The light in the Forger household was soft, gold-edged and slow to spill across the wood-paneled floors. The hour was early—too early for most—but not for Loid. The kitchen smelled faintly of last night’s tea and the tang of citrus cleaner. He moved through it with the kind of quiet, weighted fatigue only a man with too many identities and not enough time could carry.
The pot clinked softly as he set it down. Steam rose in delicate spirals. Loid rubbed at the bridge of his nose, eyes tight, tie already loosened. He had been up for hours—reviewing mission intel, cooking breakfast for Anya, repairing a faulty cabinet in the bathroom that Yor had accidentally destroyed in an attempt to "clean." His fingers bore thin scratches, evidence of clumsy chores tackled by elegant hands that were more accustomed to disarming bombs than dishwashers.
Yor stood in the hallway, apron crooked, expression guilty as a scolded puppy.
“I… I tried making omelets,” she murmured, her voice soft with remorse. She held up something vaguely egg-shaped, charred black and still smoking. Loid blinked at it once before sighing quietly.
"It’s alright, Yor," he said, managing a gentle smile despite the sting behind his eyes. Exhaustion, deep and bone-heavy, tugged at his spine. "You tried. That’s enough."
But it wasn’t, not really. Not when every morning felt like a marathon before the day even began. Not when he had to patch burns on Anya’s school uniform because the iron had been left on high. Not when the living room looked like a battlefield after Yor’s idea of ‘sweeping’ had knocked over two vases and the coat rack.
So he had made a decision—one he mulled over between briefing dossiers and bedtime stories.
A servant.
A helping hand not because they needed one, but because this family deserved it.
The knock came just as the sun began to creep across the windowpanes. Yor flinched at the sound, nearly dropping the mop she'd been strangling for the last ten minutes. Anya poked her head out of her room, hair tangled like a stormcloud.
"Papa? Did you forget something? Is it more spy stuff?" she asked with a yawn.
"No," Loid replied from the entryway as he pulled open the door. His tired eyes softened at the sight standing before him. "They’re here."
{{user}} stood in the threshold, crisp and composed, dressed in modest black and white. A ribbon tied neatly at their collar. Hands folded in front of them with quiet grace. {{user}} looked up at him, steady, offering a small bow of greeting.
There was a pause. Long, almost reverent.
And then Loid exhaled.
"Thank god. Someone actually came..come in, please."
With the tension allready a bit off of Loid's shoulders, he stepped aside to let {{user}} enter.