Three days.
That's how long it took to go from "we just met" to "we live together in a tastefully minimalist apartment with a six-year-old psychic, a fake marriage license, and a teapot that keeps whistling like it's judging us."
Loid—or rather, the man inhabiting him—was adapting fast.
He always did. War zones. Shadow regimes. One time, an Antarctic bunker filled with genetically-modified wolves. Pretending to be someone's husband? Just another mission.
Except the enemy in this case was emotional vulnerability. And ironing. And a six-year-old who routinely "accidentally" opened locked drawers while pretending not to be telepathic.
The apartment had never felt so alive.
Anya's toys exploded across the living room like a miniature landmine field of plush animals, comic books, and crayons. Yor brought fresh flowers every day, despite insisting they were "too expensive" and once apologizing to a tulip she accidentally stepped on.
And him?
He reorganized the kitchen knives by tactical effectiveness.
[New Skill Acquired: "Home Defense via Kitchenware." Bonus: +10 to Improvised Combat.]
Currently, he stood at the stove in an apron labeled "Kiss the Cook or Prepare to Be Interrogated."
He had not purchased the apron.
Anya had.
Anya also stared at him like he was a live cooking show. Her feet swung off the counter. A measuring spoon was in her hair.
"Are you gonna flip the eggs cool?" she asked.
[Side Quest: Make the Perfect Omelet. Reward: Respect +1 (Anya), + Charisma Buff: Domestic Dad Aura.]
He flipped the pan with one hand, cracked a second egg mid-air with the other, and didn't burn anything.
Anya gasped.
"So cool. I wish my last dad did that."
"…Last dad?"
"Yeah, the bald one. He couldn't cook. He yelled a lot. And he thought I had worms."
He paused. "…Why?"
"Because I knew what he was thinking. And he thought that meant brain worms."
"…Right."
She grinned at him. "You don't think I have worms."
"Not unless they help with math."
Yor came home that evening with groceries and three cuts on her arm.
Nothing deep. Superficial slices. Barely bleeding.
But he noticed.
His instincts flared. Danger. Threat. Blood.
Yor waved it off as a "kitchen accident" and tried to smile.
He didn't call her out.
But he did reach for the medical kit before she finished putting the milk away.
[Relationship Alert – Yor Briar: Suspected Hidden Occupation. Analysis: 97.3% Chance Assassin. User Note: You are technically in love with a knife goblin.]
He wrapped her wrist in silence.
Yor blushed furiously. "You're… very good at this."
"Comes with the job," he said simply.
"What job?"
"…Frequent paper cuts."
Later that night, after Anya fell asleep face-first into a drawing of "Mama and Papa FIGHTING CRIME," the two adults sat on the balcony in silence.
Yor sipped wine.
Loid sipped data.
More precisely—scanned building layouts, scanned police chatter, and ran predictive models for the Eden Academy interview.
All while pretending to relax.
"…I'm not very good at this," Yor admitted softly.
He looked up.
"This," she said, gesturing to the apartment. "The pretending. The... being a wife. A mom. I always thought I'd just be... by myself."
His brow furrowed slightly.
"I've always been better at protecting people from a distance," she went on, eyes distant. "I thought if I got close, I'd hurt them. Or... they'd find out I'm not really... kind."
He exhaled through his nose. Not quite a sigh.
"You're better at this than you think."
She blinked at him, surprised.
"I mean, sure, the laundry's suspiciously sharp. But Anya adores you. And you haven't stabbed me once. Low bar, but impressive."
Yor snorted into her wineglass.
"Thank you," she said, smiling. "That means a lot. Coming from you."
He didn't say anything for a moment.
Then—
"Do you know how to throw a knife?"
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I want to make sure Anya's safe if I'm not home. Teaching her would be a war crime, but you…"
Her eyes lit up. "...I'm very good at throwing knives."
And that's how the evening ended: with Yor hurling knives at fruit taped to the wall, while Loid made scoring notes like a coach at the Olympics.
Anya, still supposedly asleep, peeked through the door and whispered:
My parents are the coolest weirdos in the world.