“I didn’t know that she-...”

“YOU DIDN’T KNOW??!!!”

Bad move. Twilight gulped. “I’ve done my research-...”

“You mean your assets have done the research?? What about your own observation for the WHOLE DAMN YEAR!!!” She slammed a thick folder onto her desk—his own reports on Operation Strix’s progress.

“I already stated that she is physically stro-...”

WHACK!!

“She is with THE GARDEN, for heaven’s sake!!” Handler growled.

Twilight’s jaw went slack. “The…. The paramilitary ops that’s considered an urban legend…..???”

A single person can eliminate a battalion of soldiers. Franky had said.

No wonder she’s so strong……

WHACK!!

“Not the time for ADMIRATION!!”

“I am not!! She’s such a nurturing mother who cares deeply for Anya and—”

WHACK!!

“Take your SHOJO FILTER off !!” She screeched.

“I don’t-... what is a ‘shojo filter’ anyway?” He shut his mouth under the force of her death glare.

She sighed then, the sound weary as she massaged her temples. “They have us on a leash, Twilight. The only reason they didn’t eliminate us is their stated ideals of serving the nation and a disinterest in political power struggles.” She paused, pinning him with a look. “That, and the word of their best agent—a.k.a. your wife—who believes in your good intentions.”

Twilight’s eyes widened at the unexpected, yet perhaps inevitable, information.

If it’s possible, I don’t want to clash with you…

A warmth, faint but undeniable, spread through his chest at the memory of their conversation that night.

But it didn’t make WISE’s position any easier. “What do they want us to do?” he asked slowly.

It turns out The Garden wants an alliance — at least for the drug-dealing case Twilight has been chasing for months. After long, draining negotiations (the reason Handler took three days before returning), it was settled: Twilight and the Thorn Princess will run a joint information-gathering mission at the upcoming City Hall Annual Gala.

A good start.

Twilight can spin follow-ups from this.

Fueled by that relief, and a heavy guilt over the new creases lining Handler’s face (an observation he would never voice to the Full Metal Lady herself), he diligently completes every side mission she throwed at him.

The difficult (infiltrating a nuclear fusion research facility with scant intel), the mundane (rescuing Mrs. Meier’s cat from the parliament building’s spire), even the ridiculous (scouring the Ostania sewers for an embassy wife’s lost wedding ring).

Every single mission completed without a single word of complaint.

And throughout the barrage, he even managed to intercept Yor, stopping her from storming the WISE hideout to demand a meeting with his Handler and protest the inhumanity of running her husband ragged during his "recovery."

(He is fine, really. But the warmth that blooms in his chest at her fierce, sweet concern is entirely new. No one has ever done that for him.)

Today marks the start of the intricate preparations. So, Twilight slips into his Loid persona and crafts an intricate meal, featuring most of Yor’s favorites.

Any moment now, his wife will walk through their apartment door, carrying the ticket to their first joint mission.

A trial mission. Handler called it.

Do. NOT. FAIL. this. She emphasized each syllable.

They have to succeed, no matter what.

Because this is proof of his worth to The Garden, and hopefully giving him and WISE some leverage.

But knowing Yor, she will likely come home anxious and worried. So Loid prepares a three-course meal designed to bring a smile to her face: Apple and Bacon salad, Rosemary-Roasted Chicken with apples and potatoes, and Caramel Apple Crisps.

He makes Anya’s favorites, too of course. Because for a week, he has noticed the child acting tense and strange. Something clearly weighs on her mind, but Anya deftly evades any attempt Loid or Yor makes to talk about it. Anya is jittery, especially when she looks at him or Yor, as if she senses a change between her parents.

Which is impossible, of course. They have been acting meticulously normal.

He also notices her periodically tormenting poor Bond, gripping and shaking his fur.

Today, after her usual ritual, Anya gasps, smiles, and looks at him with big, knowing eyes.

Now, she sits at the living room table, drawing and humming as if the week’s troubles have never existed.

Loid knows the power of good food, but he never expects it to work that well on Anya.

Nevertheless, he gives the hamburger steak a final flip, plates it, and arranges the meals on the table just as the apartment door opens.

.

.

Yor walks alongside the sea of people finishing their shifts, approaching the 128th Avenue Park.

Her fingers brush against the envelope in her pocket again and again.

An invitation to the Berlint City Anniversary Gala as a City Hall representative.

The lunchtime conversation replays in her mind.

“Why would they choose you of all people?” Millie whined.

Yor stared at the letter. “I—I don’t know…”

“They must be choosing people who are pleasing to the eye,” Camilla scoffed.

“Or perhaps they’re giving you a second chance after the cruise proposal failure,” Sharon said, puffing smoke.

“Ha! A second chance? More like they’re finding reasons to fire incompetent people.” Camilla huffed.

Yor’s face blanched. “What? No… no way….”

“Relax! When you know someone like the former First Lady, you can always show off,” Millie cheered, slapping Yor’s shoulder.

“I would never do that….” Yor stammered.

Sharon chuckled. “Honestly, Yor just need to show off her husband.”

“Ooohh! That’s true!” Millie chimed in.

“Oh right. Just let him do the talking, Yor. Don’t drag him down.” Camilla pointed a finger at Yor.

“I’ll try my best.” Yor whispered.

Of course Yor cannot tell her colleagues the real reason why she was chosen to attend the Gala.

It’s the first joint mission of her and her husband.

A test drive, Shopkeeper has said, we shall see whether your husband is as sharp as they claimed to be.

Yor has tried to explain that Loid—Twilight didn’t often use sharp weapons; that is her specialty. But her supervisor only smiles, leaving her adrift in confusion as always.

Director McMahon calls it a coincidence; both agencies want to take down the same drug lord and his government backers. An information-gathering mission. You better not humiliate The Garden, or there will be consequences!

CRUNCH!!

Yor gasps, unclenching her fist. She pulls the crumpled envelope from her pocket. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Envelope,” she whispers, a single tear escaping.

She lets out a long sigh.

Information gathering is not her forte—the intricate conversations, the careful acts to lure out secrets. Maybe she really does just need to let Loid handle it, like Camilla says. She can be backup.

No, Yor!!! She shakes her head fiercely.

You ARE Garden representative, you must do your best. Or face the consequences.

Consequences that could mean anything; from being pulled from the Forgers… or the worst one. They might ask her to ki—

NO!! Yor shakes her head hard.

I can do this!!

Pumping her fist, she is determined to make sure this mission is successful.

First task: tell the elaborate story Loid has crafted so Anya will agree to stay home. Just a simple lie. It won’t hurt her.

Opening the door, she chimes, “I’m home….”

“Welcome home, Yor.” Her husband’s smile makes her own bloom instantly.

A delicious aroma wafts to her. “Oh wow… something smells amazing!”

“It’s your favorite!” Loid beams, gesturing to the table.

Hanging up her coat, she draws closer and gasps. “Whoa! Are we celebrating something?”

Loid chuckles. “If you’d like to see it that way.” His eyes flick to the crumpled envelope in her hand.

Right! They are supposed to act surprised in front of Anya.

She stiffens, delivering her line like a bad actor. “O-oh… Loid, I got… this invitation. Can you help me?”

She cringes at her monotone delivery, especially when Anya blinks her big, curious eyes.

Oh no. She doesn’t believe me at all!

“I’d love to.” Her husband takes the envelope. “A gala dinner? I’ll clear my schedule.”

“Th-thank you, Loid.”

Gah, get a grip, Yor! You’re not really lying to her!

She watches as their daughter’s gaze bounces between them.

“It’s a formal event, so you’ll stay home, Anya. I’ll call Franky to watch you,” Loid says smoothly, leaving no room for argument.

A tear escapes Yor’s eye.

She’s failed her simple part in the plan.

Seriously, how will we complete the mission if I can’t even do this? Camilla is right…

She is pulled from all of her self depreciation spiralling thoughts when she feels a pat on her hand.

“It’s going to be okay, Mama.” Anya grins encouragingly.

Yor blinks. Huh? How can she know? Can she read my mind?

“Ah… uh…. Anya means… It’s okay. Papa didn’t put carrots into our meals. It’s safe.” Anya stammers.

“That’s only a problem for you, Anya. And who said I didn’t mix them into your hamburg steak?” Loid deadpans.

“Gaaaaannn.” Anya’s shocked face makes Yor giggle.

It warms her heart how their perceptive daughter always senses her nervousness and tries to help.

“Your father wouldn’t do that,” she reassures Anya.

“Hey!” Loid protests.

Yor finally laughs at his betrayed tone, the weight on her shoulders lightening instantly.

A loud grumble from her stomach silences the room. Her face flushes. “Uuhh…. Pardon me….”

Loid grins. Anya giggles.

“Shall we dig in?” her husband asks, pulling out her chair.

.

.

The day of the gala arrives. Despite her husband’s reassurances and their rehearsals (Yor is endlessly amazed at how Loid can transform into anyone, even their potential targets), nervousness coils in her stomach.

She has memorized the name, the face, and all kinds of information from possible target’s attendees just fine.

But she fails miserably when it’s time to memorize Loid’s meticulous flowchart of conversation.

By the end, Loid has suggested that she sticks with four basic opening conversations that cover the most basic conversation, consisting of praise of clothing or jewelry, the children's school achievement, the gala’s food and drink, and the current weather.

Nods in determination, Yor tightens the all around brace at her right calf, and smooths her dress.

After doing the last check on her appearance – an impeccable set of dress and jewelry her husband has prepared for her - she puts on the heels. Making sure the injury to her right calf won’t hinder her movement (Gympie’s zalf always works wonders!) she finally steps out of her room.

Her heart flutters at the sight waiting in the living room.

Neatly gelled blond hair, a perfectly fitted tuxedo, crisp pants, and shining shoes. Her husband looks devastatingly handsome.

He has, of course, tailored their attire so her dark emerald gown matches his tux, presenting them as a perfect couple.

But he looks like a movie star, while she just looks like… herself.

Look at that, Loid must be so disappointed he just staring and standing there and says nothing.

Yor gulps. “Uumm…”

A low whistle comes from Franky making Loid snap out of his trance and glares at his friend.

Franky lifts both hands. “Woah, so sorry… but woaahh…” he gestures at both of them.

“Whoaaaa Mama is so pretty!!” Anya exclaims, running to her.

Yor’s smile blooms as she crouches down. “Thank you, dear. You look super cute yourself.”

Of course, Loid has made extra dresses so Anya can have her own gala party with Franky.

Anya twirls. “How about now?”

Yor squeals. “Cute! Very cute!”

A low borf comes from her right.

She giggles seeing Bond, handsome in a little top hat and new tie, trying his best to pose.

“You look very handsome too, Bond.” She pats his head.

Anya and Bond immediately compete for her attention, making her laugh.

Loid clears his throat. “Okay, that’s enough. Don’t ruin Yor’s dress.” He offers her his hand, which she takes as she stands. “Can I trust you all to behave and keep the apartment clean?”

“Oui!”

“Of course!”

“Borf!”

A chorus answers before the trio scrambles to the table to devour the snacks Loid has made.

She giggles at Loid’s frustrated sigh. “They’ll be fine,” she whispers.

He shakes his head with a smile. “That remains to be seen.” He gestures to the door. “Shall we?”

Yor nods.

.

.

Feeling out of place is an understatement.

Despite working at City Hall for nearly a decade, Yor has never attended the annual gala. Helping in preparation sure, but not attending.

The gala is massive, as expected of the City Hall in their effort to accommodate the attendees' needs.

The usually dull City Hall has somehow transformed into a classic classy annual venue.

Lighting highlights intricate wall engravings (the Shopkeeper would love them), the food is extravagant, the music perfect, and everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.

It only makes her more nervous.

She tries Loid’s suggestions, and true to his word, he is always there to back her up. There are times they have to split up, and Yor likes to think she holds her own, but she isn’t sure, considering after the initial conversation she mostly just smiles and nods until the other person moves on.

How am I going to report to the Shopkeeper? She sighs in defeat.

Now, standing in a quiet corner as Loid suggested for a break, she takes deep breaths, trying to loosen her tight muscles.

Movement on her left makes her look up. She can’t help but smile as Loid approaches with flutes of yellowish bubbly liquid.

“Here you go.” He smoothly hands her a glass.

Her eyes widen. “Uuh… you think it’s okay to drink while working?”

Loid chuckles. “It’s just sparkling water. I made sure of it.”

“Oh!” Of course he did.

“The food looks amazing, are you sure you don’t want to try something?” He stands beside her, his concern evident.

Yor swirls her drink. “I don’t have an appetite. I could hardly taste the canapés.”

Loid chuckles. “I'm just saying those apple desserts look delicious.”

Yor frowns. “They won’t be as good as yours.”

“But it might help your nerves?” He offers.

She shakes her head.

“Besides, what are you so nervous about, Yor? You did amazing!”

She pouts. “You mean YOU did amazing. I did nothing.”

He shakes his head. “No, you did. Need proof? Please tell me who do you think is worth being your customer.”

Yor glance at him. When she sees that Loid nods encouragingly, she sighs and starts to mumble her answers.

“My guess comes down to at least five possibilities.”

When Loid leans his ears towards her, she points with her eyes to the far corner. “First, that group. Mr. Lange and Mr. Kaiser aren’t ashamed of ‘dirty’ jobs, but I think the calm Mr. Hubris is the brain.”

Loid nods his head in agreement. “Mhmm. I think so too.”

“You’re just being polite.”

“No. I’m serious. A rough life as a fisherman? Like, really? Even Anya could invent a better story,” he scoffs.

Yor chuckles then looks across the room. “Second, the Jungs.”

Again, Loid agrees. “Mhmm. A new trading business with joint projects from Ostania’s six major factories? Impossible without ‘invisible hands’.”

Yor blinks. “Oh. Well… Actually I just sense the way they move and stand. It’s the wariness of people from the shadows.”

Loid hums. “That works too. Different methods, same conclusion.”

Yor smiles. He will say anything to make her feel better, doesn’t he?

The supportive type, Camilla calls him. A reason for envy, Sharon adds.

Nevertheless, she feels lighter.

Concealing her pointing finger by sipping her drink, she continues. “Next, those three dancing with their spouses… Mr. Huber, Mr. Krauss, and Mr. Schmid.”

Loid’s face turns serious. “I agree. All three of them have been in contact with our suspect. However, it’s difficult to pinpoint which one is actually involved with Der Kurier. We need to investigate further. There’s still some time left before—”

“HMM???!!!”

Loid’s plan is cut off by Yor’s squeal as her palate is assaulted by the perfect mix of tangy sweetness and sparkling bubbles.

“Yor?!”

Gulping down the drink, she whispers in amazement. “This is delicious! What is this?”

She glances at Loid and sees him blinking before chuckling fondly.

“Ah!” Yor protests in surprise when he snatches the glass from her hand and, to her horror, tilts it to his own lips.

“Wait!!”

Despite her protest, Loid drowns down the rest of the drink.

From. The. SAME. Glass that she’s used.

Yor’s face burns. Doesn’t Berlint in Love say that is an indirect k—?!

KI—!!!

But Loid is unfazed, seriously tasting the drink, ignoring the escalating scale of Yor's badump-o-meter inside her chest.

He mulls. “Mmm… A mixture of apple and pineapple. Something citrussty, but not lemon. Interesting… They also mix some herbs… Ginger or…”

His meticulous analysis is put at the back of her mind when all of a sudden, Yor feels the familiar prickle at the back of her neck.

Bloodlust!!

Her eyes frantically searched the room for the sources, and in under a second she managed to pinpoint the location of not one, but six of them emanating the aura, circling and roaming around the dance area.

“Yor? You alright?”

She whispers. “Danger!”

Loid’s features sharpen. “Where?”

She grabs his lapel. “Let’s dance!”

“Huh?”

Ignoring his confusion, she drags him onto the floor, circling her arms around his neck and swaying erratically.

Fortunately, Loid is quick to accommodate her, his impeccable skill smoothing her moves.

He whispers, “Lead.”

Yor concentrates while stretching her arm to snatch nearby cufflinks.

“Swirl me.”

Loid follows her order, and smoothly swirls her. At the end of the swirl, she swiftly throws the cufflinks to the first bloodlust she detects coming from a ‘waiter’.

It successfully knocks him out as the man falls behind a tall decoration bush.

She steers them across the floor, snatching buttons along the way.

“Dip, 7 o’clock.”

This time, Loid aligns her body and dips her as far as he could. The angle is perfect for Yor to throw gold buttons to a pair of dancers who makes them look like they were drunk dancers and hauled away by security.

Next, they move to the more packed center.

Yor exaggerates tripping on her own shoes, while throwing precise jabs to knock out a ‘lady’ beside them while Loid profusely apologizes, explaining his wife is still learning.

Moving on, they go near the orchestra. With a swift move, Loid swaps the music sheets, starting a folk dance.

The folk dance enables them to switch partners, and come in contact with the last two assassins, swiftly knocking them out, hoisting the limp bodies, and ‘dancing’ them to an empty table. They thank them for the dance and bid them goodbye to “enjoy their dinner.”

Returning to the floor, Yor circles Loid’s neck again, lazily swaying to the waltz.

“That’s all of them, right?” He whispers.

Yor nods, sighing in relief.

He humms. “What a turn of events. But thanks to it, now we can safely conclude that Mr. Schmid it is.”

“I guess so.”

“We’ll approach him after this dance,” he concludes.

She nods.

Now that the adrenalin has left her veins, she starts to feel her leg throbs, making her lean more to the warmth of her husband's strong arms.

Wait…

Gulping, she dreadfully looks up.

And immediately her badump-o-meter jumps to the boiling level when she sees the warm face of her husband looking down fondly so close to her face.

Her face burns.

“What did I tell you? You were amazing.”

Stiffening, her arms clench around his neck. “Uuhh I… uh….”

He taps her arm. “Yor.... Can’t… breathe!!”

She squeaks, releasing him, but he immediately catches her hand, holding her firmly.

He whispers. “Hey… easy. I just want to dance with my wife.”

“Ah… uh… I can’t dance??”

He chuckles, intertwining their fingers, his thumb rubbing her hand. “Oh but I just saw that you do. Amazingly so. So, may I have the honor of this dance, Mrs. Forger?”

Yor doesn’t answer for a moment.

She definitely wants to dance with her husband, but at the same time she doesn’t want to hurt him.

“Or we can rest and enjoy –”

“NO!”

Both of them jolt at her sudden outburst.

Yor’s face is burning and her badump-o-meter starts steaming– a sign of impending explosion.

But she manages to stammer, ““I… I… it’s an honor… to dance with… you… Mr. Forger.”

His smile blooms. “Then allow me.”

She nods, forcing her body to relax and let him lead.

The first few steps are stiff with Yor tripping and stepping on his feet.

But instead of backing off, her husband chuckles, whispers encouraging words, and patiently leads her.

By the end of the first song, she is relaxing.

By the end of the third, they move in sync like professionals.

And most importantly, Yor is enjoying it. By the bright look on Loid’s face, he is too.

So much so, they don’t notice other couples stopping to give them the floor. Loud applause and whistles erupt as the audience demands more. The orchestra begins a fourth song.

A Tango.

Loid looks at her and smirks.

Yor grins back, accepting the challenge.

They start with a close embrace, and from there their grounded movement flows smoothly.

Yor follows Loid’s lead through all walks, pivots, and leg hooks with precise power and elegance that their surroundings start to clap in accordance to the music.

They are entering one powerful pivot when all of a sudden Yor’s foot twisted sharply, and the snap of her heel echoing through the ballroom.

She gasps, trying to catch her balance, but the pain in her right calf flares up, sending a sharp sting through her leg, forcing her to cling to her husband to stop her fall as her body trembles in pain.

.

.

“Yor?!” Loid reflectively catches his wife as she curls into him.

The music stops. Murmurs rise around them.

Ignoring everything, Loid gathers her in his arms and strides to the nearest chair, provided by a quick-thinking guest.

Setting her down as gently as possible, he immediately assesses her feet.

“Ow ow ow…” She grimaces as he carefully removes the ruined heel.

He gives her ankle a gentle massage, noting the sheen of sweat on her brow and her shallow breaths. Her contorting face is a clear sign that she is enduring great pain.

A simple heel snap shouldn’t cause this much pain, unless…

His brow twitches in annoyance when his palm makes contact with the rear end of an all around braces at her right calf.

He curses. Of course…. Sloppy observation, Twilight!!

“Here’s some water, Mrs. Forger.”

Loid glances up to see none other than Mr. Schmid himself is offering a glass of water.

A perfect opportunity. A chance to dig for information and find the connection between this man– whose someone thinks it’s worth hiring six assassins to eliminate him– and the drug ring operation.

Who knows what secrets they could unveil right then.

“Thank you, Mr. Schmid.” He can hear Yor’s timid voice while receiving the glass.

“Will you be alright?” Mr. Schmid sounds genuinely concerned.

Loid looks at Yor. She looks back. They both know the opportunity is golden.

“Ye–” she begins.

“No.” Loid’s voice is firm, cutting her off.

Her eyes widened a fraction. “But I’m fi–...”

“No, Yor.” He leaves no room for argument. “I think we have enough fun for today.”

“But–”

He swiftly gathers her heels, scoops her into his arms, and addresses the crowd. “Thank you for your concern. It’s been a wonderful event, but we must take our leave.”

He carries her out, ignoring the whispers and gushing as the crowd parts.

He stops at the reception for their belongings and continues into the night.

He feels her stiffen and gives her a reassuring squeeze until she finally sags, curling into him.

During the walk, Loid berates himself.

As a spy, of course wasting such an opportunity can be considered a failure. Then again, not noticing his partner’s condition beforehand IS a failure in all sense. But then again, he reasons that their grand exit should be enough to leave impressions towards those who attended the gala. Meaning he can always approach Mr. Schmid later.

As a husband though, this ignorance is inexcuseable.

“I’m sorry for ruining the mission.” He glances at the top of her head when he hears her mumbling to his chest. “I’ll take full responsibility for this when we report to our superiors.”

Loid sighs. “No, Yor. It was my incompetence. I am to blame for—”

Yor lifts her face, frowning. “You did amazing, Loid. It was I who-….” She moves her arm and gestures to all of her. With a very soft voice she adds, “This… Mess…I’m really sorry…”

“No, Yor… It’s… Urgh.” He growls in frustration—not at her, never at her, but at the situation and himself.

She flinches in his arms.

He has to fix this.

Spotting a bench in a deserted park, he changes course.

After setting her down gently, he sits beside her with a long sigh.

“Look, Yor. Honestly, we got what we were asked for.”

He glances at her, and when the frown is still apparent on her face, he adds, “They ask for a name, and we do get a name, don't we? Technically, we succeed.”

Instead of agreeing, she pouts. “But he was there… and I…”

He cuts her off. “I’m not familiar with your work, but in mine, plans change in seconds. Sometimes, backing off and waiting for the next opportunity is the best move.” He leans back and looks up at the clouds. “That’s why I’m used to long missions, always prepared for everything, always vigilant.”

He then glances back, smiling as the frown finally leaves her face.

“I know you told me not to be perfect all the time. But… maybe I can’t because… that’s my job.”

“That’s…. Isn’t that tiring?” She asks.

He shrugs. “I guess I’m used to it.”

He sees her mulls over his words. “Could it be because you always have to do everything yourselves?”

“Not always. Sometimes I have colleagues.” He shrugs again. “It’s just…. I honestly don’t know.”

She nods in contemplation. “But now that I’m here, you shouldn’t be that tired. I should be able to help to ease your burden.”

Always the helper.

Warmth spreads in his chest. “And you did.”

She doesn’t seem entirely convinced but finally says, “So you think if we report this, they’ll deem it a success? And… there won’t be consequences?”

“I suppose so.”

Well, Handler might smack his head for missing the chance for more intel, but she always emphasizes caring for one’s colleagues. And Yor IS a colleague now. (Perhaps more, but he’ll assess that later.)

Deciding the matter settled, he gestures to her leg. “How is it?”

He notices how she tests her ankle slowly, wincing. “Better. It will improve after some medicine.”

He shudders at the memory. “You mean, that zalf?”

She laughs, lightly slapping his arm. “How rude! It works, I’m telling you!”

He chuckles and can’t help but prod further. “What happened?”

She blushes. “Well… I uh … during my latest mission, I… uh… I kicked a wrecking ball.”

Loid face faults. “Huh?” He makes circle gestures with his fingers. “You mean that enormous steel ball in construction sites?”

When she nods, his jaws drop. “What?! Why???”

Yor shrugs, averting her eyes. “A target tried to hit me with it. When I took care of him, he slammed into the controls. It went wild. I had to redirect it, or it would have destroyed a nearby kindergarten.” She gives him a small smile. “I can’t let the hearts of many children shatter if their beloved school gets destroyed because of me.”

Loid blinks.

Of course she would.

Always thinking of others.

How she maintains such a pure heart amidst the violence defies his logic, but it is what makes her so endearing.

So strong.

The kind of strength that accomplishes the work of people like him.

He can’t stop the smile tugging at his lips, pride seeping into his voice. “That truly is amazing, Yor.”

She looks down, blushing. “Some would call it sloppy.”

His smile widens. So adorable.

As her husband—her partner—he has to care for her in return. “Do you mind if I take a look?” he asks, gesturing to her leg.

Yor glances at him and tilts her head in question.

“The perks of doing my jobs is that I gain skills here and there. I once had to be a target’s private masseur.” He scratches his head. “She said I was very good at it.”

Yor’s eyes widen, her blush deepening. “Oh… you even had to do… that?”

He blinks in confusion for several seconds, before something clicks in his brain and his face turns ablaze. “No!! Not like that… those… No!! It’s just a massage!! Pure massage with nothing else. A therapist if you may.”

This time it’s her face that turns ablaze. “Oh! Of course… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to….” She then gestures toward her leg and stammers. “If … if you don’t mind then…”

Coughing into his fist, Loid moves to kneel before her. After she lifts her dress, he gently peels back the brace, frowning at the swollen, inflamed calf.

He applies gentle pressure, starting from her achilles, moving up slowly, pausing at every flinch. Halfway up, she hisses and pulls her foot away.

His frowns deepen. “This isn’t a simple sprain, Yor. I will arrange for you to get a proper examination at Berlint Hospital.”

But Yor wrings her hand in dismissal. “That wouldn’t be necessary, Loid. I know my anatomy. This is a partial muscle tear.”

Loid’s head snaps up. “A partial tear?! Then you shouldn’t be walking, let alone wearing heels or dancing! You should have told me!”

She looks confused. “Why?”

“Because I’m your—” He catches himself before saying ‘husband’.

He clenches his jaw. What is that outburst, Twilight?!

Their relationship isn’t like that.

It should be professional.

But that familiar heaviness fills his chest—alien feelings he’s buried long ago. Things– that now he realizes– always come forth whenever his girls are involved.

Sloppy, Twilight!!

Unacceptable for someone of his caliber.

As he wrestles with it, she speaks. “I’ve been worse. Besides, it shouldn’t be a thing for people like us.”

Loid’s thoughts screech to a halt.

People like us…

He lowers his gaze.

She's right.

That is the answer.

People like them are used to being alone, enduring pain, hiding from the world. They are weapons, tools, expendable. Vulnerability means death. And when they die, no one mourns.

But… At the core, they are humans–who no matter what training, precautions, walls that are built – longing for connection.

It terrifies him how easily his walls crumble after a taste of it, how protective he becomes.

He never believed in fate.but if not for Operation Strix, he would never have met the perfect people who understand, accept, and support him.

These slim chances have fallen into his lap, pushing him into unknown terrain.

Something unknown always scares him.

But to be quite honest, having a correct partner – such as this amazing woman before him– to accompany him roaming this unknown terrain, makes his journey less formidable.

He frowns.

But as far as he’s aware, it was always Yor who takes initiative.

How many times has she tried to reach out to him? Knocking on his door?

Even early this week she has fretted over him, ready to face Handler for his sake.

What has he done?

Run, avoided, deflected.

And yet she stays. Patiently waiting for him.

He scoffs.

How pathetic. Be a man, Twilight!

Taking a deep breath, he decides to take the leap.

He dreadfully takes her hand, looking directly into her eyes. “Yor… If… if I promise to tell you about my injuries, will you promise me you’ll do the same?”

Her lips part in disbelief.

He squeezes her hand, pouring his sincerity into the touch.

Her features soften into a watery smile. “Okay.”

His smile blooms, the tightness in his chest loosening.

He stands, not letting go of her hand. “Now, may I carry you home?”

“What? Why?”

He smiles. “I want to.”

“But you’ve carried me along the way. Aren’t you tired?”

He shakes his head. “Holding you lets me know that I won’t lose you. That you truly are here, with me.”

Yor tilts her head. “Loid, I’ve told you that I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiles sheepishly. “I know. And I trust you. It’s just… For my comfort. Please?”

At that she sighs fondly. “Alright. I’m not light though, so backcarry me? So that you wouldn’t strain your arms.”

His heart swells.

Always others first. She makes it so easy.

He grins, turning. “Alright.”

It is so easy to hoist her, and he is truly amazed by how the warmth emanating from her body eases lots of his tense muscles.

He truly is lucky to have her on the journey.

Several paces towards home, he asks, “By the way, as for the success of our first job, do you want to buy something for our little celebration?”

He senses her tilting her head, pondering. “Hmm… What if we buy that peanut cake at the bakery? Anya would love it.”

He raises his brow. “That’s a wonderful idea. But, what do you want?”

She giggles, tightening her arms around his shoulders. “I think I already have everything that I want.”

His heart skips a beat as his face heats a bit.

Then he has an idea. “You know, I know a blacksmith who makes custom concealed weapons. For situations like tonight, would you like some concealed throwing weapons?”

She gasps. “For real? I can have some?”

He grins. “Of course! We can brainstorm ideas, then I’ll order it for you.”

She squeals. “You’re the best husband ever, Loid!”

He chuckles, his heart swelling. “Flaterer…”

Nevertheless his feet feel lighter all the way home.

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<<Previous chapter

AN:

Please I’m dying to see TwiYor do a ballroom dance 😫

In several of interviews, Endo mentioned how Loid has built so many doors, and opening them would be a tenacious job. (Sigh… good luck Yor and Anya 😣)

Anyway, during this fic, I was trying to convey how Yor finally able to push Loid to open (at least) one of his doors for her. 

Our favorite spy-boy has a looooonnggg way to go, but he will get there eventually. 

Anyway, one of the reasons for my writing block is finding a way so that this fic will not become redundant with one of my earliest fic.

Thankfully, the super talented @buf309 created these amazing arts: one, two; that I took inspiration from.

This song is really oozing with heartache loiyor