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Loid was very, very late to dinner. It was 11 PM, and the silence of night had spread to his neighbourhood, the only sound being the desperate slaps of his shoes as he ran to get home. He hoped Yor hadn’t stayed up to wait, although it was a very Yor thing for her to do.
He’d have to formulate some excuse about his patients having another episode today—the second one this week, but the only time she’d seen it with her own eyes. Blood leaked from the gash on his hand, dripping into a puddle and mixing with the murky water. Loid felt faint.
It wasn’t the worst wound he’d gotten before. And yet, it still hurt like hell.
He finally reached the door to their apartment, keys in his hand hovering over the hole. What would he even say if Yor was still awake?
Twilight was the best in the business, he assured himself. He’d find an excuse.
He pushed the key into the hole, and unlocked the door.
“Loid?” came Yor’s voice immediately. “Is that you?”
Of course she was still awake. Because she was Yor, and that was the type of person she was. To wait for her pretend husband to come home, because she was worried about him. Despite his best efforts to use logic to excuse her behaviour, Loid felt his face warm up.
“It’s me,” he said, hoping the pain wouldn’t be too evident in his voice. “I’m sorry for being so late, my patient—”
“It’s all right,” said Yor. “Have you had dinner yet? I made soup.”
“I haven’t, thank you,” Loid replied gratefully. “Is Anya asleep?”
“Yeah, she got tired at around 7.”
He debated whether he should hide his hand behind his back and make a beeline for the bathroom, or brace Yor’s worries and lie to her face. He was just about to make a decision when Yor got up from the couch and walked over to the kitchen, stopping in her tracks when she noticed his bleeding hand.
Her eyes traced the trail of blood droplets from the door.
“Loid?” She looked up, concern evident in her voice. “What happened?”
He felt his throat close up. “I—one of my patients had an episode.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
Yor frowned, and Loid suddenly knew that she was going to call him out on his lies, but instead she just said, “I’m worried about you.”
What?
“You are?” He couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.
“Of course I am! How could I not be?” said Yor, almost hysterically. “You come home late all the time, bruised and bleeding, and not to mention you’re so tired every single day—you work so hard, and I wish I could take some pressure off of your shoulders.”
Loid felt winded. “You—really think that?”
“Loid,” Yor said softly, so very soft. “Come here. I’ll bandage your hand.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Loid.” She gives him a gentle look.
All the breath was stolen from his lungs, with just one utterance of his name. Loid almost felt scared at how easily Yor could break his resolve. With just one tug she could unspool all of his tension and worries, allowing him to just exist. To relax.
Twilight didn’t relax.
And yet…
He dropped his bag down beside him, following Yor to the couch. There was an unfinished cup of tea sitting on the table, which he can tell had gone cold. Guilt ate at him as he realised how long Yor must have been waiting for him to return, probably terrified for his safety.
“Sit down,” she said, picking up the cup and cradling it in her hand. “Wait right here, I’ll return with a first aid kit.”
Yor drifted to the kitchen, setting the cup down on the island and then headed in the direction of her bedroom, leaving Loid alone with his thoughts.
Usually, in situations like this, Loid would simply tend to the wound by himself in the bathroom, away from Anya and Yor. He wouldn’t want them to panic and ask questions that possibly couldn’t be answered. But Yor was offering to help him. And now, Loid didn’t know how to act. He felt… confused. There was a tornado of emotions inside of him, and he couldn’t tell which ones.
Yor returned a moment later, clutching a first aid bag in her hand. It looked well-used, and was battered on the corners. It must have been a personal one of hers.
“Thank you, Yor,” said Loid, as she sat down beside him. “Really. You didn’t have to do this.”
Yor smiled, unzipping the bag. “What are fake spouses for?”
She pulled out a cotton ball, dabbing drops of antiseptic onto it, then turned to face him. Loid just realised how close she was to him—he could see the spread of pink all over her cheeks, the deep red of her eyes. Their knees brushed. Tingly.
Suddenly, he was hyper aware of everything. Was he breathing too loud? Did he smell bad? Loid told himself that he was being foolish, worrying about silly things like this; and yet, he still did. He didn’t want Yor to be repulsed by him.
The real question was, why did he care?
Yor’s fingers brushed softly on his injured hand, and Loid felt his heart irrationally speed up. Gently, she turned his hand over, palm facing up. In her other hand, she held the cotton ball that smelled of rubbing alcohol.
“This will hurt,” she said apologetically. “Would you prefer to bite down on something?”
“I’m fine,” said Loid, because he’d done this before, and knew how it would feel.
“Okay.” Yor bit her lip, and his eyes followed the movement. She pressed the cotton ball down on his palm, dabbing at the wound. Loid bit the inside of his cheek, although a hiss of pain escaped through his teeth. “Ah, sorry!”
“It’s not your fault,” he said roughly. “Shall we continue?”
Yor nodded. She placed the cotton ball back on the table, and reached for the spool of bandages, unwinding a length. She touched his hand again, and again, Loid felt a shock run through his body at the contact.
With feather-light touches, Yor gently wrapped the bandages around his hand, her fingertips brushing over his palm. Loid held his breath unknowingly, clenching his jaw tightly. He couldn’t explain why he was reacting this way—only that he felt a little thrill every time Yor’s delicate hands closed around his own.
“Finished,” she whispered, as if she had recognised his shift in demeanour. To his displeasure, she turned to face the table, and he instantly missed the feeling of her knee pressed against his. Loid couldn’t see Yor’s face, which meant that she couldn’t see his, which was probably for the best—he could feel the presence of a blush on his face.
The weight of Yor’s offer to help suddenly seemed to click in Loid’s brain. It had been years since someone had offered to help him; and not because they had an ulterior motive. In fact, the last time that he had remembered someone helping him just because they wanted to was… his mother.
Twilight’s heart ached. His chest hurt. Everything did, but then Yor was sitting beside him, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear and she was saying something, but he wasn’t hearing her—
Yor.
Yor, who bandaged his hand because she wanted to.
Yor, who waited for him to return home late every night, because she was worried for his safety.
Yor, who greeted him with a smile every morning, making him feel loved.
Making him feel…
… loved.
She zipped the bag shut. Next, she would get up and leave. Twilight should thank her, and bid her goodnight as she went to bed in a room that wasn’t his. He should.
“Yor,” whispered Loid.
His hand reached out, gently touching her cheek. Yor let out a small sound of surprise. He turned her face, and then they were inches apart, eyes meeting. Loid asked the silent question; but he could almost anticipate her answer.
Yor’s eyes softened. They glistened in the light.
This was his answer. This was the moment. Yor and Loid Forger, two individuals who had somehow found their way to finally being together—two parts of a whole.
Loid leaned in. Their knees brushed.
Their lips met, and all he knew was love.