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Loid is waiting for her by the time she comes home. Yor steps into their cozy apartment and feels a weight like a big, thick coat slide right off her shoulders. Loid looks up from the sofa, bookmarking the page of the book he’s reading, and smiles.
“Welcome home.”
Yor tugs her shoes off, setting them neatly by the door. Anya’s shoes are missing—it’s Wednesday, which means she must be in tutoring with the Authens. There’s a lovely smell filling the entire place, the pot bubbling merrily on the stove.
“You must be tired after working late,” Loid continues. He gestures at the empty spot next to him. “Why don’t you sit down? I can make you a cup of tea.”
Yor feels like she’s in a trance as she plods across the living room. It’s nice. Everything feels soft and sweet, like a dream. She used to come home to an empty, barren apartment, her only company the pictures of Yuri and of course, the landline, her connection to the Garden. And here Loid is, waiting for her.
She sinks into the sofa as Loid gets up. Yor watches him from her seat, puttering in the kitchen to put the kettle on, until he’s made two cups of tea. One unsweetened, one with honey.
“Thank you,” Yor says as he hands the one with honey to her. Their hands brush, and the teacup rattles, but Yor steadies it in time. They sit for a while in companionable silence.
Maybe it’s that slight touch. It’s definitely the girls from work, talking this and that. Maybe it’s her own heart, or the relief of coming home, or the ever-present fear that she’s done something wrong.
“Loid,” she says, and steels herself. “Could we, um, try holding hands?”
Loid pauses, blinking at her. He doesn’t look opposed—which is a good sign—but surprised as he looks from her then to his hands. He sets his tea down.
“You want to… hold my hand?” he repeats slowly.
Saying it plainly like that makes it feel like a ridiculous request. Yor twists her hands together, but now that she’s said it, she can’t take it back.
Whatever Loid sees in her face, it must not be good, because he adds, “Not that I don’t want to, Yor. I’m just not sure where this is coming from.”
“It’s just…” Yor worries at her lip. “People talk. And I am your wife. I should be able to hold your hand, right?”
“You know we don't need a relationship like everyone else's,” Loid says quietly. “If someone is being disrespectful…”
She shakes her head. “It’s not that.”
Sure, they touch. Loid seems to do it sometimes even without meaning to, reaching out to steady her, or putting a hand on her shoulder. They’ve held hands in a way, the first night they’d met, when he’d clasped her hands and said he’d take her as his wife.
But not normally. Loid is every bit the gentleman, careful and considerate. Sometimes things are natural, and sometimes things are too formal—a role that Loid is performing.
“I want you to feel more comfortable with me,” she says finally, trying to explain. “I thought—maybe—we could just start with holding hands…?”
She’s not good at any of this stuff. She’d gone from alone to married with a family in a whirlwind of hours. Yor has no delusions about the kind of wife she is: she isn’t good at cooking, or particularly good at chores, and she’s too inexperienced and clumsy to act properly. Every day Yor finds a new, unexpected challenge in married life. One day it’s ironing shirts, the next it’s that they don’t hold hands, like a normal husband and wife. It’s not that she’s never thought of holding hands, but it seems oddly daunting.
“Er, that sounds nice,” Loid says. “I apologize if you wanted to and I didn’t know this entire time.”
“No! No, it’s not like that.”
It's easy—well, easier—with everyone else, Yor thinks. Yuri is her brother, the one she'd spent long winters curled under thin blankets with, clinging to survive. Anya is her daughter, so bright, always reaching for Yor with the lack of hesitation only a child can have.
Yor's hands have always been rough. From hatchet to hunting knife to stiletto—her hands have molded to the shape of weapons, so much so she can't even hold a pen without a grip that could turn deadly at any moment.
But there's never been a particular reason for them to hold hands. There's always a grocery bag to get, or Bond's leash, or, of course, Anya. And in the private comfort of their own home, there is little need for that particular pretense.
“Um,” Yor says.
She can't even bear to look at Loid, who is so earnest and so kind. He looks at her sometimes like she is the only person in the world that matters; leans forward every time she says something just to listen; carries her things knowing perfectly well she doesn't need the help.
“It's only me,” he says.
It's only you, Yor despairs.
“My-my hands are sweating,” Yor blurts, because they are , and the heat of a blush rises all the way to her ears.
She frantically wipes them against her leggings, suddenly conscious. Anya never seems to mind her hands the way they are, calluses and all. But they're not—well, Yor tries to take care of them. Loid got her a little jar of hand cream scented like lavender. One of the nice jars that must have been expensive, so Yor tries not to use it except on special nights, and not after ones when they're stained with blood. She cuts her nails short and blunt. Would he like it if they're painted?
It turns out that she can wipe her hands all she likes, but it won't keep her from sweating. He's so close , but not that close. There's enough space between them that Anya could fit right in if she were here.
He has to think she's strange, but then Loid chuckles and says, “Well, mine are a bit too.”
It's just Loid, she thinks. Her husband.
Her heart starts thundering in her chest and doesn't stop. She feels it all the way down to her fingertips. One part of her screams, run , and the other part screams, reach for him .
Neither of them move. She steals a glance at Loid. He’s staring at his hand like it’s the Sunday morning crossword, brows furrowed intently as he tries to solve whatever problem is written there. She has to continue what she started.
It’s just holding his hand, Yor, she tells herself. She’s killed thirty people at once, been hit by cars, and endured the wilderness. She can hold her husband’s hand. She has to be brave. She can hold his hand. Like a normal wife.
“I’m… I’ll put my hand here,” Yor says, and sets her hand in the middle between them. Her fingers push into soft fabric. “When you’d like to, you—you can take my hand. I’ll be right here.”
She turns away and focuses all her attention on the window. Distant voices and noise drift up from the street, a melody of running cars and conversations. After a small eternity, there’s a soft shuffle of fabric. Yor tenses and the sound stops. At the front of the apartment complex, a couple Yor recognizes from two floors down hug, Mr. Hoffmann tucking his wife Klara under his arm as they begin a walk down the street. Will they ever be like that?
Does Yor want to be like that…? With Loid?
Loid’s hand slips across the sofa. Yor presses her hand flat, willing herself not to move even a single inch, letting him close the distance until the tips of his fingers barely brush hers—
The door slams open.
Yor whips her hand to her chest, pulling her arms close to her, and sees Loid flex his hand before curling it into a tight fist.
“Papa,” Anya announces, oblivious, “you won’t believe what Mr. Authen said about—”
She skids to a stop in the middle of the living room, staring at the both of them, and her mouth makes a little ‘o’.
“Papa and Mama were flirting !”
“ Anya— ”
“Anya—!”
“We weren’t—”
“We were just sitting,” Yor says, flustered. “What was it that Mr. Authen said, peanut?”
But Anya has latched onto her thought the way Bond does his favorite tug toy. She narrows her eyes, crossing her arms in her best suspicious face.
“You were together while I was learning with Mr. Authen! Uh oh, Becky’s going to be jealous.”
…Becky? Maybe Anya means Becky would want to come over and study—she seems to enjoy visiting.
“Mama and Papa, sitting in a tree—” Anya chants. “K-I-S-S-S-I-N—”
“That’s enough,” Loid says, standing in one fluid motion and striding over to their daughter. She can’t see his face, but his ears have turned pink. “It seems to me you don’t know how to spell; should we have another lesson?”
Anya squeaks.
Like that, whatever spell Yor and Loid had woven together in the space between them breaks. Yor watches, heart swelling as Loid cajoles Anya into bringing her homework to the coffee table so he can look them over, papers spilling out next to their forgotten cups of tea. Yor picks hers up as Loid begins to nag, and still feels a little bit of warmth left.
She doesn’t bring it up again, but the idea lingers.
“You’d think we were schoolchildren on our first date,” Camilla sniffs over their paperwork. Yor flicks through hers, sorting them into neat piles. “I grabbed his hand so we wouldn’t lose each other, with how crowded it was at the mall. He turned red as a beet, I tell you.”
Millie giggles. “That’s cute, though. It’s always nice to have an excuse to hold hands, isn’t it?”
Yor can’t help it. “...An excuse?”
“Here she goes again,” Camilla snipes, smiling slyly across their desks. “You always make it seem like you’ve barely been on your first date with your husband. Ugh.”
“Oh, you know,” Millie says. She sighs, eyes distant. “Taking any chance you can to hold hands. Making stuff up so you can be together.”
Sort, sort. She reaches the bottom, and the last paper has a familiar signature and organization on it. Yor scans it, committing it to memory, already preparing to make the call to the hospital to let Loid know she’ll be coming home late again. She’ll have to ask Matthew if there’s any way she can go home early next week, to make it up to Loid and Anya. With that, Yor puts the paper into the third pile and scoops up the whole stack to bring to the paper shredder.
She passes by Matthew’s desk as she goes, and he barely glances up from his own work to nod in acknowledgement. The mission dossier disappears. Yor’s hands itch; she reaches for her stilettos, and forces herself to smooth her dress down at her side instead.
“Haven’t you ever, Yor?” Millie continues when Yor is back.
“Ever what?”
“You and Loid, of course.”
Camilla rolls her eyes. “Do your work if you want to get out on time today instead of gossiping about Yor’s love life.”
“It wasn’t even my fault,” Millie defends. She slaps her hands down. “Let me guess, Yor. You’ve definitely misstepped and tripped to have him catch you. Seems something Prince Charming would do.”
“N-no!”
“Puh-lease,” Camilla says, like she can’t stop herself from butting back in.
“Oh, you’re right! Yor’s so strong, she’d definitely be the one catching him!”
The women burst into giggles.
“Wha- I’ve never—I,” Yor sputters.
“Ladies,” Sharon says, and they all make the same face and push their chairs apart so they can get back to work. Millie is still giggling to herself.
Yor looks across the way, questions on the tip of her tongue. Wait , she wants to ask. You grabbed his hand? Just like that?
She imagines doing it, just taking his hand in a crowd, locking their fingers together to connect them so they might become extensions of each other. His sturdy hands.
Yor turns so red just thinking about it that Sharon asks if she’s hot, and would she like to open the windows? Camilla gives her a knowing look, and Yor mumbles no and puts her head down to work. Perish the thought.
That night, Yor does her job. She and Matthew are the last to leave city hall, keys jangling as the security guard locks the door behind them. It is a quick job; Yor scrubs the blood off her face and hands where it splattered. There’s still a little left under her nails, so she takes her hairpin and picks the dry crust underneath clean. Even after washing, they feel dirty.
As Matthew drives her home, she thinks about asking him. How he bears the weight of it all with his wife.
She thinks about Loid, working hard as a psychiatrist in the hospital. He must see patients every day, and more even outside of his office. It isn’t that Yor doesn’t take pride in her work. She knows what she’s doing is right—she’s making her nation better by pruning. But still, killing people, taking their lives and washing her hands to go home, lying to Loid and Anya…
The apartment is quiet when she comes home, too late for anyone to be awake. Yor smiles when she hears Anya snore. Under the crack of Loid’s door, a little bit of light spills out, like he’s only turned on the lamp.
She can still feel the ghost imprint of her stiletto in her hand. Yor closes her hand into a fist and rests it against Loid’s door. She stands there, hardly breathing, knuckles against wood. Only an hour ago blood was drying in the palm of her hand.
Yor stands outside the door for a long time. The light doesn’t turn off. Like he’s waiting, still waiting for her.
Wood creaks. There’s the soft tap of feet against the ground, and Yor flees before Loid can open the door.
Anya clings, in the morning. She does this sometimes. Sweet as can be, her eyes big and solemn like she sees more than she should.
“Is this a koala holding onto me?” Yor asks, sweeping Anya up. “Where’d she come from?”
A giggle. Anya’s arms clutch around her neck. Yor supports her with an arm, indulging her as she gets ready with only her free hand. She brushes her teeth then helps Anya with hers. Bond squeezes into the bathroom behind them, tail thumping.
“Did you sleep okay?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Not a nightmare, then. Yor pats Anya’s head, feeling terribly fond of her daughter. She certainly doesn’t mind holding Anya. It feels so nice, having her tucked in the crook of her arm, sharing her warmth.
“Mama,” Anya says in her ear, tugging at her sweater.
“Yes, my little koala.”
“I like you,” Anya says, completely serious. “Anya’s really happy you’re my mama.”
“Anya…”
“You can’t go anywhere!”
“Not even work?”
“You have to stay with me forever and ever.”
Forever and ever is a really long time, not that Yor is complaining. It’s not like she particularly wants to go to work every morning, though she certainly doesn’t like the idea of staying at home and doing chores all day either. Well, Anya thinks any amount of time longer than ten minutes is forever, so the twenty minutes before they both have to leave should be just enough.
Anya makes grabby hands. Yor looks around, not sure what Anya wants.
“Gimme your hand, Mama.”
“Give me,” Yor corrects idly, and then hesitates. A night’s rest and the cheer of the morning have washed away some of the doubt, but not all of it.
“Please?” Anya adds, looking at her with those big, clear eyes, and Yor surrenders her free hand so Anya can grab it. She needs both hands to fully hold Yor’s, her soft, chubby fingers making a warm cocoon.
If Yor stays longer than she should and leaves late, that’s a secret between her and Anya. Besides, she’s a fast runner.
Do normal people really do that? Yor wonders as they walk through the market. Hold hands not to get lost?
One of them usually holds Anya’s hand—if they’re not just holding her completely—but Yor does genuinely worry about losing Anya. She’s prone to running off on a whim, and she’s so small it’d be easy for her to get all swept up in a crowd. And Anya’s never great with too many people. Holding her hand to keep her close and protect her is only natural.
She’s never really worried about losing Loid.
He’s always at the edge of her awareness. Like the way she can feel danger, his presence prickles her senses, tugging her gaze and her focus to him. He isn’t dangerous, though she’s aware with his line of work he can hold his own, but Yor knows he’d never hurt her or Anya. Rather, it’s the opposite. He feels safe.
Even now, as Loid and Anya walk ahead, looking at the florist’s stand, Yor knows where he is. There are dozens of people here, similarly-dressed in modern fashion. Everyone has different-sounding footsteps. A different way they hold their shoulders. She knows the yellow-gold of his hair when the sun hits it, like it does when he makes breakfast in the morning. The sound of his voice, smooth and collected, his slight accent.
She finishes looking at the scarves, sliding the handle of the paper bag over her arm. The green one, soft and lush, reminded her of Melinda.
Yor picks her way through the people. She thinks she could with her eyes closed.
Loid and Anya talk to the florist. Anya bounces on her toes, one hand gripping Loid’s tightly.
Like he, too, senses her, Loid turns even before she gets close. His eyes crinkle when they meet hers, and he tilts his head in invitation.
“This must be Mama,” the florist says as Yor joins them. She’s finishing wrapping a bunch of flowers. “Just as lovely as you say.”
Anya beams. “I told you so. Mama, look.”
Yor reaches down to pat Anya's head. “Yeah?”
Anya stomps her foot right on Loid's, and he makes a surprised little yelp. It can't have hurt that bad, but Anya makes a complicated series of facial expressions. Loid huffs, but from behind his back he pulls out a wrapped bouquet and offers it to her.
“Oh…” Yor gasps. “For me?”
Loid flashes her a smile. Yor's knees wobble at the sight. She's scared to reach out and take it.
Anya giggles and winks, which really means she tries to wink and ends up shutting both her eyes in exaggeration. “Papa got them for you.”
“They're lovely,” Yor says. “Is this really okay?”
They're a dozen fresh, pink roses the color of blush. Some of the petals are a pale baby pink that darken at the ends. Two layers of brown paper hold them together, tied with a ribbon. These are not the prickly, unassuming thorned flowers of the Garden, where plucking a flower might make you bleed. The insidious beauty of a trap.
Rather, they're pretty for the sake of being so. Each rose is carefully selected, the thorns trimmed so they don't hurt to hold.
“Of course,” Loid says, still holding them out. “I just thought you would like them.”
When was the last time anyone got her something just because she might like them? Loid is always doing things like this, bringing her a jar of hand cream because her hands are dry, picking up an extra cup of coffee, making apple syrup because she mentioned missing it.
Tears prick at the corners of her eyes. Yor reaches out and accepts them. Their hands tap together as she takes them, and heat rushes through her from head to toe. She cradles them to her, ducking her head to hide her blush and to breathe in their sweet scent.
“I do,” Yor says. “Thank you, Loid.”
She needs to try harder, she thinks. These kinds of things don’t come easy to her.
Anya scrunches her eyes in a wink. “Give him a ‘thank you’ kiss!”
“Gah—”
Is there a kiss for everything ? Yor can’t seem to keep up. There’s ‘welcome home’ kisses, and ‘hello’ kisses, and ‘ thank you’ kisses? Is there a kiss for every greeting there is?
She hides her face behind the flowers. Loid laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck.
“You really don’t have to.”
There’s too many people around, even though no one is paying them particular attention. It’s far too embarrassing. With how tall Loid is, even with her heels, Yor would have to lift onto her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
The smell of roses bloom between them. Yor swallows, then makes a split-second decision before her screaming mind can stop her. She lifts her hand and blows Loid a kiss.
Loid looks stunned, eyes wide. His cheeks turn the same shade as the roses, and it takes him a second to remember to catch it, fingers closing around the air.
It’s just air.
Yor hurries to the next stand, clutching her bouquet close to her chest. Even as she passes, Loid remains at the corner of her vision, a shining point of awareness.
“One, two, three—one, two, three—one, two—”
“Slow down,” Anya whines, collapsing on the sofa. “Too fast.”
Yor pauses the count and reaches over to stop the music. The last notes fade to quiet. She lets Anya speak her complaints into a pillow for another minute, crouching to scratch Bond behind the ears instead.
“Want to try, Bond? Up!”
Borf. Yor holds her arms out, and Bond stands on his hind legs, letting his paws rest on her. Yor laughs, shuffling her feet a little in a mimicry of the simple waltz she and Anya practiced not a minute ago.
“—why we have to learn dancing—”
Bond drops back on all-fours, panting. Yor claps.
“You’re an excellent dancer, Bond!”
Anya peels herself off the sofa.
“Ready to try again?”
She puts the music on. Yor lowers her hands, palms out, and Anya reaches up to grab them. She counts them through the box-step; then they try having Anya step on Yor’s feet.
Loid watches from the kitchen, where he’s washing the dishes.
“Where did you learn to dance?” Anya asks, peering up at her. Forward, side close. Back, side, close.
“It was popular in town.” Yor thinks back. “In the evenings some of the local musicians would bring out their instruments and everyone would dance right there in the square, when it was safe to be out. All kinds, really. During the war swing was popular—well it made a lot of people mad, too. Of course we waltzed. Yuri never liked other people much, but he let me dance with him. I’m no professional, of course, but… it was wonderful.”
Warm lights from streetlamps and inside homes, the strain of music, amateur, joyful dancing. Oh, she’s almost back there in time, stepping forward and back, hands clasped with other kids, with the old grandpa who used to bring them apples. She’d raised Yuri on the scraps from that town, when they went, and was half-raised by them herself.
The next song—Roses from the South—begins, and Yor grips Anya’s hands. “Oh, I know this song!”
To her surprise, Anya plants her feet and doesn’t budge. Yor opens her mouth, preparing to speak, when Anya looks toward the kitchen. Loid looks over and catches Loid’s eye. The notes bounce between them, music swelling. One-two-three, one-two-three.
Belatedly, Yor remembers this is a wedding song.
“You should show Papa how to dance. I’m tired.”
“I’m not that good…”
“I don’t think—” Loid starts. There’s a clatter. Loid hisses and shakes out his hand.
“Loid? Are you alright?” Yor asks, dance forgotten.
He smiles wryly. “My hand slipped and I cut myself a bit.” He turns his hand, looking at it, then runs the water to wash it.
“Oh, no,” Yor says. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”
“...Thank you.”
“Please be careful,” Yor chides, as she sets the kit on the counter. “Your hands are precious. May I see?”
“Precious?” Loid blinks at her. “You… don’t have to do that.”
“It’s easier than trying to do it with one hand. Let me, please?”
Loid leans back against the counter, and holds his injured hand out. He’s already cleaned it and used a towel to stem the bleeding, so it doesn’t look too bad at all. Yor presses his palm between her thumb and fingers, using them to keep his in place so she can inspect it. Not very deep. Just a small cut on his index finger.
“Just needs a bandage,” Yor says. She keeps her hand where it is and uses the other to get one. “Does it hurt?”
“Not much. I’m alright.”
It’s such a small thing. If it were her, Yor doesn’t think she’d notice at all, used as she is to injuries. Yor takes longer than she needs with it. She has to be careful, of course. Loid’s hands are precious to her. Long, graceful fingers accustomed to moving deftly. There’s a slight callus on his middle finger, where he must hold his pen to take notes on patients. There’s a few other, faded scars that make Yor sad when she sees them; even Loid’s hands are untouched by war, like most of the adults in their generation.
Hands that indulgently do Anya’s hair when she begs. Hands that slip Bond a treat when he thinks no one is looking. Hands that help a stranger up from a fall, hands that push Anya on a swing, that exchange handshakes with others’ firmly, that write reminders on the fridge, that clean, that mend; hands that care.
Yor glances up. Loid has covered his face with his other hand, looking away, his eyes fixed at a point down the hall. She can’t see his expression this way, just the corner of his mouth and a peek at one eye.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” She lets go. “It’s all done. I-I can finish the rest of the dishes.”
Loid clears his throat. He stays there for another moment, and then turns while Yor hurries to the sink. The music bursts in crescendo—Yor steps backward, in time. Loid stands at the corner of the kitchen for another few beats, rocking back and forth on his heels, and then he steps forward and away.
“Why don’t we go on a date tonight?”
“Huh? Tonight?”
Loid nods, looking serious. “You’ve been so busy with work this past while. I’ve been worried. We could spend some time together.”
“I’m sorry…”
“You don’t have to be sorry. Your career is important too. I just hope they’re not pushing you too hard.”
Yor sucks in a little breath and turns her full attention to him. “Let’s enjoy a date together, then.”
“Really?”
Loid’s whole face lights up like he’s given her a gift, even though all she’s done is agreed to go out to dinner.
Often, in public, Yor finds his expression is usually composed. Not expressionless but rather neutral. Private. Yor’s more than aware that Loid is—well—more than handsome. Part of that is that slight aloofness, a distant sort of charm.
Smiling like that, brows soft and eyes bright, is a sight few people but Yor get to see. Her heart does a somersault and gets stuck somewhere between her ribs.
They’ve gone on a few dates since their first one, which is the only reason Yor can accept without completely tripping over her words, but it’s a near one. She looks at the time.
“What about Anya?”
“Franky’s coming over in an hour,” Loid tells her. “We’ll have the entire evening to ourselves, if that’s alright.”
“You asked him already?”
Loid looks away. “Um… I was hoping you’d agree.”
“I’ll—I’ll go get dressed, then!”
Dates, Yor has discovered, are far more enjoyable when she hasn’t been shot and can think properly. She hums as she picks through her closet, fuller than it was a year ago. She likes dressing up for occasions, and there’s so many options here in Berlint between all the boutiques that Yor is spoiled for choice.
“What do you think, Miss Anya?”
Yor gives Anya and Bond a twirl, and Anya claps in delight.
“I like this one,” she declares. “Right, Bond?”
Bond looks at Yor, offering a quiet borf like he agrees. He’s such a smart dog, though Yor has to wonder what her dress looks like to him.
“More than the pretty top with flowers and the skirt? You liked that one a lot.”
“Hmmm.” Anya glances at Bond and gasps. Her eyes sparkle. “Yes, Mama, you have to wear this one. Papa’s gonna like it!”
“You think so?”
“Mm-hm!”
Anya giggles.
“Well, if my daughter thinks it’s the best, then it has to be true.” She glances again in the mirror at the a-line dress, then rummages through her jewelry box for a string of pearls and her hairpiece.
“I want to grow up pretty like you,” Anya says; or, that’s what Yor makes of it, because Anya’s flopped into Bond’s side and has her face buried in his fur when she’s talking.
“You’re already very cute.”
“Mm-mm.” Anya suddenly stands up, slapping her hand on her chest. “ You have to make it so he can’t take his eyes off you! Stop his heart in its tracks completely! So he’ll never be able to think of a single thing but you! ”
Stop his heart ? Why would she do that? Of course Yor can, but she doesn’t want to—they’re married, after all.
“Wh-where did you get an idea like that?”
“That’s what the poofy guy in Becky’s favorite romance movie says!”
“Anya.” Yor fights to keep the smile off her face. “I’m not sure if you kids should be watching those kinds of movies. Maybe something more… fun?”
Anya flops back onto Bond. “Becky doesn’t pre-she-ate Bondman!”
“Appreciate. That’s a big word.” Yor can’t stop her smile this time. “Well, your papa and I are going on our date tonight, but how about we choose a movie to all go see together tomorrow?”
Anya bounces on her feet, and then runs to the bedroom door. “I’m telling Papa! And I’m telling Papa you’re going to knock his socks clean off—”
Down the hall, Anya is already bursting with excitement. Yor smooths down a stray piece of hair, checks that she has everything she needs in her red clutch one more time, and then walks out.
Loid is dressed up, too.
She slows automatically. Oh, he’s handsome. Put together in a deep blue wool suit, the line of his sleeves are cut perfectly at his broad shoulders. The line of his lapels pull together in a deep ‘V,’ closed with a button, offering a peek of his light shirt and the dotted tie he’s chosen for today. The color is close enough to her dress that they match. And, in his front pocket, is a boutonnière—a single, pale pink rosebud Yor recognizes.
She must be staring for too long, but Loid takes her in, too.
“You look lovely, Yor.”
It is not fair that Loid can put together words.
“You, too—ah—I mean, handsome.”
Completely serious, Loid bows a little, gaze fixed on her. “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop looking at you.”
Unlike the way Anya said it, a kid playing at grown-up, Loid says it not like a line from a romance film but something he really means.
Yor thinks she could set the apartment on fire. “L-Loid.”
There’s a knock on the door. Loid slips his gloves on and flashes her a smile. “I’ll get the door.”
Anya folds her arms over her chest, proud. “I told you so.”
“Well…”
“Scruffy!” Anya barrels past them to say hi to Franky. “We have to color together.”
“Hi to you, too, pipsqueak.”
“I’m not a pipsqueak!”
Franky shields his eyes with a hand and peers around the apartment. “What’s that? Loid, have you got a mouse problem? I could build you a trap.” He takes an exaggerated step in. “Oh, look, it’s my favorite dog.”
“Hello, Franky,” Yor says. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“Sure, whatever.” He grins over at her. Loid pats Franky on the shoulder, slipping something into Franky’s hand. “You look great.”
Yor blushes again. “Thank you.”
Loid clears his throat, and Franky rolls his eyes, holding his hands up. “I was only complimenting Mrs. Forger ,” he says. “And we’ll be here all evening ‘til you get home.”
“Well, then.” Loid dips his head. “Shall we?”
Dinner is a lovely affair. It’s a Frencht restaurant, decorated with high ceilings and candles that make everything intimate. She floats through the meal, buoyed by a glass of wine, and at one point they accidentally laugh loud enough for the other guests to cast them looks.
“Yor,” Loid says, after they step out and before she can hail a car to take them home. “Why don’t we take a stroll first?”
“A stroll?”
“There’s a river nearby where we can walk right by the water.”
Yor gasps. “Is there? Yes, please.”
Even though it’s spring and the flowers have bloomed, a bit of cold still snaps at their heels. Wind stirs the grass in lazy patterns and bats at Yor’s hair. She draws her shawl to cover her shoulders as they walk down the slight slope towards the water.
The sunset softens everything. Loid keeps pace with her, their feet sinking into soft grass. Yor clasps her hands behind her back because she doesn’t think she can trust them right now—she might do something without meaning to. The disappearing light warms Loid’s face despite the cold. He gazes out towards the water where diamonds of light dance on the surface.
They sit right there in the grass, on Loid’s jacket at his insistence.
“Do you like sunrise or sunset?”
Loid startles at her question, then hums in thought.
“I like new days,” he settles on finally. His mouth curls in a secretive smile. “I like twilight. Looking toward tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Yor echoes. She likes sunset, the sun laying to rest and letting the darkness pull over her in a cover.
They watch until the sun dips under the horizon and the lamps along the river and road wink brilliantly into light. Yor stands up first, dusting off her dress. Loid shakes off his jacket, slipping it back on.
“Shall we head back?”
Yor smiles up at him, feeling at ease. “Okay.”
He turns, and Yor catches sight of a bit of grass still clinging to the outside of his sleeve.
“Wait,” Yor says, and touches his arm. She feels him jerk in surprise. “Stay still for a moment.”
He does, completely. Yor isn’t sure she hears him even breathe with how still he stays as Yor picks the grass off. It snags in the fabric. When she finishes, Yor allows her fingers to rest on his wrist for a second, separated only by his sleeve. If she moves, she’ll touch the little sliver of skin between the cuff of his sleeve and the edge of his glove.
Loid coughs. “Right. Thank you.”
She lets her hands fall away. “Of course, Loid.”
A shiver runs up her arms, and she folds them for a bit of comfort. Loid catches the movement.
“Are you cold?”
“A little,” Yor says. Loid frowns.
He pauses right where they are and tugs off his left glove first, revealing the sharp lines of his hand. Then he holds it in front of her hand, waiting.
Oh.
Yor slips her hand into the waiting glove. Loid repeats the process one more time. Her fingers touch the soft plush of wool; the brown leather of the glove is loved. They’re too big—her fingertips don’t reach the end, leaving a small gap where his hands would have fit. They’re so warm , the residual heat of his hands warming hers.
This much can be enough.
If Yor has to compare her first relationship to anything, it is most like being dosed with poison.
Of course, Yor wouldn’t be with Garden if poison could kill her. She’s sure Gympie could come up with the right concoction, but most common poisons don’t do anything to her.
Shopkeeper had been impressed even when Yor first joined, thirteen and hungry after giving Yuri most of the meals she made. It must have been her body’s desperate bid to survive. Every time they met at the gazebo, Yor’s tea had been sweetened by poisons, drop by drop, until she could drink the full cup without even noticing.
At first, though, it hadn’t been easy, even if half the things she plucked from the woods were things that could kill her.
Being around Loid, being close to him, sometimes reminds her of those first days when a drop of distilled wolfsbane made her heart pound so fast she went dizzy. Her knees feel weak, her chest tight like she can’t get enough air.
A glance is a dose of lethal proportions.
She still doesn’t know the full circumstances behind Loid’s marriage to her. Where his first wife is, if at all. Loid is tight-lipped about the days before Yor joined their little family, so she tries not to press. She has no illusions about their marriage. For all that Yor has to fight to understand what normal is, even she knows that the series of events that led them to each other aren’t.
But sometimes Loid looks at her like… it’s not pretend to him.
And Yor—doesn’t know what to do with that.
Had Yor’s father looked at her mother like that? Yor shuts her eyes, trying to recall hazy memories. Yuri wouldn’t remember—he was too young back then to know anything besides the sudden emptiness, and Yor taking their place.
But her parents’ love? Yor remembers.
Papa used to sit on the porch, on the chair he’d made, doing his woodworking. She used to sit by his feet, watching the long strokes of his knife. Mama hated the wood shavings getting all over the floor, so he did it outside, but she always kept the door cracked and the window open so she could watch him from inside. Yor would glance from Papa’s weathered hands, to his focused face, then to Mama watching with that same kind of intensity. He’d look back, the line of his mouth splitting into a smile.
That’s right. It’s one of the few clear memories she can pinpoint.
Yor misses them. Not just because they’re her parents, but for times like these. They deserved to see these years of tumultuous, tentative peace. She’s sure even if she came to Berlint, they’d still be back in that little house in the mountains, surrounded by pine. There’s nothing left back there, but in another life Yor could have taken Loid and Anya back to her childhood home. Papa and Mama, to her, would be Grandpa and Grandma.
She’s sure they would welcome Loid with open arms. Mama would make a too-big batch of stew and ladle a full bowl for him. Maybe Loid and Papa would play cards.
A feeling like poison with no antidote.
She could sit at her father’s feet again, breathing in the smell of wood, and ask: Is this how you felt?
The sky is still dark.
Yor yawns. By the door, Loid gives her a fond smile. He holds her coat out for her, and Yor slips into it. Anya is sleeping over at Becky’s, so they only have to say goodbye to Bond before leaving.
This early in the morning, their entire apartment complex is quiet. So is the street, with only a few passing cars. The soft blue light makes everything look like a painting, the still-glowing streetlamps soft. Blue touches everything—the tops of the cobblestones, brushing the tips of leaves, and along the edges of Loid against the fading dark. She wishes she had their camera to capture it. She wants to trace his outline and keep the shape of him.
The entire world seems like Yor is in on a secret, like the morning is holding its breath just for the two of them.
It’s peaceful. Yor walks after Loid, humming Roses from the South, and twirls once in the street. Her footsteps sound out against stone to the beat.
“We’re almost there,” Loid promises, glancing back.
They reach a little hill in the midst of the local park, and Yor’s chest fills with the warmth of familiarity. They’ve come here many times with Anya, playing, walking Bond, and sitting together on the park benches. There are a few other people walking, but no one bothers them as they walk up and up. Yor watches the sky brighten, watches the edges of Loid blur, and thinks, he’s right in front of me.
Her heart is steady, still waking up and resting with the person in front of her. Her fingers itch. It’s no grand gesture. It is no dance. The flowers whisper around them, the only witnesses to Yor gathering herself. Loid looks back.
Their hands meet.
She doesn’t know who moves first. Just that she stretches her hand forward, and her fingers bump against his. The edge of his hand slips against her pinky, and he curls his fingers around hers, pulling it closer until they’re palm to palm. She laces her fingers with his.
Yor cherishes the feeling of his hand in hers—it feels right, being linked together. Their shadows fall and overlap in the grass behind them. Loid leads her up and they crest the top of the hill.
Loid squeezes her hand once.
“I wanted you to see this,” he offers, and nods forward.
Twilight breaks, deep blue turning to streams of orange and pink. Yor watches the sun rise, warm light touching every corner of their little world.
“It’s a new day,” Yor murmurs, thinking of what he said. Another day, with Loid next to her.
When she turns back from watching the sunrise, she finds Loid is looking at her instead of the horizon, smiling.
“Let me spend my tomorrows with you,” Loid says, and steps closer. He holds out his other hand. “Yor. Would you like to dance?”
