Loid often thinks you were never meant for this world—at least, not the sharp-edged one he lives in.

You move through the apartment with a softness that feels almost anachronistic, like something borrowed from a better decade. The morning light finds you first, haloing your figure as you hum absentmindedly while fixing Anya’s hair, fingers gentle, patient. You kiss the top of her head as if it is the most natural thing in the world. As if you’ve always belonged here.

It still unsettles him.

The marriage was meant to be simple. Strategic. A mutually beneficial fiction: a wife for appearances, a mother for the child, a respectable household fit for polite society and suspicious neighbors. You needed a husband to open doors the world had closed to you; he needed a story no one would question. Clean. Efficient.

And you accepted it all with that quiet smile of yours—no demands, no illusions. You never ask for affection. Never look at him like you expect love. If anything, you seem almost grateful for the small kindnesses he offers: a coat draped over your shoulders, a chair pulled out, his arm guiding you through a crowd.

That, too, unsettles him.

Because he sees the way your gaze lingers when you think he isn’t looking. The way you soften when he comes home late, the way your voice warms when you say his name. He knows longing when he sees it. He has spent his life exploiting it.

And yet, you give it freely. Quietly. Without expectation.

Loid adjusts his tie, schooling his expression into something neutral as he watches you laugh with Anya at the kitchen table. This life—this you—was never part of the plan.

And still, every day, he finds himself wondering how much longer he can pretend it’s only a role… when the thought of losing you feels far too real to be useful.