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He should have known that this would happen.
Yuri called them on it months ago, Yor’s colleagues have made snide remarks at work, and even Anya teases them for their lack of physical affection.
As an agent of WISE, Twilight has failed to prepare for this moment.
And so, as Loid, he is left with his eyes wide and heart racing in surprise when he finds himself under a mistletoe with his wife, whose cheeks are already red with a blush.
“Yor—“
“Ooh, we’ll finally see the secret power couple in action!” Camilla exclaims excitedly from her place beside Dominic, clinging to his arm with one hand and cradling a wine glass in the other.
Loid tunes her out to focus on Yor, swallowing the anxiety lodged in his throat as he looks at her. This shouldn’t be a big deal, but they’ve never discussed this, and he doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries—but then all his concerns fade when Yor steps closer to him. One of her hands delicately holds her glass of wine aloft—which she has been carefully nursing all night so she doesn’t get inebriated in front of her colleagues—and the other is placed on his chest, settling just beside his tie. Even through his vest, dress shirt, and undershirt, he wonders if she can feel the quickened beating of his heart.
Her fingers curl slightly, and he registers that she’s trying to hide how she’s trembling. Eyes fluttering shut, he places his hand on her waist and leans in, meeting her halfway when her nerves begin to fray and make her hesitate.
They’re married. This should be easy. Give them a show of affection between two loving spouses, which is what they want to see.
Except, when their lips meet, it’s not a show.
The way his heartbeat is wild in his chest and how his ears are burning are not forced physical reactions. His mind is blank except for a whisper that says kiss her again, but he silences it—they’re in public, after all.
They part, and instinctively, Loid licks his lips; he can faintly taste the wine from Yor’s glass.
Yor turns to her peers and plasters on an anxious smile, trying to appear unbothered but failing miserably.
His hand at her waist twitches, itching to pull her back in, but he lets his hand fall to his side instead as she’s accosted by Millie and pried away.
Loid suddenly feels unsure of what to do with himself, so he opts to grab a drink, heading for the wine and spirits on the counter. Nothing here will make him drunk, so he gets a glass of whiskey, merely wanting something to hold while he rejoins some menial conversation.
“Hey, Loid.”
Loid turns to Dominic, who’s lingering near the end of the counter. He has a small smile on his face, but not a mean-spirited one. Loid’s always appreciated the genuine nature of the other man, even if all the women around him are of the opposite disposition.
Dominic lifts a finger to his own mouth, tapping his lips once. “Your wife left a little lipstick.”
Unable to help the warmth that creeps into his face, Loid nods once and mutters a thanks, searching for his handkerchief in his pockets. When he wipes at his mouth, sure enough, a light hue of red comes off on the fabric. He looks toward Yor and catches her already staring, her face flushed when they lock eyes.
He makes a mental note to remember to ask her to tell him the next time her lipstick gets on him.
*
On the walk home, Loid is the one to bring it up.
“Yor,” he says evenly, hating how his heart is beginning to beat faster again. “I apologize if I overstepped a line with you tonight. I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
She doesn’t look at him right away, instead staring ahead at the pavement as they walk side-by-side. They’ve long since fallen in step together, her heels clicking with each light step. “I wasn’t uncomfortable,” is all she eventually says.
Loid isn’t sure how to take that. He’s mistaken Yor’s actions for romantic feelings before, and he doesn’t want to misread anything here either, considering this is territory they haven’t ventured into yet.
“It makes sense,” Yor begins, still not looking at Loid even though her blush is darkening. “Married couples…touch each other. Are affectionate. I should have known that it would appear odd if we were an outlier in that.”
“That’s true,” Loid concedes. “Are you opposed to this, then? When we’re around others?”
Finally, she looks at him.
“I’m okay with it, if it’s with you, Loid,” she says softly.
The color in her cheeks and her tone as she looks at him so earnestly make Loid’s stomach flip.
“Me, too.”
He can’t quite find a new topic of conversation, and Yor doesn’t appear to be interested in talking either, so they walk in a renewed, comfortable silence.
*
It doesn’t only happen around others.
They do get better about public displays of affection—holding hands as they walk, a hand lightly placed on her back, or an arm draped behind her seat when they’re sitting side-by-side among friends (which are really her colleagues and their friends, but Loid doesn’t get hung up on semantics).
But it’s starting to bleed into their private life.
Loid knows that he can’t be surprised by that; habits are built on repetition, and they’ve been trying to make their marriage appear to be as authentic as possible, which means being comfortable touching one another. This is what he keeps telling himself when he feels his heart flutter and stomach somersault and mind go fucking blank when Yor smiles at him sweetly. All he’ll be able to think after about for several seconds is the taste of wine on her lips from that night as he stares at her.
(Whenever Anya is around, she snickers in these moments even if he doesn’t always notice.)
Loid is a rational, intelligent man. He is one of the world’s best spies–if not the best. He’s a master of disguises. He’s physically capable of fighting off countless men.
He is also simply just a man.
He’s reminded on a daily basis of this fact when his wife is in the same room as him. There’s something about the way her lips curl up when their eyes meet, how she says his name in that warm voice of hers, or how he’s began to watch her hips naturally sway when she walks.
But most of all, on days that she wears her signature red sweater, he’s left defenseless.
Or even more than that–he’s useless.
His head empties when he glimpses the unblemished, pale skin. When he has to pass by her in the narrow kitchen, he instinctively puts a hand on the small of her back, only to realize that he’s brushed his fingertips over her exposed skin. The touch is gentle and polite, but the instance of smooth warmth beneath his hand makes him almost stumble past her.
Yor appears unfazed by the gesture–as far as Loid is aware, at least.
What he would notice if he had the courage to look over his shoulder at her is how her blush deepens with his fleeting touch.
*
“You’re getting too soft.”
Loid only spares Franky a sideways glance as he throws Bond’s tennis ball, watching the dog race after it. They met in the park at Franky’s behest to plan for another date that Loid is fairly certain will fail given Franky’s tendency to go for unavailable women. When that part of the conversation lulled, Loid braced for this topic to come up when Franky squared his jaw.
He knew he was right when Franky sighed.
“I’m doing what needs to be done for the mission,” Loid deflects when Bond bounds back up to him with the tennis ball in his jaws. The dog drops the ball at Loid’s feet before looking up at him expectantly, as if to say impatiently, Why aren’t you throwing it yet?
Loid throws it further this time, much to Bond’s delight as he sprints away.
“You’re growing too attached,” Franky reiterates firmly. “It’s obvious when you’re with Yor, now. You follow her instead of other people in a room.”
“She’s my wife,” Loid responds too quickly. “I’m supposed to follow her.”
Franky sighs again dramatically, flopping back on the grass to stare up at the clouds. “Whatever, man. I’m just trying to give you the same advice that you gave me.”
Bond returns again, but this time, Loid’s hand is extended to catch the ball when the dog moves to drop it. He doesn’t have to ask Franky what advice he’s referring to—it’s a piece of advice that was given to him a long time ago, before he ever became a spy.
People like you and I can’t afford to have feelings for other people.
Faces that hurt to remember flash in his mind, and he tightens his grip on the ball for a second before he turns to Franky. The informant’s eyes are shut as he waits for some response from Loid, brows slightly pulled together.
Loid tosses the ball onto Franky’s stomach, making him flinch, but not before Bond follows and jumps on top of Franky in an effort to get the ball again.
The corners of his lips curl up, and he bottles up the ache in his chest for now.
*
Loid fucks up.
He lets Yuri drink far too much again when he comes over for dinner, but he at least had the foresight to convince Yor not to drink more than a glass of wine over the course of the night.
(Not that it was helpful to his case—Yuri accused Loid of being controlling, and Yor had to try to argue that she’s merely trying to be sober in case Yuri gets drunk. Which, he is.)
After a heated argument between the siblings about Yuri’s ability to make it home in one piece, Yor puts an end to it by sneakily pressing on Yuri’s pressure points, knocking him out. She covers him with a blanket on the sofa, huffing out a sigh once she confirms he’s breathing evenly.
“I’m so sorry, Loid,” she turns to him as she apologizes. “I didn’t think he’d get so out of control again.”
I thought he might, Loid thinks but doesn’t vocalize. “It’s fine. Though, it does mean that we’ll be sharing a room tonight. I hope that’s alright with you?”
“Yes, let me just get ready for bed first.”
They’re talked this part through before.
In separate bathrooms, they wash up, but Loid’s body is buzzing with anticipation as he brushes his teeth.
He’s shared a bed with plenty of people before. In the military, you’re lucky to get a bed, and as a spy, he’s laid beside women numerous times. This is familiar to him.
When he changes into sleep pants and a thin cotton shirt, he’s barely pulled his shirt over his head when there’s a single knock at the door before Yor steps inside. She’s in a black nightgown, one that ends mid-thigh, and her arms are partially crossed over her chest.
“I checked on Yuri again,” she says, running a hand through her hair idly. “He should be knocked out for a while.”
“That’s good,” Loid affirms. The last thing that they need is Yuri stumbling through the place in the dead of night, drunk and ready to fight Loid for the smallest reason.
They stand unceremoniously, glancing at the bed.
“Which side is yours?” Yor asks.
“This one.” He points to the side closest to the door. Yor nods and walks around to the other side.
When they slip under the sheets at the same time, Loid feels like sleep is the last thing he’s capable of when Yor is beside him, so close and awake and alone with him, in his bed. He turns off the beside lamp, draping the room in darkness aside from the moonlight trickling through the openings in the curtains. He shifts to lay on his back; his eyes adjust to the darkness quickly, but he doesn’t dare turn to look at Yor. Her breathing isn’t deep, and her body is rigid.
Temptation is a powerful thing, though, and Loid gives in too easily as he looks over at her.
She’s on her side, facing away from him, hair falling onto the space in the bed behind her. Even with the sheet pulled partially over her, he can see the way it drapes over the curves of her body, loosely hugging her frame. He wants to reach for her—the bed is big enough to give them space apart, but not so much he can’t easily extend his arm and touch her—but he doesn’t know if it would be welcome.
The intact part of his rationale screams at him to get a hold of yourself, but then Yor turns her head slightly, as if to look over her shoulder at him.
“Loid?”
He swallows thickly, wondering if she felt his gaze.
“Yes?”
Another beat of silence, and then he turns onto his side toward her. She doesn’t roll over entirely, but she does shift enough to actually look at him over her shoulder, eyes glittering even in the dark.
There’s a question on the tip of her tongue—Loid can practically see it—but then she withdraws into herself, curling up further.
Loid’s heart jumps into his throat.
He wonders if the best course of action is to leave her be and wait for her to approach whatever topic she’s avoiding. However, he has been shockingly off the mark with Yor at every other step of the way, it seems like, so he contemplates going with instinct, for once.
His instinct is to show her that he’s here, in whatever way she’ll have him.
Tentatively, he reaches for her, his hand hovering in the air behind her for all of ten seconds before he musters the courage to close the distance, the tips of his fingers brushing against her spine. The touch is timid, not at all carrying the regular confidence Loid maintains, but when there’s no reprimand thrown his way he moves with more certainty, inching his hand higher to rest his hand on the curve of her waist. He can feel Yor inhale sharply, her ribs expanding under his palm, and then her shaky exhale.
The material of her nightgown is thin, but he forces himself not to fixate on that—not when she’s warm and allowing him this touch.
Fingers dance over his own, so he readies himself to be pushed away only to be surprised when she tugs gently, bringing his hand to her front. He has to slide closer on the bed, close enough that his chest is barely touching her back. Without his arm being stretched out, he can comfortably drape his arm over her waist, splaying his fingers over her stomach.
Yor begins to move her hand when he takes the extra step to thread their fingers together. She lets out a quiet hum of approval before she takes another deep breath—one that comes in and out easier than before.
“Good night,” she whispers.
“Good night.”
Loid sleeps better than he has in years.
*
When he wakes up, she’s gone.
Confusion hits him—Yor usually wakes up after him, he thinks, but perhaps she had to get up to see to Yuri. He shuts his eyes and listens, and his suspicions are confirmed when he hears some noise coming from the kitchen.
Loid groans as he stretches, turning over to the side she slept on as he wills himself to get up and deal with a possibly hungover Yuri. His frustrations ebb for a few seconds, though, when he’s given a small reprieve.
The pillow still smells like her.
*
After dinner, on an unimportant day, it rains.
Loid is displeased with the weather on his evening off of work; he hates thunderstorms.
As a spy, he’s had to endure ruthless, brutal training, all of which helps to mold him into the ace that he is today. Part of his background includes working through and getting rid of any fears he may have—though, this is one that doesn’t quite make him anxious as much as it simply puts him on edge nowadays.
He rarely thinks of his past—before Twilight, before Roland Spoofy—but the sudden, loud claps of thunder sometimes bring flashes of a time he only remembers in fragments.
There’s another crack of lightning and rumbling of thunder, pulling him back to the present.
He sits up straighter in his armchair, nearly dropping his cup of tea. Yor is sitting on the sofa, the television on with some random drama—when did Spy Wars finish?—and she nods to the floor in front of it where Anya is laying on Bond, both of them asleep.
“Oh,” is all Loid can manage to come up with. He didn’t realize he zoned out so blatantly in front of Yor.
“Are you okay?” Yor asks him, concern written all over her expression.
Loid drains his now-cold tea in a single gulp before he sets it on the coffee table. “Yes, just got lost in thought.”
“Hm.” She doesn’t seem to believe him, but he doesn’t give her another opportunity to ask.
Moving swiftly, he kneels beside the two youngest Forgers and carefully picks up Anya. Bond wakes up, but Anya stays asleep. She’s deadweight, having thoroughly worn herself out for the day, and she only shifts slightly when he stands, adjusting his hold so he can cradle her against his chest. Pointedly not meeting Yor’s gaze, he tells her, “I’ll put her to bed.”
Bond yawns and stretches once before he trots after Loid into Anya’s bedroom.
Putting Anya in bed is an easy process when she’s knocked out like this; he sets her down, removes her socks and shoes, and tucks her in while she mumbles in her sleep.
“Mama, don’t kill Papa…”
Loid can’t help but chuckle as he sets Chimera beside her. What he wouldn’t give for a glimpse into her head, though perhaps he’s best left in the dark.
Bond curls up in his own bed at the foot of Anya’s bed, immediately dozing back off.
Glancing between the two, that increasingly familiar warmth creeps back into Loid’s chest—one that is dangerous, that he has felt far too often for Anya and Yor, though it differs between the two. With Yor, it’s fire, threatening to consume him when he’s so close to her; with Anya, it’s a fondness that he hasn’t felt in nearly two decades.
(He can’t remember his mother’s face, but he does remember the deep-seated affection he held for her—much like he’s begun to feel for his pseudo-family.)
With a gentle pat to her head, he allows himself to indulge in this.
Just for a moment.
When he leaves her room, he keeps the door slightly ajar, knowing that Bond will inevitably want to move to the living room floor in the early morning hours to be around when Loid wakes up.
Yor is still in the living room when he emerges, though she’s now at the edge of the sofa closest to the windows, her gaze focused on the rain falling. Her feet are tucked under her, her hair still pinned up. The pitter-patter of rain against the glass is rhythmic, almost soothing now that the television is off, until there’s a flash of lightning with thunder following.
Loid grinds his teeth for a few seconds, wondering how to approach his wife.
She finally looks over at him, and he relaxes, giving her a small smile that she returns.
“Yuri used to be afraid of thunder,” she says casually before looking back to the window. “He’d hide under his sheets and try to muffle the sound altogether. We’d make forts sometimes, too.” Her voice lowers, her smile now bittersweet. “It got worse after the war started, with the news always talking about the chances of being attacked.”
For once, Loid empathizes with Yuri, though he doesn’t know if the Briar siblings ever experienced the air raids firsthand. He doesn’t ask, selfishly not wanting to acknowledge that he has, far too many times.
Outside, the thunder rumbles again.
“He grew out of it, of course.” Yor lets out a airy laugh as she likely remembers a smaller Yuri, a light blush dusting her cheeks. “But, you know, sometimes I still want to get under the covers when it rains. Just to find somewhere safe to hide.”
The blood roars in Loid’s ears as his heart thumps over and over again.
Her gaze meets his, pink cheeks turning red. “Will you stay with me? For a little while?” She asks softly, patting the spot beside her.
Loid can feel himself move before he can tell her that he’ll stay with her as long as she’ll have him; he swallows the words back down, not trusting his own voice with how easily Yor brings his walls down.
He sits beside her, still silent, contemplating his options; she moves as he settles, twisting more to face him.
“Come here,” she reaches to grab his shirt, guiding him closer. She slips her arms around him in an embrace, her head on his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Loid asks in a whisper, hesitantly wrapping his arms around her. He doesn’t want to push her away by any means, but he doesn’t want to be coddled, either, if she’s noticed his tension since the storm began.
“Hiding.”
Yor says it as if it’s obvious, and then it hits Loid just as thunder claps again outside.
He wants her.
This.
To be Loid Forger with Yor. Not Twilight.
He wants it to be real.
His hands settle on her back, where her sweater is open, and he presses his palms there, bringing her closer so that she’s flush to him. She lets out a small squeak, but she tightens her hold slightly and buries her face in the crook of his neck. Her breath is hot on his skin, but it’s even and steady. He drops his head on her shoulder as he focuses on the soft sound, relaxing in her arms.
He’s finally able to tune out the storm.
*
Self-control is a skill that Loid prides himself on. Today, however, it leaves him.
He’s sitting beside Yor on the sofa, reading a book while she’s watching Berlint in Love, both of them waiting for Anya to get back from school, Bond asleep on the floor under the window. There’s a mere few inches of distance between them, but they aren’t touching.
Loid is keenly aware that they aren’t touching.
He gets a ridiculous, impulsive desire to place his hand on her thigh. Or her knee. Knowing that both of those moves are very forward, he chances a safer option—draping his arm across the back of the sofa behind her, his hand resting just behind her bare shoulder, exposed by her sweater sitting off of her shoulders and her typical updo. He hopes that she doesn’t take note of the change in position, but he knows his mistake as soon as it’s made.
Yor stiffens. Her eyes are still trained on the television, but Loid can see the way her focus is no longer on it.
Neither of them move for several moments, tense silence between them except for the drama of the show playing.
Loid begins to move away when Yor looks at him, red eyes round as she fixes him with an expression he can’t quite read. He can tell she’s on edge, sure, but through the way her pupils are dilated and a blush blooms across her cheeks, he can see resolve.
Her hands clench in her lap, another telltale sign of her nerves. She then flattens her hands, and moves one to Loid’s thigh, just above his knee.
That.
That makes him sit straighter, book held open with one hand above his lap. His fingers are beginning to cramp but he doesn’t dare move.
His other hand, though.
Emboldened by Yor’s hand on his leg and the deep shade of red she’s blushing, he inches the hand behind her on the back of the sofa so that he can brush his thumb over the back of her shoulder. He can barely feel her skin, his touch is so fleeting, but it’s enough for his heart to hammer wildly.
It’s enough for Yor to inhale sharply through her nose, too.
A dam breaks, but neither of them move, staring at one another with those modest few inches between them.
He wants and wants and wants.
Yor’s fingers dig into his leg and tell Loid that she might be feeling the same. Might want, just like him.
Loid’s suddenly speaking before he can even think about the words falling out of his mouth.
“Can I kiss you?”
A dam breaks.
His senses are abruptly overwhelmed with Yor—her lips on his, the floral scent of her shampoo, the muffled noise she makes when her nose bumps his clumsily. Loid drops the book to the side and moves to cup her cheek, the other hand properly going to her shoulder. When her hand remains exactly where it’s been on his leg, he chances sliding his hand from her shoulder to her back, where her sweater is open.
He can splay his fingers on the dip of her spine, and Yor gasps against his mouth; he drinks in the noise greedily with his tongue sliding against hers, hoping she’ll allow him to indulge just a little further.
Their kiss is languid, even if it’s a little uncertain, but Yor follows Loid’s lead. Little does she know that he’s little more than putty in her hands—especially when her hand inches higher when she shifts, turning to face him better. Loid must have made a small noise, or gasp, or something because she’s quickly pulling back and covering her mouth with her hands in embarrassment.
“Ohmygod,” she says through her fingers, looking scandalized at her own actions. “I—I wasn’t—I’m not trying, I haven’t even—“
Loid can barely follow her train of thought until he processes that her hand is no longer on his leg, his hands are on the sofa between them, and then the glaring realization hits him like a brick to the head.
She hasn’t…?
“Yor—“
The door slams open as Anya loudly announces that she’s home, startling Loid, Yor, and Bond collectively. Bond is the first to recover, running toward Anya with a wagging tail and low bark to welcome the youngest Forger home. Yor scrambles to her feet, excusing herself to the restroom. Loid watches her walk away before he looks again to Anya; green eyes are intensely zeroed on him before she sighs loudly.
“I’m studying in my room!” She announces as she beelines for her bedroom, Bond following in after her. The door is slammed shut and Loid feels like he’s missing something in all of this.
He slumps against the sofa, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling.
*
When Loid calls the girls out for dinner, he’s thrown off kilter with how painfully normal it all seems. Yor’s blush is retained throughout dinner, but she otherwise has returned to her regular self as she sits across from him. Anya chatters on about her day and how Becky wants to go shopping on Saturday.
“That’s fine,” Loid tells her, earning a cheer from Anya as she stabs her broccoli with gusto. “I’ll give you spending money.”
“Yes! I’ll be sure to take all day, too,” Anya declares as she shoves the broccoli in her mouth, but not without sliding a piece off her plate for Bond.
“Anya, I don’t think you should give the dog your vegetables,” Yor says as she watches Bond swallow the head of broccoli almost whole.
“But Bond likes broccoli,” Anya protests with a mouth full of greens. “And it’s safe.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s good for him,” Loid interjects, fixing her with a firm look. “Besides, you need to eat more than peanuts. Vegetables are good for you—they’ll help you grow big and strong.”
“Like Mama!”
Loid glances from Anya to Yor, and his smile softens.
You’re strong, Yor.
That conversation feels like it was ages ago, but he remembers the way his body felt warm as he talked to Yor on that park bench.
“Yes, like Mama.”
*
When Loid walks with Anya to the market the next day to get ingredients for dinner, Franky’s words replay in his head, over and over.
You’re getting too soft.
Franky is right. He won’t admit it to his longtime friend, but it’s undeniable, now.
He considers his mission. A wife is essential for Operation Strix, and Yor is the perfect fit in every way. She never questions Loid’s odd work hours or otherwise questionable skills that could betray him as a spy, she is a wonderful mother to Anya, and her chemistry with Loid is believable.
More so recently than before, since the holiday party.
Married couples…touch each other. Are affectionate.
That’s the problem, he thinks to himself.
Anya squeezes his hand, drawing his attention to her. Her green eyes are always so filled with her emotions, but she’s scrutinizing Loid with a peculiar expression.
“Papa.” She narrows her eyes at him. “Can we get Mama flowers?”
Loid’s taken aback by the question, but he schools his features into mild amusement. “I suppose so. Why do you want to get her flowers all of a sudden?”
“Because it’s very romance,” Anya states confidently.
“Anya,” Loid chuckles as he explains to her, “romance is meant to be between couples.”
“Oh.” Anya feigns disappointment, but she recuperates all too quickly as she beams at Loid with a suspiciously eager demeanor. “Then you can get Mama flowers!”
Loid gives her a deadpan look that doesn’t faze her in the slightest. In fact, she practically yanks his hand as they turn the corner, approaching the market with renewed vigor. Loid lets her drag him along, knowing that he’s already lost this battle.
“Where’d you even learn that idea, anyway?”
“Becky talks about romance a lot, Papa.”
*
Loid hides in the kitchen to cook dinner while they wait for Yor to get home from work, pointedly ignoring the vase of roses that are on the center of the table. Anya had insisted he wait to put them in water until after Yor saw them, but he countered that they would look more presentable if they were in a vase—and thus, hopefully saving him from having to literally hand them to Yor.
His ears are red from the mere thought of doing such a gesture, much less in front of Anya.
Bond’s sitting in the kitchen, waiting patiently for a scrap of food to fall while Loid cooks, tail lazily swishing from side to side. Loid looks at Bond, and Bond tilts his head.
“Papa! Will you kiss Mama when you give her the flowers?” Anya asks as she runs into Bond, throwing her arms around him. He doesn’t flinch, intent on catching a piece of food.
“No,” Loid answers instantly. I would like to, though.
Anya doesn’t seem content with his answer, but he doesn’t intend to entertain her antics further. “Why don’t you put on Spy Wars until she gets home?”
As if on cue, Yor walks through the front door, cheerily announcing that she’s home.
“Welcome back,” Loid and Anya greet her in unison.
Just as Loid is going to ask how her day was, Anya jumps straight to the point.
“Papa got you flowers!” Anya exclaims excitedly, leading Yor to the table where the flowers are set. Loid inconspicuously peers over the counter to see Yor’s reaction, but he hears it first.
She gasps, the sound partially muffled as her hands fly to her mouth. He sees her face fill with color, and she lifts her eyes from the roses to meet his; his body betrays him and his damn face and ears burn under the affection in her gaze.
“Loid, they’re beautiful,” she says breathily, lowering her hands from her face to speak. “But—what’s the occasion?”
Our daughter bullied me into it. “No occasion. It was Anya’s idea, at first.”
“Yeah, but Papa picked them out,” Anya points out, trying to give Loid an assist, for which while he’s weirdly grateful, it doesn’t go unnoticed.
Yor pats Anya’s head, exchanging a few hushed words with the girl. Loid refocuses on finishing the food, taking a pan off a stove burner to set on a trivet. As he turns, Yor startles him with her quiet approach, now suddenly within arm’s reach.
Before Loid can get out a word, Yor is on her toes and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.
For the umpteenth time, all coherent thoughts leave him as she settles flat on her feet. Her expression is soft and full of endearment, and he can see her eyes alight with mirth at how his blush begins to rival hers.
Just as quickly, she’s moving to set the table with Anya, Bond still watching the food that’s yet to be served.
Loid almost misses the shocked, poorly whispered words from Anya.
“Mama kissed Papa first?!”
“Only on the cheek, Anya…”
*
Anya practically sprints to bed that night, much to Loid and Yor’s surprise. At first, Loid thinks it’s a ruse to sneak more cartoons or manga reading in her room, but sure enough when he pokes his head in to check, she’s snoring in bed with Bond smushed between her and the wall.
Loid has half a mind to put the dog on the floor in his own bed, where he should go, but ultimately he lets it go for the night.
He goes back to the kitchen, where Yor is finishing putting away the dishes from dinner and tea.
“She’s really in bed?” Yor asks, gingerly putting up the last plate.
“Her and the dog,” Loid confirms with an eye-roll, but he grins nonetheless. “What a pair they make.”
Yor laughs, the sound musical and enticing. She steps toward Loid, her expression still lit up but softening when she’s within arm’s reach of him. Her mouth opens as if to speak, but Loid moves as well; he sees how she stiffens, not expecting him to step closer to her, too.
He leans in toward her, stopping short just shy of kissing her.
“Is this alright?” He asks, desperately hoping that she won’t reject him.
Her answer, though only one word, comes out in an airy plea coupled with her tugging at his shirt to bring him near.
“Yes.”
They meet in a desperate kiss, both of them surging toward one another. There’s a muffled sound of approval from Loid that he almost doesn’t acknowledge, but he wraps his arms around her when she hums in turn, the noise wanton, albeit hushed.
“I didn’t thank you properly for the flowers,” she says in between kisses, her voice wavering as her nerves begin to kick in.
Loid chases her lips with his own, muttering a rushed you’re welcome before slipping his tongue against hers.
They haven’t kissed like this since the recent incident on the sofa—when they got interrupted by Anya coming home from school—but the way they cling to one another is so needy that it’s like they’ve picked up from that same moment.
He turns them slightly so Yor’s back is against the counter, and he places a hand on either side, caging her in. She lets out a small gasp when her back touches the countertop, the cool surface startling her, and she arches her back off of it. Her discomfort isn’t missed by Loid; he doesn’t miss a beat nor does he break their kiss when he moves his hands to her thighs, lifting her to set her on the counter in a smooth motion. Yor yelps, hands flying to his arms for purchase when she’s mid-air for all of a second.
“Better?” Loid asks, pressing another kiss to the corner of her mouth. His hands rest just above her knees, noting how soft her leggings are but wondering if her legs are softer.
Yor stammers out a yes before she cranes her neck to claim his lips with her own. She explores the lean muscles in Loid’s arms, drifting over his forearms to his shoulders, ultimately settling on his upper arms.
He relishes the feel of her hands on his biceps, pride making him flex his arms once under her palms as he slides his hands up higher from her knees. Her ankles hook behind his back at the movement, but he doesn’t at all mind being trapped between her legs like this. Fingers digging into her thighs, wishing her leggings weren’t on so he can feel her skin, he pulls her toward him so their hips meet and—
“Ah, um—!”
Yor jolts, though she doesn’t withdraw; she squeezes her thighs together instinctively, but she seems to be flustered even further with Loid being in the way. He worries that he’s made her uncomfortable, but then he registers that she hasn’t moved away from him.
His clothed erection is pressed to her center, and he remembers a brief exclamation from her on the sofa the first time they kissed because they wanted to.
I haven’t even—
Loid takes a breath to clear his mind of lustful thoughts as best he can, and he meets Yor’s gaze evenly. She’s biting her lower lip so hard he thinks she might draw blood, but then she begins to stammer out an apology.
“Yor,” he says seriously, putting a halt to apologies she doesn’t owe him. “We can stop.”
“D-Do you want to?” She asks, tense as if she’s about to detangle herself from him somehow.
“That’s not what I said.”
They regard one another, measuring each other up. Loid refuses to push her any further than she’s comfortable, so he tries to keep his expression as stony as possible while his face and ears are as burning red. The last thing he wants is for her to feel like he’s crossing a line, or that he doesn’t want her in some way.
“I—“ She hesitates, visibly worried about giving the wrong answer, but she seems to relax when Loid traces circles into her thighs with his thumbs in idle, comforting motions. “I don’t want to stop,” she whispers as if she’s appalled at her own words.
“Okay.” Loid leans in again, any remaining blood in his body going south immediately with her admission. “Tell me if you want to, at any point.”
Yor just nods, bringing her hands from his arms to his face, keen to kiss him so that he can’t see how her emotions are on full display for him. What she may not realize is that he’s learning to read her without having to look at her—the way she lets her strength show before deliberately handling him more carefully, the poorly concealed noises that slip past her lips when he inches his hands even higher to the apex of her thighs, how she’s arching into him.
He takes a chance and rocks his hips toward her once; he earns a sound from Yor that’s a mix of a moan and gasp, and he does it again because he wants to hear more.
Yor pushes at his shoulders so they break apart, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. “What if Anya wakes up?”
He blinks, hoping he’s not being presumptuous as he suggests, “Bedroom?” When Yor’s eyes widen, he hurries to add, “For privacy. In case she wakes up.”
“Yeah—yes,” Yor agrees.
She lets go of Loid, ankles no longer locked, and there’s an awkwardness in the air as she gets off the counter before they walk to the hallway. After a second of uncertainty between them, Loid opens the door to his bedroom for Yor to enter before himself. He shuts the door, the latch clicking shut.
Loid faces his wife, who has her arms wrapped around herself as she stands between him and the bed.
He frowns. Her eyebrows shoot up, and then her expression falls.
“What?” Yor asks nervously, shrinking more in on herself when he steps over to her.
Delicately, he pries her arms open, hands drifting to takes hers in his, bringing their loosely joined hands to his sides.
“You’re beautiful,” he tells her, deliberately not lowering his voice to a whisper, ensuring she can hear him. Her deepening blush confirms that she does hear him, and he’s suddenly determined to tell her that she’s a work of art every day until she believes it herself. He says it again before kissing her, parting her lips with languid movements of his tongue.
He takes another step toward her, and then another so that she steps backward, moving until her legs hit the bed. She falls, but he catches her, lowering her on the mattress. She grabs at his shirt, balling her fists in the fabric as he settles between her legs.
An anxious sound from Yor gives Loud pause, prompting him to look down at her, taking in the way her lips purse and her eyes flicker between his eyes and mouth.
Her hands are trembling.
“Yor.” His low, throaty voice makes her gaze snap to his. He moves his hands to her knees, thumbs moving in small motions back and forth, the movement idle but comforting all at once. “Can I take this off?” He pinches the black fabric loosely, seeking permission.
Her gaze doesn’t leave his, though her expression is watery as she nods, clearly venturing into new territory.
His moves slowly, shifting so that he can pull off her shoes, setting them on the floor as quietly as he can, and then his hands disappear under her red sweater dress. He doesn’t push the hem up, giving Yor some modesty as his fingers ghost over her hips to find the waistline of her leggings. Her face is aflame when he pulls gently, exposing smooth, milky skin as he removes her leggings. He tosses them to join her shoes without another glance, his eyes honed in on her legs, now bare for him to see and touch.
He starts at her ankles, resting on either side of his legs as he kneels between hers, running his hands along her calves, and over her knees. There’s some scarring on her knees, but he figures that’s normal—children fall often, and her scars there are faint and hardly visible unless up close, like Loid is. He is greedier when he touches her thighs, squeezing the supple skin there once, and he marvels at the strength he feels in her legs. His calluses on his palm must tickle—she shivers and twitches, though she doesn’t kick him away.
Looking up at her face again, he sees how her guard is teetering on remaining up.
Loid makes a decision and decides to shed a piece of his clothing, too. He pulls his shirt off and over his head by the collar, tossing it over his shoulder before he leans back over her, held up by his hands on either side of her on the mattress.
Yor’s eyes widen, and then her eyebrows pull together as she takes in Loid’s bare torso. Even on the cruise, she hadn’t seen him shirtless—not close or long enough to see what’s underneath his crisp white button-ups or black t-shirts he wears so much.
Scars are littered across his torso, varying in appearance; some are faded, hardly there from cuts or blades, some are jagged and slightly raised, and one she sees makes her eyes glassy.
Small, almost like a star—a scar from a bullet sits under his shoulder on his left pectoral.
“Loid,” she murmurs, placing a hand on his chest, over the scar. “What happened to you?”
He doesn’t frown, trying not to react, but he knows that she can feel the rapid beat of his heart directly under her touch.
He debates lying, but that isn’t right. Not to his friends dead and gone, not to the boy he used to be, but most of all—not to Yor.
“The war.”
Aside from a small sound from Yor—thoughtful, but melancholy—they’re quiet for a long time. Yor traces a few of his scars in a delicate, intentional manner, as if committing each one to memory. He’s grateful she doesn’t question him further; he doesn’t have it in him to be dishonest about this.
He must be more lost in his own head than he expected to be, he realizes, when Yor reaches for him properly to kiss him again. The desperation is still there, but rather subdued this time. There’s less urgency and more vulnerability as Yor pulls Loid to lay over her, even if she makes an anxious noise as his hips meet hers. Instead of withdrawing or shoving him off, he feels her legs spread as she takes a shaky few breaths. He’s about to tell her again that they can stop and he doesn’t have to have her like this, but she timidly cants her hips up into his, making his mind effectively empty.
Yor does it again and he groans, balling his fists in the sheets. She flattens her palms on his chest, barely breaking away to speak.
“Loid, can I…?”
Before he can process what she’s trying to ask, the room spins and he’s suddenly on his back, staring up at the ceiling and at Yor.
She’s sitting on top of him, strong legs astride his waist; her sweater bunches at her hips, giving him an expansive view of her bare legs. His hands fly to her thighs, earning a deep blush from her and her legs tensing under his palms. Her hands drift lower, and for a second he worries that she’ll push his away—only for her to take the hem of her sweater and lift.
He outright short-circuits when she takes off her sweater, leaving her in her black strapless bra and matching underwear, and he’s granted his first look at her body.
Her face is a deep crimson, but she doesn’t move to hide herself from him, instead sitting incredibly straight as her hands settle on Loid’s abdomen. Her fingertips trace the divots in his abdomen muscles and the v of his waist, and he does the same to her with his gaze, taking in her lean body and soft curves. There’s a few faded scars of her own in odd spots, but he doesn’t want to pry, knowing she’s had to make difficult decisions growing up as her brother’s guardian even though she was a child herself.
He meets her gaze, his hands still on her thighs.
“Can I touch you?”
Yor’s expression shifts—she’s openly flustered, but she only somewhat composes herself when she nods once.
He sits upright, bringing them face-to-face properly, further throwing off Yor, but he tries to put her at ease by kissing her before his hands begin to roam. He inches higher, over her hips—ghosting over her underwear—and following the dip of her waist, allowing himself to indulge in the warmth of her skin as she whimpers into his kiss. The touches are innocent, despite their circumstance, and he simply hopes for her to be comfortable with them like this.
Open, vulnerable, but together.
Experimentally, Yor rolls her hips to grind down on him just as his fingers reach the sides of her bra.
This time, it’s Loid who’s movements stutter.
“I—“
Before Yor can begin to apologize, Loid’s lips on hers are more fervent and hungry, and his hands slide back to sit on her waist and squeeze once, twice. She twitches, possibly sensitive or merely hyperaware of his eagerness to feel her. Her hips move again, more confidently this time, and he lets a moan slip out.
Determined to recover, he clumsily moves to kiss the corner of her mouth, and then over her jaw. He adjusts, one hand sliding to her back to bring her chest against his, and he meets her grinding onto him with a roll of his hips.
It should be embarrassing how ridiculously desperate Loid feels to have Yor, but he is only doused in desire when Yor responds so well to him like this. He’s shared his bed with other women before, but never has he yearned for this moment to finally arrive.
Even if he kisses Yor, never taking this further, continuing until he passes out tangled in her arms or pinned by her strong and enticing legs, he’d be content if it was all she wants.
He’s hard and aching but he’s determined to savor this with her—wants this to be about Yor above all else. He rocks up against her again, creating that delicious friction between them, and he kisses his way down her neck.
“Loid,” Yor whimpers out a moan, trying to be quiet so she doesn’t wake Anya and Bond down the hall. She says his name again, breathy and full of desire, but he stops, pulling back to look at her.
Her eyes, red and glassy with longing, are fixed on him as he stares.
She says something—asking if he’s alright, he assumes—but he doesn’t hear her.
All he can wishes to hear is Yor saying his name. His real name, or even just Loid, but he suddenly feels wrong asking her to be completely his when he hasn’t been completely hers. His heart is hers, but she doesn’t know that—doesn’t know who he is.
Her hands cradle his cheeks, concern filling her eyes, and he furrows his brow.
A fleeting, reckless thought runs through his head:
I’m Twilight, he wants to say.
He has to literally bite his cheek to keep from spitting out the name that he was given. He doesn’t want to hear that from her, anyway—he just wants to simply be Loid, a man.
He wants Yor, wants to hide here with her and keep her at his side, with Anya between them, the three of them a family—
“Yor,” he says, breaking from his reverie. “I—“ He rests his forehead against hers, wishing that for once, he could be brave.
She waits, and he realizes she’s holding her breath, tense with anticipation.
“I need you,” he says before he can choke the confession back down. He doesn’t know how to tell her the rest that he’s too terrified to even admit to himself, but he hopes that she can read between the lines.
Yor exhales loudly, and her lips barely brush Loid’s as she speaks. “I…” Her fingers card through his hair, stealing a needy kiss from him, as if she’s taking the words unspoken from him. “I need you, too.”
There’s a truth there, shared by the both of them that they’re not ready to admit yet. Both of them can glean it even if it goes unacknowledged for now.
It’s enough for them both—they are enough, as they are.
He falls backward onto the bed, taking her with him.
*
He wakes up some hours later, tangled in warm sheets with his wife, the rays of the morning sun not quite spilling into the room just yet. He glances at the bedside clock, making out the time. It’s early enough that it doesn’t make sense to get up for the day, but late enough that he doesn’t see a point in trying to sleep again.
Yor is there, her legs entangled with his and her head halfway on her pillow and his bicep. Loid doesn’t mind; she brings a new warmth to his morning that he otherwise wouldn’t have. Her steady breathing and soft figure against his too is further proof that this is real—and so is the way she nuzzles further into him before sighing contently, and how his heart is fluttering pleasantly.
Loid sighs, weighing out his options: sneak out of bed and refuse to acknowledge this first, or stay and bask in Yor’s presence a little while longer.
The latter wins out with all of a second’s consideration.
He turns slightly toward her, and she hums happily in her sleep. The approval, even if it’s addled with being dreams, makes Loid’s stomach flip several times over.
He adjusts his arm as best he can without making her stir, bringing his hand to rest on her side. She’s nude, just as he is, so he brushes her bare skin, drifting over the dip of her waist. Smooth, soft skin breaks into goosebumps under his callused fingertips, but Yor doesn’t wake; she shivers once, only to relax further against Loid.
The level of trust she has in him—even unconscious—is enough to send his mind into an anxious frenzy. He thinks of countless what ifs and whens that he’s not quite sure how to put into words, but luckily Yor doesn’t wake and ask him about any of his wandering thoughts. After he’s calmed his worries thoughts, he allows himself a rare indulgence into a daydream, wondering what it would be like if he had a normal life with Yor genuinely by his side and Anya his real daughter.
(A loud part of him screams that Anya is his real daughter and that Yor could be his genuine wife if he could muster up the strength to just tell her, but he snuffs out this asinine train of thought.)
He loses track of time when Yor stirs again, lifting her head to look blearily at him.
“What time is it?” She asks, voice hoarse with sleep.
“It’s early,” Loid assures her. “Go back to sleep.”
“Mm.” Yor hums, touching her nose to his, her lips drifting over the edge of his mouth as well, though not in a proper kiss. “Okay.” The contact is sending Loid’s thoughts into a muddled mess, regardless of how Yor instantly falls back to sleep.
He knows that he shouldn’t do it, but he tries to sleep again, anyway.
He only sleeps for another hour, but his mind is pleasantly quiet, free from the usual maelstrom of thoughts constantly spinning around him.
When he awakes again, Yor is still there, at his side.
*
“You have a date schedule.”
“Yes.”
“You have a scheduled date every other week.”
“Yes.”
“...”
“...”
“Do you have any idea how unromantic that is?!”
Loid’s eyebrow twitches at how unnecessarily loud Franky is being about the topic at hand, even though the motion is unseen over the phone. Taking a deep breath and refraining from sighing in exasperation, Loid says in a clipped tone, “It’s imperative that we maintain appearances of a normal, loving couple.”
“Right,” Franky snorts. “Fine, I give up. I’ll play babysitter. You owe me, though.”
“Fine.” Unwilling to entertain Franky’s antics any further, Loid hangs up the phone and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Date night is not a foreign idea—Loid and Yor set the routine well before they ever actually kissed—but now the evenings leave Loid filled with a fluttering feeling in his gut.
Anya is staring at him when he turns around from the phone, her hands on Bond’s fur as she’s mid-scrunching the dog’s face.
“Papa likes Mama,” she states, unblinking as they regard one another.
Loid debates arguing, but he knows that he’s softening far too much around both her and Yor. Not that he minds, on the surface.
“Go get ready to go out with Franky.” He pivots the conversation to try and distract her. “He’s going to take you out to the aquarium and to dinner.”
“Scruffy Head!” she exclaims, brightening tenfold as she bounds for her room. Bond follows, the ever loyal counterpart.
*
Time alone is a gift that the Forger couple is not often rewarded, but Loid is okay with that.
Usually.
Anya is a welcome levity that he hasn’t been able to experience in many years, and Loid is admittedly attached to her, now.
However, that doesn’t mean that he won’t eagerly welcome Saturdays that she goes shopping with Becky, or evenings like tonight when Franky watches her, now providing an opportunity for him to be alone with his wife.
As soon as he’s back inside from seeing Anya off with Franky, he’s met with Yor waiting near the doorway, her face flushed. Her hair is down, her lips red to match her sweater—the same that Loid thanks every deity that might exist that Yor owns it and wears it so often.
He’s practically shoved against the wall, thoroughly caught off guard by her uncommon display of strength. He welcomes the sting of his back meeting the wall, allowing the sensation to ground him when her tongue traces his lower lip with fervency consistent with the pent-up tension.
She tastes like tea and sugar and fuck does he need her close, always.
Her fingers trace the line of his jaw before threading in his hair, her nails raking against his scalp pleasantly. He responds in kind with his hands on her hips, squeezing once before inching higher, drifting over the dip of her waist and hesitating to go further. This is still all new to them, but when Yor’s teeth graze his lower lip, he takes it as encouragement to do as he pleases.
And he does, all with the intent to please her.
*
A round of kissing and heavy petting, dinner, and a glass of wine later, Loid finds himself on the sofa once again with Yor. He’s blissfully content (oh, how The Handler would weep if she saw how domesticated he looks) and drunk on Yor’s presence—specifically her, in his lap, the pair of them kissing like a young couple without a care in the world.
In instances like this, Loid can’t resist indulging in the fantasy that that’s all they are: just a happily married couple, taking advantage of a date night without their daughter.
Maybe one day.
Yor’s hand slips under his shirt, her fingernails tickling his sides as she splays her fingers. Loid focuses on the task at hand—namely, kissing Yor.
He must be losing his edge because he doesn’t hear the footsteps on the other side of the door until the lock flips in the handle, and he can hear Franky sputtering out Wait wait wait! just before the inevitable loud arrival of Anya.
In the same second, Yor flings herself off of Loid and clambers to sit beside him as casually as she can, tugging the hem of her sweater so that it’s not hiked up at her waist the way it was a mere moment ago. Loid does his best to straighten his shirt and look normal, but the effort is in vain when he meets the gazes of the pair in the doorway.
Anya’s green eyes dart between Loid and Yor, and Franky is biting his cheek to stifle his laughter as his grin only widens.
A solid five seconds pass of this stare down until Anya breaks into an exclamation, her lips beginning to curl into a smile.
“Mama and Papa finally kissed!”
Yor’s blush couldn’t possibly be darker, but Loid beats her to the question. “Now, why do you say that?”
Anya points directly at Loid’s face, her grin now mimicking Franky’s. “Mama’s lipstick is all over you.”
Loid’s jaw drops as Yor buries her face in her hands. He rubs at his mouth with the back of his hand, and his whole body is hot with humiliation as red is smeared on his skin.
Great.
Anya is far too pleased with herself as she saunters over to Bond, saying that she’s so happy they finally kissed, how she was right, and more that Loid tries to tune out. He turns to Yor, hoping she isn’t mortified, but her shoulders are shaking. Oh no, she’s crying—
She lifts her head, and she’s laughing, lips wide in a smile and tears springing to the corners of her eyes. Loid is so dumbfounded by the whole situation that he finds himself chuckling too—really laughing, his own grin reaching his eyes when Yor meets his gaze with glassy red eyes.
“I’m so happy,” she giggles, wiping her cheeks.
For once, Loid welcomes the warmth in his chest, allowing himself to be honest as he glances between his wife and daughter.
“I am, too.”