerated suffering, she lifted the carrot slice to her mouth and chewed dramatically. “Blehh…”

Loid’s lips twitched almost into a smile, though he hid it by lifting his own spoon. “Good. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“It was terrible,” Anya declared, reaching for her bread roll like it was a life raft.

Yor smiled faintly, her chest warming at the scene. She tasted her own stew—it was rich, perfectly balanced, the kind of meal she could never hope to make. She glanced across the table at Loid, his face calm as he ate, and for a moment she thought of saying something—You always take such good care of us… but the words caught in her throat.

Instead, she lowered her eyes to her bowl, letting the warmth of the food and the sound of Anya’s chatter fill the silence.

“Papa says you’re not supposed to eat vegetables like this,” she said, glaring at the carrot slices that had somehow slipped onto her plate. “But I think I’ll survive if I just pick them out.”

Yor chuckled softly, reaching over to gently nudge the offending carrot with her spoon. Kids really do have a sixth sense for avoiding vegetables, she thought, smiling at Anya’s stubborn expression.

“So, Anya,” Yor said, setting her own spoon down, “I heard you got a new Stella Stars assignment coming up?”

Anya’s eyes lit up, and she leaned forward eagerly. “Yes! Miss Thompson said only two students will get one this time. Papa already helped me plan a bit last night, but I think I have some good ideas too! I want to get it!”

Yor nodded, letting the warmth of the moment settle in. “I’m sure you’ll do your best, and that’s what counts. Planning with Loid must help a lot, right?”

“Yep!” Anya said, nodding vigorously. “He even said I should focus on the parts that will stand out the most. I think I can do it!” She grinned, stabbing a piece of bread with her fork, entirely ignoring the carrots again.

Loid watched from the end of the table, a small smile tugging at his lips. The way Anya’s face lit up when talking about her plans, the earnestness in her voice—it made the small, quiet apartment feel fuller somehow.

“Just remember,” Yor said, smiling softly at both of them, “sometimes it’s not just about being the fastest or the smartest, but about enjoying what you do along the way.”

Anya puffed out her chest proudly. “I’ll remember that, Mama! But I still want the Stella.” She then poked at the carrots she had carefully set aside earlier, her nose scrunching in mild disgust. “Do I have to eat these?” she asked, looking up at Loid with wide, pleading eyes.

Loid raised an eyebrow, a calm but firm tone in his voice. “Yes, Anya. You picked them up, now you eat them. Even for someone aiming for a Stella Star, rules still apply.”

Yor leaned back slightly, smiling softly at the scene. He’s firm, but fair, she thought, reaching out to place a comforting hand over Anya’s smaller one. “It’s only a few, Anya. You can do it. We’ll be right here with you.”

Anya groaned dramatically but obediently poked at the carrots with her fork. “Fine… but only because Mama said so,” she muttered, picking up a piece and taking a small bite.

Loid chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “See? Not so bad.”

Yor tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and watched Anya carefully chew, her own thoughts drifting. Even small victories feel important. And for her, everything is big right now.

Minutes passed with Anya picking through the remaining carrots, Loid offering occasional gentle encouragement, and Yor keeping a supportive, patient smile on her face. Finally, the plate was cleared of all the orange pieces, leaving only the remnants of stew and bread.

“There!” Loid said, a satisfied tone in his voice. “Mission accomplished.”

Anya leaned back in her chair, rubbing her stomach with a self-satisfied grin. “I survived, Mama! And Papa helped me win the carrot battle too!”

Yor laughed softly, shaking her head. “Good job, Anya. I’m proud of you for finishing your carrots.”

Anya giggled, grabbing a napkin. “Tomorrow, I’m telling everyone about my victory!”

Loid reached over and ruffled her hair affectionately. “Tomorrow is for the zoo. Tonight, we celebrate quietly at home.”

The three of them shared a warm smile around the small table, the lingering glow of shared effort and quiet family life filling the room, even as the city outside hummed on.

Yor pushed back her chair gently, standing to clear the plates. “I’ll take these to the kitchen,” she said, her voice calm, carrying the faintest smile.

Loid leaned back, stretching his shoulders. “Thank you, Yor. I can help with the stew pot.”

Anya hopped down from her chair, dragging her little feet across the floor. “I’ll help too! I can carry the napkins!”

Yor chuckled softly, watching her daughter scamper off. Even the smallest hands feel like they hold the world, she thought, a soft warmth spreading in her chest.

Loid followed with the pot, and together with Yor they moved through the quiet rhythm of clearing the table. Bond padded silently around their ankles, tail wagging, sniffing at the lingering scents of dinner. Yor bent to scratch behind his ears, and the dog’s eyes closed in contentment.

“Good boy, Bond,” she murmured.

Anya returned, holding the napkins carefully, and Yor caught a glimpse of her tired but satisfied expression. They’re both so small, yet so full of life, she thought, feeling a gentle tug at her heart.

Yor filled the sink with warm, soapy water, staring at the stack of dishes. He cooked all of this by himself… I should at least wash the dishes. It’s the least I can do.

“I’ll handle this, Loid,” she said softly, setting a plate into the suds. “You already did everything. Let me do the dishes on my own.”

Loid shook his head, giving her a small, amused smile. “Yor, it’s not a chore to share. I’ll help you. Come on, we can do this together.”

Yor rolled up her sleeves and stepped to the sink, determination written across her face. “Loid, really, you don’t have to. You cooked the whole dinner—let me at least take care of the dishes. I insist.”

Loid picked up a dish towel, completely unfazed. “And I insist on helping. There’s no reason for you to do this alone.”

She frowned, lowering her voice as though confessing a secret. “But I’d feel useless if I couldn’t repay you somehow… You’ve done so much already. I should at least—”

“Yor.” His tone was gentle but steady, leaving no room for retreat. “It isn’t about repayment. A family shares things like this. If I cook, we clean together. Simple as that.”

Yor’s lips parted as if she wanted to argue again, but the word family made her chest tighten. She stared down at the plate in her hands, the soap bubbles trembling under the warm water.

“…Family…” she echoed softly, almost to herself.

Loid reached over, taking the rinsed dish before she could falter, drying it with practiced ease. “Exactly. We take care of each other. That’s what matters.”

Her grip tightened around the soapy plate in her hands. “B-but—”

Loid stepped closer, towel at the ready, his smile firm but kind. “No buts. I dry, you wash. That way it’s faster. And besides, Bond is waiting for his nightly brushing—I don’t think he’d forgive me if we spent another hour debating this.”

Yor swallowed, her face warming as she nodded quickly. “O-okay. Then… then I’ll wash, and you’ll dry.”

“Deal.” Loid’s smile softened, not triumphant, but reassuring—as if he wanted her to know she wasn’t a burden here.

Her cheeks warmed as she focused intently on the plate, scrubbing a little harder than necessary. “Then… I’ll try my best,” she murmured, passing it to him carefully.

Loid accepted it without hesitation, his motions calm and efficient as he wiped it dry. “You already do,” he said simply.

The words made Yor’s hand still in the water for a beat too long, the suds clinging to her fingers. She blinked, flustered, before quickly reaching for the next dish. “I-I mean, I’m only washing dishes… that’s hardly—”

“Yor.” Loid’s voice was warm, firm in the way that left no room for doubt. “It’s enough.”

For a moment, the only sound was the quiet clink of plates and the hum of running water. The two fell into a steady rhythm: Yor scrubbing and rinsing, Loid taking each plate from her hands with quiet precision. Their shoulders occasionally brushed, the small kitchen making the closeness unavoidable, though neither seemed eager to step away.

Every time Loid’s fingers brushed hers in the exchange, Yor felt a nervous spark travel up her arm. But for once, she didn’t mind it. In the living room, the faint scratch of Anya’s pencil and her dramatic sighs drifted in, grounding them back into the gentle rhythm of home.

Yor busied herself with the next dish, her movements a little steadier now. “I suppose… it does feel nicer, doing it together,” she admitted, her voice barely above the trickle of water.

Loid gave the faintest smile, though his eyes stayed on the plate he was drying. “That’s the point. No one has to carry everything alone.”

Her gaze flicked up at him, startled by the weight of his words, but he was already reaching for the next dish as though he hadn’t said anything unusual.

Yor swallowed, handing it over with careful fingers. The corners of her lips tugged upward in the smallest smile. “…Thank you, Loid.”

The sound of Anya’s exaggerated groan carried over from the living room. “Homework is… so… boring!!” she whined, slumping dramatically onto the table.

Yor let out a soft laugh, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. Loid shook his head, but the fondness in his expression was unmistakable.

“Finish what you can, Anya,” he called back. “The zoo tomorrow will only happen if your homework is done.”

A muffled “Ughhh, fineee!” answered him, followed by more frantic scribbling of her pencil.

The quiet clink of dishes and the faint sound of Anya working filled the home—simple, ordinary, but carrying a warmth neither Loid nor Yor could quite name.

—

The last of the plates slipped beneath the water, Yor carefully scrubbing as though it were the most delicate thing in the world. Beside her, Loid dried in quiet rhythm, the two moving almost seamlessly together despite her earlier protests.

When she finally placed the final dish in his hands, Yor let out a small breath, almost a sigh. “There… all done.”

Loid stacked it neatly with the others, setting the towel aside. “See? Much faster this way.”

Yor’s lips curved into a sheepish smile. “You were right… it did feel easier. I guess… I just didn’t want to be a burden.”

Loid shook his head firmly, brushing off the thought. “Yor, you’re not a burden. Not in the slightest.” His voice was so calm, so certain, it left no room for her doubts to creep in.

Her heart gave an unexpected flutter, and she turned quickly toward the sink, busying herself with wiping down the counter to hide her faint blush.

From the living room came Anya’s triumphant shout: “Ha! Finished my math! I am… genius!!”

Both Loid and Yor paused, exchanging a glance before breaking into quiet laughter.

“Looks like we survived another evening,” Loid murmured.

“Mm,” Yor agreed softly, warmth tugging at her chest as she set down the cloth. “Together.”

Loid stepped into the living room just as Anya sprawled across the couch, her workbook lying open like a conquered battlefield. Crayons and pencils were scattered everywhere.

“Done, Papa!” she declared, stretching her arms high with exaggerated pride.

He arched a brow, picking up the notebook. “Let’s see about that.”

Anya’s grin faltered as he flipped through her answers, his sharp eyes catching every uneven number and shaky spelling. “You mixed up these fractions,” he said, tapping the page lightly, “and this word is missing a letter.”

“Eh?!” She slumped forward dramatically, burying her face in the cushion. “Homework is pain… so much suffering…”

Loid stifled a chuckle. “It’s only suffering until you learn it properly. Then it becomes easy.”

From the doorway, Yor’s soft voice floated in. “Anya, you worked very hard tonight. I’m proud of you.”

The little girl peeked up at her mother, cheeks pinking at the gentle praise, then immediately stuffed the pencil back into her hand to fix her mistakes under Loid’s watchful eye.

When at last the corrections were finished and the pencils packed away, Yor took Anya’s small hand. “Come on, it’s bedtime.”

“Ehhh? But Mamaaa…” Anya flopped back against the couch like a defeated soldier. “It’s the weekend! Can’t I stay up just a little? Maybe watch one Spy Wars episode?” Her eyes sparkled with exaggerated pleading.

Loid folded his arms. “Anya, tomorrow’s the zoo. You’ll need rest if you want that maximum energy you were bragging about earlier.”

“Uuugh…” She puffed her cheeks, then tried again. “Just half an episode?”

Yor gave her a sympathetic smile but shook her head. “The animals won’t wait if you’re too tired to enjoy them.”

Anya groaned dramatically, rolling onto the floor before finally dragging herself to her feet. “Fineeee. But I’m protesting this injustice.”

Loid smirked faintly, guiding her down the hallway. Yor followed, still amused by Anya’s theatrics.

They changed her into pajamas, tucked her in, and endured a last-minute series of complaints (“What if the elephants forget me because I’m asleep too early?!”) before she finally wriggled under the covers with a yawn.

“Goodnight, Anya,” Yor whispered, brushing back her hair.

Loid leaned down to press a brief kiss to her forehead. “Sleep well.”

Anya’s eyelids fluttered, heavy despite herself. “…Night-night, Mama. Night-night, Papa.”

Yor lingered by her side a moment longer, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter’s face before the quiet breathing settled. She stood slowly, heart warm and heavy all at once.

As she closed Anya’s door with care, her gaze flicked down the hall to where Loid stood waiting, the lamplight catching on his steady expression. The morning’s promise stirred inside her—tonight, after everything, she would finally have that talk with him

Her hands curled together at her chest, nervous but resolute.

The apartment had grown still, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the building settling for the night. Yor padded softly into the kitchen, her hands fidgeting as she reached for the teapot. The simple act gave her something to hold, something to steady her nerves.

Loid followed a moment later, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. “Tea?” he asked, already taking two cups from the cupboard as though he knew what she was planning.

“Yes… if that’s alright,” Yor murmured, rinsing the leaves with practiced care before pouring the hot water over them.

For a while, silence stretched between them—the good kind, filled with the soft clink of porcelain and the warm steam rising in gentle curls. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but Yor’s heart thudded all the same, every beat a reminder of the conversation she’d promised herself she wouldn’t run from.

Loid carried the tray to the dining room, setting it down on the table. “You should sit,” he said, his voice calm, though his eyes lingered on her with an attentiveness that made her pulse jump.

She obeyed, folding herself onto the chair, smoothing the hem of her skirt more times than necessary. Loid poured the tea, sliding her cup toward her before lifting his own.

The faint aroma of roasted leaves filled the space. Yor wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, staring down into the liquid as though she might find courage at the bottom.

“You seemed thoughtful earlier,” Loid said finally, his tone casual but edged with quiet concern. “In the kitchen. Was something on your mind?”

Her grip tightened on the cup. She swallowed, throat suddenly dry despite the steam curling around her face.

This was it—the moment she’d been circling since morning.

“…Yes,” she admitted softly. “There’s something I… I need to tell you.”

Loid didn’t press, not right away. He only leaned back slightly, cup in hand, his posture relaxed but his gaze quietly attentive. Years of espionage had taught him the power of silence—that sometimes, the space you left was more revealing than the words you demanded.

Yor, however, found that silence both comforting and unbearable. She lifted the cup to her lips if only to give herself something to do, but the tea trembled faintly against the porcelain.

She stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye. The lamplight softened his features, chasing away the crisp formality he wore during the day. He looked almost… approachable like this, a man instead of a flawless agent or doctor. The thought made her chest tighten.

Loid finally spoke, his voice even, inviting but not insistent. “You don’t have to rush. Whatever it is—you can take your time.”

Her fingers curled tighter around the cup. The warmth seeped into her skin, grounding her, yet her thoughts still raced. What if she said too much? What if she ruined this fragile peace they’d built?

“I just…” Her words trailed off, caught somewhere between her heart and her lips. She shook her head quickly, her braid brushing against her shoulder. “It’s silly.”

Loid set his cup down gently on the saucer, the faint clink startling in the quiet. “If it troubles you, it isn’t silly,” he replied. His tone carried no judgment, only that careful patience he seemed to wear whenever he tended to Anya’s fears or Yor’s hesitations.

The room felt smaller somehow, the air thicker. Yor’s eyes lowered to the steam rising from her cup, watching it swirl and vanish as though it might carry her uncertainty with it.

For a moment, she almost wished he would press harder—that he would corner her with a question she couldn’t avoid. It would be easier than mustering the courage herself. But of course, Loid wasn’t that kind of man. He would wait, endlessly if he had to.

And that, somehow, made it harder to hide.

Yor perched on the edge of the sofa, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug. She hesitated, then spoke, her voice quieter than usual. “Sometimes I worry… that I’m not strong enough for all the things I have to do… even for this family.”

Loid tilted his head, regarding her with careful patience. “You’re doing more than enough, Yor. Everyone has moments of doubt.”

Her lips pressed together, and she let out a soft sigh. If only he knew what I truly mean… She paused, then continued, voice barely above a whisper: “I just… I want to be someone you can rely on, fully. I don’t want you to ever doubt me.”

Loid’s brow furrowed slightly, concern tugging at his features, though he interpreted her words in the simplest way. “Yor… you know I trust you. Always.”

She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. He thinks I mean chores or the household… but it’s more than that. The unspoken truth pressed against her chest—her past, the missions, the constant danger—but for tonight, she let it remain hidden, cloaked within her carefully chosen words.

She took a tentative sip of tea, letting the steam rise between them like a protective veil. “Even when I try, I’m afraid I’m failing at… everything.”

Loid leaned forward, resting a hand near hers, but not quite touching. His voice was soft, grounding. “Yor… you’re not failing. You’re more capable than you realize.”

The words wrapped around her, a fragile comfort. She wanted to say more—about the other life, the constant tension, the dangerous edges of herself he would never see—but she swallowed the words, letting the hint of longing linger unspoken.

For now, I’ll just… say enough, she thought, meeting his steady gaze. He doesn’t need the full truth tonight. But he needs to know… that I care. That I’m here.

The apartment felt quieter then, the city beyond the windows a distant hum. Tea mugs warmed their hands, and the pause between them carried both the weight of what was unsaid and the tender acknowledgment of what could be.

Yor’s fingers wrapped tightly around the edge of the mug, knuckles blanching. The warmth of the tea felt almost ironic, as if the comfort it offered could compete with the cold memories that lingered at the edges of her mind.

I’ve survived… but at what cost? The thought hovered like a shadow. The missions, the blood, the silent training that had begun before she even understood the meaning of family or trust—it all weighed on her, heavier than any domestic worry could.

She took a slow breath, her eyes fixed on the faint steam rising from the cup. And now… I have this life. This family. This… happiness I don’t know if I deserve.

Loid’s quiet presence beside her made her chest tighten in ways she hadn’t anticipated. He didn’t know the half of it, wouldn’t understand the battles fought in silence, the lives taken with precise detachment, the constant balancing of who she was and who she had to be. And he can’t. Not yet. Not ever, maybe.

Her voice was almost a whisper. “Sometimes… I feel like all I’ve learned, all I’ve trained for… it doesn’t fit here. I don’t know if I can be the person you think I am… the person I want to be.”

Loid’s gaze softened, the light in his eyes steady, patient. “Yor… you’re stronger than you think. And strength isn’t just about fighting or enduring alone. It’s here,” he said, pressing a hand lightly to his chest. “It’s about caring, about staying. About trying, even when it’s hard. That’s what matters.”

She allowed herself a moment, letting the weight of her past and her secret desires brush against the safety of his words. He doesn’t know. He can’t. But maybe… maybe this is enough. For now.

A quiet sigh escaped her lips, and she let her head tilt slightly, almost unconsciously seeking the reassurance that Loid always offered. The memories of missions, of war, of her cold, solitary past, didn’t vanish—but in this moment, they were softened by the reality of the present. I’m home. I have this. And I have him… even if he doesn’t know the whole truth.

The tea cooled between them, forgotten. Silence stretched, comfortable and fragile, a buffer between the weight of the past and the uncertainties of what the future might hold.

Yor’s gaze drifted to the window, the city lights beginning to twinkle faintly in the late evening haze. I’ve lived so long in shadows… She wrapped her fingers around the mug again, letting the warmth seep into her hands as if it could anchor her.

Shopkeeper… or rather, my mentor… he taught me everything. Taught me to survive, to move like a shadow, to take life without hesitation when the mission demanded it. The memory of the quiet, strict figure who had trained her so intensely came unbidden. He never gave affection freely… only expectations. Only discipline. And when he left… when I had to continue without him… Her throat tightened. I had to raise Yuri alone, guide him, protect him. No one to lean on, no one to trust… just the mission, the responsibility, the weight of life and death pressing down at all times.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, a quiet shadow of pain flickering across her face. And now… I have Loid, I have Anya… I’m supposed to leave that all behind. To act like the danger, the darkness, never existed.

She exhaled slowly, almost as if confessing to the room itself. “I… I’ve always had to be strong, even when I didn’t want to. Even when I was scared. Even when I was alone.”

Loid’s hand brushed hers lightly, careful, patient. “Yor… you’re not alone now. And it’s okay to feel scared. To be unsure. That doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human.”

She blinked, her thoughts swirling. He doesn’t know about the blood, the missions… the parts of me that still exist in shadows. He can’t. Not fully. And yet… he gives me strength just by being here, by seeing me. Even if it’s only part of me.

The quiet stretched between them, filled with memories unspoken, emotions restrained, and the delicate, unacknowledged thread of care that tied her to him in ways words could barely capture.

Loid watched her closely, sensing the weight behind her words even if he didn’t fully grasp the darkness she hinted at. He offered a small, steadying smile. “You’ve carried a lot, Yor. But you’re here now, with us. That matters more than anything else.”

Yor nodded slowly, staring into her cup. I am here… but am I enough? Am I enough to shield them, to keep them safe, to be what they deserve? She swallowed hard, the hold of the empty cup both comforting and grounding.

She set her empty cup on the table with a soft clink, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Loid followed suit, placing his cup beside hers, fingers brushing hers for just a moment as he did. The contact was fleeting, almost accidental, yet it sent a subtle warmth up her arm.

They lingered in that small space between them, the unspoken conversation stretching through the silence. Yor’s gaze drifted toward the window, the city lights twinkling against the darkening sky, but her thoughts remained tethered to him, to the weight of what she’d almost confessed, and to the conversation they had promised themselves in the morning.

Loid’s voice broke the quiet, low and careful. “You don’t have to say everything all at once, you know. Just… take your time.”

Yor’s lips curved into a tentative smile. I will. Soon… she thought. 

The two of them lingered at the table, neither rushing to stand, their cups empty but their presence tethered to one another.

“Shall we?” he asked quietly, a gentle nod toward the living room, as though even shifting rooms might break the delicate balance between them.

Yor rose with him, smoothing her skirt, fingers brushing against the edge of the table before she followed his lead. Their steps were unhurried, soft against the apartment floor, the hush of the night settling like a blanket around them.

In the living room, Bond stirred in his sleep and let out a sigh, Anya’s muffled voice carrying faintly from behind her bedroom door as she shifted in her dreams. The domesticity of it all pressed warmly around them, almost surreal in its calm.

Loid moved first, settling onto the sofa, his usual straight-backed posture softened by the hour. Yor hesitated for only a moment before sitting beside him, leaving just enough space for comfort, but not distance.

For a while, they said nothing, letting the silence speak. The night no longer felt heavy, but suspended, as though waiting for one of them to take the first brave step into something unspoken.

Loid glanced at her then, his expression unreadable but softened, as though he too felt the shift. “You did well today,” he said quietly. “Anya’s happy. That matters most.”

Yor’s lips curved faintly, her gaze dropping to her hands folded in her lap. “I… I just want to keep being enough for her. For us.”

Her words lingered between them, fragile yet steady, as Loid’s quiet nod anchored them in place.

—

The hour drew them forward, toward the inevitable—toward bedtime, toward the final moments where words might spill or fade into silence.

Loid leaned back against the sofa, his shoulders easing in a way Yor rarely saw. Without the newspaper in his hands, without the barrier of work or duty, he seemed… lighter, though no less guarded. She caught herself studying him in the quiet, wondering what burdens he carried that he would never allow himself to voice.

Her own chest felt heavy, the earlier confessions still echoing inside her. The truth was, she had said only fragments—carefully chosen words that masked the darker edges of her past. But it was enough for tonight. A beginning.

Loid turned his head, and their eyes met. The apartment around them seemed to fall away—the ticking clock, the hum of the fridge, the muted sounds of the city beyond the curtains. It was just them, caught in the stillness.

“You don’t have to shoulder everything alone, Yor,” he said softly, almost as if speaking it to himself as much as to her. “We’re a family. Whatever comes… we’ll face it together.”

The words should have been simple comfort, but to Yor, they struck deep, threading warmth through the quiet ache of her doubts. She nodded, her lips parting as if to speak, but the confession caught in her throat. She wanted to tell him everything—that she was not the woman he thought, that her hands were stained with shadows he couldn’t imagine, that she feared her heart was betraying her with feelings she shouldn’t allow herself.

But instead, she whispered, “Thank you… Loid.”

The way she said his name—soft, hesitant, almost reverent—sent a strange pull through him. His hand twitched against the cushion, as if tempted to reach for hers, but he stopped, disciplined as always. Still, the air between them shifted, charged with the words they weren’t saying.

Minutes passed like that, side by side, closer than they had ever dared to be in the quiet of the night. Until finally, Loid rose, extending a hand toward her in a quiet gesture.

“Come on. It’s late.”

Yor placed her hand in his, her fingers warm against his steady grasp. He helped her up, though she didn’t need the help—it was an excuse, perhaps, a way of holding on a moment longer.

Together, they moved toward the hallway, the apartment wrapped in hush. The day had ended, and the conversation she had dreaded, the one she knew would one day change everything, still lingered on the horizon. But tonight, in this fragile, unspoken closeness, Yor allowed herself to believe that beginnings could be enough.

They walked side by side down the short hallway, their footsteps soft against the floor. The dim glow from the living room stretched only so far, leaving the corridor wrapped in shadow. It felt almost like stepping into another world—quieter, closer, more fragile.

At the bedroom door, they slowed, neither reaching for the handle right away. They lingered a moment longer at the threshold, neither of them reaching for the handle, as though the air itself held them in place. Yor’s hand slipped from his, her fingers curling against her palm, reluctant to lose the warmth.

Loid’s gaze flickered briefly to hers, steady, unreadable, yet softened by something quieter than words. For just a heartbeat, it felt as though the distance between them might close.

But it didn’t.

He gave the faintest nod, his voice low, deliberate. “Goodnight, Yor.”

Her throat tightened. She managed a small, fragile smile, the kind that carried both comfort and ache. “Goodnight, Loid.”

The silence that followed stretched, tender and uncertain. Then, almost at once, they each turned—Loid to his room, Yor to hers—the soft click of a door closing gently breaking the spell.

And so the night held its secrets, leaving the space between them alive with tension, with possibility, with everything neither had yet dared to say.

—

Yor leaned against her closed door for a long moment, her palm flat to the wood as though she could still feel his presence on the other side. The apartment was hushed, the faint ticking of the clock in the living room the only sound. Yet her thoughts were loud, chasing her in circles.

She moved to her bed with slow, careful steps, sitting at the edge instead of lying down. Her fingers traced the hem of her nightdress absently. She should have felt lighter—after all, she had spoken some of what weighed on her heart, however vague. But in truth, the ache only grew sharper.

Loid was just beyond the wall. She could almost picture him in his own room, precise and composed, perhaps reviewing notes, perhaps staring at the ceiling as he did sometimes when sleep eluded him. Did he think of her, even fleetingly, the way she thought of him now?

She pressed her hands together tightly. Don’t be foolish. You can’t let yourself…

And yet, as she finally lowered herself beneath the covers, the warmth of the tea lingered on her lips, the memory of his hand still ghosting against hers. She shut her eyes, heart restless, as though sleep would not come easily tonight.