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Dinner was quiet.
Too quiet.
Loid wasn’t speaking much, not that Yor expected him to chatter like Anya did, but tonight, his silence felt different. Measured. Tight. Like every word was weighed before he dared release it.
She glanced up at him from across the table.
His back was straight. His fork moved methodically, rice, bite, chew, swallow, repeat, but he wasn’t eating like someone who was hungry. He was eating like someone fulfilling an obligation. Like someone performing the idea of dinner.
And his jaw—
He's grinding his teeth again, Yor noticed, her own throat tightening slightly. She'd only seen him like this a few times. After missions that went wrong. After tense public events. After long days where he'd come home smiling, but with a shadow behind his eyes.
But tonight, there was no smile.
Only silence.
Loid set down his utensils with a quiet clink and stood from the table. He didn't sigh. He didn't make a show of it. He simply said, in that calm, even voice of his:
"I'm going to lie down for a bit. Long day."
Yor blinked.
"Oh. Um… of course," she said, trying not to sound startled.
Anya looked up, her spoon halfway to her mouth. “Night-night, Papa?” she asked, tilting her head with innocent curiosity.
Loid offered a small, practiced smile. "Just a short rest."
He left the room without another word, his footsteps soft but steady as he walked down the hall and disappeared into his room.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Yor sat frozen for a moment, her chopsticks still hovering above her bowl. Her heart beat just a little faster. She didn’t know why it struck her as odd. He was probably just tired. He said it himself, a long day. But something about the way he left, the tightness in his shoulders, the forced calm of his voice…
It felt familiar.
Not in the way Loid usually was, not the suave, confident gentleman, not the efficient handler of every situation. This had felt like something raw hiding just beneath the surface. Something fragile.
She forced herself to breathe and began clearing the plates.
"I'm gonna do the dishes," she murmured to Anya.
Anya didn't respond right away. She just stared at her plate, still thinking, her eyebrows furrowed in that strange little way she did when she was concentrating.
Yor took the plates and walked them into the kitchen. The clatter of water and dishes filled the silence, a comfortingly normal sound.
But her thoughts kept drifting back to the hallway. To Loid’s tense shoulders. His too-careful voice.
And the way he’d said “lie down for a bit” as if sleep were a command to himself, not a relief.
It wasn’t until later, when she was wiping her hands on a dish towel and heading to the bathroom, that she passed by his door again.
Her feet slowed.
She hadn’t meant to linger, but she couldn’t help it.
From the other side, the faintest sound reached her ears. A sniffle, tiny and almost swallowed, like someone trying not to cry.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She leaned in just slightly, barely daring to breathe.
And then she heard it.
Click.
So quiet she almost didn’t recognize it.
But she did.
Her breath caught in her throat.
That sound. That exact sound.
The soft plastic snap of a baby bottle lid closing.
No…
She staggered back a step like she’d been struck. Her hand touched the wall for balance, her vision swimming for a second.
That sound belonged to a memory. To her.
Back when she was younger, barely seventeen, worn thin from holding her family together, trying to appear strong in a world that never gave her a moment to be soft.
She used to hide a single baby bottle in the drawer beneath her mattress. Tucked away with trembling care. After long days of school, training, pretending, surviving… she'd lie in bed and let herself be small. Just for a moment. Just to breathe.
And the sound she always made sure to muffle, that little click of the bottle closing, she heard it now. Coming from Loid’s room.
She pressed her fingers against her lips.
It can’t be.
Not him. Not Twilight. Not the man who never slipped, never faltered, never let down his guard.
She took a shaky breath and stepped away from the door.
But the memory clung to her.
That sound. That tenderness. That impossible truth.
She returned to the dining room in a daze.
Anya had finished eating and was now lying on her stomach on the bench, coloring on a napkin with a crayon she’d dug out of her school bag.
As soon as Yor walked in, the girl looked up, and grinned like she knew everything.
Yor froze.
Anya tilted her head. Too casual. Too knowing.
She heard it, the little telepath thought with amusement. Mama’s starting to figure it out.
Then, out loud:
“Did Mama get lost in the hallway?”
Yor blinked.
“Wh-What? No. I just… I thought I heard something. Must’ve been the wind.”
Anya smirked and went back to coloring, but inside, she was already planning her next move.
If Mama remembered being small, then maybe… maybe she could help.
And Yor, standing frozen by the doorway, couldn’t shake the feeling blooming in her chest, nostalgia, confusion… and something strangely tender.
---
Yor couldn’t shake the sound of that bottle click.
Not really. Not in the quiet moments. Not when Loid smiled so gently across the dinner table, or when he furrowed his brows and tucked his shoulders in slightly whenever someone dropped a dish in a restaurant.
She knew that kind of startle. Not the instinctive one of a spy, but the bone-deep one of someone trying not to be frightened. Someone pretending they weren’t just scared by the clang.
She’d done it herself, once. Years ago.
Back when she’d come home from her shifts covered in blood she’d pretend wasn’t there, her hands trembling from something colder than adrenaline. She’d lock herself in her room, crawl under the covers, and sip strawberry milk out of a pink-lidded bottle, letting her whole body go soft. Sometimes she’d cry. Sometimes she’d hum lullabies to herself. Sometimes, in her head, she’d pretend she had someone who would hold her.
That had been a long, long time ago. She was grown now. She was Mama.
So then why—?
Why did she keep seeing it?
Like now. They were out shopping together, the three of them. Anya was trying on hats in front of a mirror, and Loid was standing off to the side. He looked sharp as ever, tall, crisp lines, unreadable eyes, but when Yor glanced up from her purse, she caught it again. That expression.
Soft. Lost. Almost dreamy.
He looks so small, she thought, startled.
And then he blinked, and it was gone.
Yor shook herself. No. No, no, no. She was being ridiculous. Loid was Twilight. The best spy in Westalis. He was controlled. Professional. Adult. He probably didn’t even know what regression was, let alone—
She bit her lip.
Later that night, after Anya had been tucked in and Loid had disappeared into his office with a “just catching up on some paperwork,” Yor stood alone in the bedroom. Her hand hovered over the closet.
She shouldn’t.
But—
Her fingers touched the old iron latch of her storage trunk. She opened it slowly.
The scent hit her first. Soft detergent. A little dust. And something faintly like lavender.
Her old pacifier was still inside, tucked in the corner. Her favorite blanket, frayed at the edges, folded beneath a couple of picture books and a bottle with a worn nipple.
Yor stared down at it all for a long, aching minute.
It was so long ago.
She reached out. Her hand trembled. And then, almost angrily, she shoved it all back down, slammed the lid, and turned away.
Down the hall, Anya peeked from her cracked-open door, pink plushie squished under her chin.
(thinking) She remembers. Mama remembers what it’s like…
She turned her eyes to the other room, where Papa’s light was still on.
(thinking) …but she doesn’t know he remembers too.
---
Loid was careful. Always careful.
He had to be. Every inch of his public life was a performance, a role, and even in private, his mask only ever cracked in tiny, harmless places. Safe places. Places no one would question.
Like the way he brushed his hair in the mirror every night with practiced rhythm, the same number of strokes, slow and gentle. Like the soft socks he wore to bed, the ones with little animals stitched into the soles, hidden under his crisp pajama pants, of course, but Yor noticed once when he padded across the kitchen late at night for a glass of water.
He clutched his hot water bottle with both arms, tucked tight to his chest like a comfort object.
All of it, tiny, quiet, ignorable. If you weren’t looking.
Yor wasn’t trying to look. But now… she couldn’t help it.
Something had shifted inside her. Some quiet hum of recognition that whispered, you know this feeling.
And then came the wrapper.
It happened on a slow Sunday morning. She was crouched in front of the recycling bin, trying to figure out how to fit another juice carton into the already-too-full bag, when she noticed something small and crumpled wedged just behind the bin, as if someone had dropped it and hadn’t had time to pick it up.
She reached behind and pulled it out.
A pacifier wrapper. Pale blue. Faded logo.
Yor froze.
It was the same brand she used to buy. The same exact one. They’d been the only ones soft enough not to hurt her teeth when she’d been shaking and tense after those awful missions.
She stared at it.
No. That’s impossible. That brand’s hard to find now. What are the odds?
But she already knew. Her fingers trembled slightly, and something inside her chest squeezed with a pressure so heavy it left her breathless.
Loid.
Could he really…?
No. No, don’t be ridiculous. She must have dropped it herself, somehow. Maybe she’d kept one by accident all these years and didn’t realize. Maybe—
But she couldn’t lie to herself like that. Not with her heart hammering like this.
She stood slowly, still holding the wrapper, her expression unreadable.
Down the hall, Anya peered around the corner, her pink socks muffling every step. She watched her mama’s face crumple in on itself like a piece of paper folding up tight.
(thinking) That’s the face Mama makes when her brain goes boom-boom with feelings.
She hugged her plushie tighter.
(thinking) Maybe she’s gonna ask Papa soon.
But Yor didn’t move. She just stared at the wrapper in her palm.
And Anya, wise beyond her years and small beyond her size, quietly turned and walked back to her room.
Some secrets weren’t ready yet.
Some truths still needed time.
---
The grocery store was quiet that morning.
It was still early, not quite nine, and the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with the soft hum of electricity, the kind that filled silence without breaking it. Yor walked beside Loid, their shopping cart gliding smoothly along the polished tile floor, half-filled with produce and pantry staples.
Loid’s expression was calm. Relaxed, even.
Yor had learned to read him by now, not the way Anya did, of course, but in her own way. In the way his shoulders eased when he didn’t feel watched, the way he loosened his tie just slightly when no one was looking. And right now, he seemed peaceful.
Until they turned into the wrong aisle.
Or rather, she turned. He’d been mid-sentence about dinner plans when he followed her around the corner and stopped abruptly.
Baby supplies.
Pacifiers. Diapers. Toddler snacks. Sippy cups lined in pastel colors and cartoon animals.
And something changed.
He froze, just for a second. Barely half a breath.
But it was enough.
Yor saw it.
His eyes flickered down the shelf, lingering on a small pack of silicone sippy cups, seafoam green with tiny foxes printed on the lids. His hand lifted, slowly, almost unconsciously, fingers twitching toward the pack.
Then he blinked. Snapped his hand back. Straightened his shoulders.
And reached for a bag of coffee filters from the shelf behind him, like nothing had happened.
“Ah—this brand’s been harder to find lately,” he said, smoothly. Too smoothly. “Better grab two.”
Yor nodded. But her chest felt tight.
The rest of the trip passed in silence. Not awkward, not exactly, but quiet in a way that didn’t feel normal. Loid filled it with the usual efficiency: checking prices, making notes on a folded list, debating between yogurt brands as if he hadn’t just flinched like a man caught stealing.
Yor kept watching him out of the corner of her eye. Every relaxed gesture felt like a trick now.
Why didn’t I say something?
---
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
Loid had gone to bed before her, which was unusual, he’d claimed he was tired, with that tight smile he used when he didn’t want to be asked more questions. She didn’t follow him right away.
She sat on the couch, knees pulled up to her chest, and stared at the faint light seeping in from the hallway.
He looked like he wanted it.
That was what kept replaying in her head. That brief, flickering look in his eyes, so hungry, in a quiet, desperate sort of way. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was longing. Familiar, aching longing.
And shame.
She recognized that, too.
Yor’s hand drifted up to her own collarbone, pressing lightly against the skin there. She remembered the nights she used to curl into herself, too old to ask for softness and too young to know how to stop needing it. She remembered biting her pillow to keep from sobbing out loud, wishing someone would just… hold her.
Back then, she’d told herself she was broken. Weak. Wrong.
She wondered if Loid told himself the same thing.
---
The bedroom was dark. Loid lay facing the wall, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other loosely curled near his chest. He looked so small like that, not physically, not really, but closed in, like a bird folding in its wings.
Yor slipped beneath the covers carefully.
For a while, she just watched him breathe.
And then, barely above a whisper:
“…Loid?”
He stirred slightly but didn’t turn.
“…Yes?”
She hesitated.
Her fingers gripped the edge of the blanket. “Are you… Okay?”
His reply came almost instantly. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I just…” She swallowed. “You seemed a little distracted today. At the store.”
There was a beat of silence. Not long. But not short enough to ignore.
“I didn’t sleep well,” he said finally. “It’s nothing.”
Liar. She could hear it in his voice. Too smooth again. Too calm.
She bit her lip.
“…You know,” she said, softer now, “when I was younger… I used to pretend I didn’t need anyone.”
He shifted a little, not away from her, but closer.
She took that as permission.
“I was always trying to be strong. Even when it hurt. Even when I wanted someone to… just be kind to me. I was ashamed of needing that. For a long time.”
He didn’t speak. But his breathing had changed. Slower. Shallower.
“Now, I think… maybe needing softness doesn’t make someone weak. Just human.”
Still no answer.
But she saw his hand tighten around the edge of the blanket.
“…If there’s ever something you want to talk about,” she added, almost in a whisper, “I’d understand. Maybe more than you think.”
Loid didn’t move.
But when she finally closed her eyes, she felt a warm weight brush against her fingers beneath the blanket, his hand, reaching, not quite holding hers, but there.
Just close enough to feel.
And Yor thought:
Maybe he’s not ready.
But someday, I want him to know he doesn’t have to be alone.
---
The rain hit the windows like a thousand tiny fists, a steady rhythm that should have been soothing, if the air in the Forger household weren’t so thick with something unspoken.
Loid came home soaked, hair plastered to his forehead, jacket dripping. He gave his usual polite nods, murmured, “Sorry I’m late,” and pressed a folded towel to his chest like it was something precious, or something grounding.
Dinner was quiet.
Yor kept stealing glances at him. His hands trembled slightly when he reached for his rice bowl. He barely spoke, only offering small hums of agreement when Anya babbled about a school dodgeball incident.
Then he excused himself with a soft, “I’m just going to dry off.”
He took the towel with him.
He didn’t come back.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
Yor found herself standing outside the bathroom door, holding her breath.
You shouldn’t be doing this, she told herself. This is rude. This is a violation of privacy. But still, she leaned in, just a little.
And she heard it.
A soft sound, low and fragile and almost too faint to catch.
He was humming.
Her heart stopped. She recognized the melody before her mind even named it.
No, she thought, pressing a hand to her chest. It can’t be…
But it was. That lullaby, the one she used to hum under her breath as a teenager, curled up in bed with a plushie tucked under her chin and a pacifier in her mouth. The one she’d sing when everything hurt and there was no one to soothe her but her own soft voice.
Now, on the other side of the door, Loid was humming her lullaby.
She swayed slightly where she stood.
How…? Her mind raced, a storm of memory and disbelief. Why would he…?
Her eyes welled with tears.
From inside the bathroom, the water began to run. The humming stopped.
Yor stepped back quickly, as if the silence had caught her in the act. She nearly tripped over her own feet getting away from the door.
She didn’t know how to make sense of what she’d just heard.
But the ache in her chest was familiar.
He’s like me, she thought, almost dazed as she walked away. Someone like me…
---
Anya noticed before anyone else.
She didn’t mean to. But it was hard not to notice when you could hear people’s thoughts, especially when those thoughts were soft, scared, and wrapped in layers of self-denial.
Papa’s brain was loud in a quiet way. Like it was always working, always spinning, but sometimes… sometimes it whispered.
Just a minute longer with the blanket… just one more sip like this… no one’s watching.
She understood that kind of whisper. She’d had them too.
She didn’t tell.
Not even when Loid sat on the couch one rainy evening in a hoodie much too soft for him, ankles curled up beside him, hands buried in the sleeves like a kid trying to hide. He stared at the TV, but wasn’t watching.
Yor walked past and kissed the top of his head like it was nothing. Anya saw how Loid blinked quickly after. She saw the way his hand tightened on the couch pillow like it was something precious.
She didn’t tell then, either.
But she started helping in her own way.
The next morning, while watching Yor pour tea, Anya said casually, “You’re really good at hugs, Mama.”
Yor blinked. “Oh? Thank you, sweetie.”
A beat passed. Then: “You should hug Papa more.”
Yor laughed, awkward. “Well, I—I suppose I could.”
“Especially when he looks all squishy.”
“…Squishy?”
Anya pointed to the side of her head and made a sleepy face. “You know. Like when he’s got that fuzzy sweater on and his hair’s all floofy.”
Yor raised an eyebrow. “You mean… tired?”
“Mmhm.” She shoved a cookie in her mouth and added around the crumbs, “He looked really little yesterday.”
Yor stiffened. “Little?”
“Like a baby fox,” Anya said cheerfully. “Tiny. Quiet. Needed a nap.”
Yor opened her mouth, then closed it. Her hand hovered over the tea tray, unmoving.
She didn’t say anything.
Not then.
But that night, when Loid returned from his shower in fluffy socks and a worn, oversized T-shirt, she wrapped him in a soft hug without warning.
He froze.
Then melted.
Just a little.
She didn’t say anything either.
But Anya, peeking around the corner with a grin, thought:
He’s not ready to say it yet. But she’s starting to hear him anyway.
And for now, that was enough.
---
Yor didn’t mean to snoop.
That’s what she told herself.
She told herself she was just putting laundry away, just tidying, just… making sure Loid had clean socks.
But her hands moved without much thought. And when they brushed past the back of the wardrobe, pushing aside a rarely worn trench coat, she paused.
There was something there.
A faint shape inside the inner lining. Not quite visible, but not entirely hidden either, as if it had been tucked away in a hurry. Or maybe with quiet ceremony.
She swallowed.
Her fingers moved carefully. No rush. No sound.
And when she unzipped the small, half-concealed pouch… There it was.
A bottle.
Not a water bottle. Not some covert spy flask. A baby bottle.
Clear plastic, gently fogged with age. The nipple was soft and well cared for. It smelled faintly like warmth and something sweet. Something safe.
Yor stared.
Her fingers trembled just slightly as she lifted it free from its hiding place.
She didn’t know what she’d expected to find when her eyes had started drifting toward Loid’s closet more often these past few weeks. But now that it was here in her hands, real and fragile and utterly unguarded, something inside her cracked open.
Not in a painful way.
Not this time.
The sting in her eyes surprised her.
She wasn’t sad. Not really.
The tears came anyway, but gently, like rain on petals. Because this… this bottle felt like something holy. Like proof that she wasn’t the only one who had once been small and scared and soft. It felt like a secret she already knew in her bones, just waiting to be seen.
It felt like coming home.
She didn’t confront him.
Didn’t mention it at dinner.
Didn’t bring it up when they passed in the hallway that evening, and his hand brushed hers just a little longer than usual.
But that night, when the apartment was dark and quiet and Loid had retreated into his room with the heavy air he sometimes wore after missions, Yor walked in without a word.
She didn’t turn on the light.
She just folded a soft, cloud-colored blanket, one she’d kept for years but never used, and laid it gently across the foot of his bed.
Then she placed a single hand on the edge of his pillow. Not touching him. Just there.
“I see you,” she whispered, even though he couldn’t hear.
Then she left the room without a sound.
Behind her, Loid turned his face into the blanket. And for the first time in a long, long while… let himself sleep like someone safe.
---
It wasn’t a bad day, not exactly.
But it was the kind of day that tilts.
Just a little. Just enough to push things off balance.
It started with a delay at headquarters, a mission report that needed rewriting three times, a handler who snapped too sharply, and a drop that almost went wrong. By the time Loid stepped through the front door of the Forger home, he was already on edge, like a piano wire pulled too tight.
And then—
Crash
A dish on the floor. Shattered. Bond barking frantically in the kitchen.
“Anya!” Yor’s voice called out, panicked. “It’s okay, sweetie, it was just a dream—!”
The noise. The chaos. The small, sharp cry from down the hall.
It was too much.
Too loud. Too sudden. Too everything.
Loid dropped his briefcase. Didn’t take off his shoes. Didn’t say a word.
He walked straight into the hall closet and closed the door behind him.
Dark.
Quiet.
He sank to the floor. Curled up tight. Blanket over his head. Pacifier, hidden in his coat pocket, slipped between his lips with practiced ease.
Small. Still. Shhh. Don’t make a sound.
It had been months since it happened this hard, this fast. Usually, he had a warning. Usually, he could catch it, mask it, handle it.
Not tonight.
He was little.
Too little.
And all he could do was breathe around the soft silicone in his mouth and hold his knees and pretend the world couldn’t find him in the dark.
He didn’t know how long he had stayed like that.
But then—
The door creaked open.
Soft light. A rustle of movement. The gentle hush of breath.
Yor didn’t say anything.
She didn’t gasp. Didn’t question.
She just eased herself down onto the floor beside him. Slowly. Quietly.
Her knees bent. Her arms folded over her lap. She didn’t try to pull the blanket away, didn’t ask him to talk, didn’t even say his name.
Instead, one hand reached out, tentative, careful, and began to rub slow, soothing circles into his back.
Up and down.
Steady.
Safe.
Loid shivered once. But he didn’t pull away.
His thumb brushed the edge of the blanket, then clutched it tighter.
She kept rubbing.
Outside, the house was settling. Bond was quiet now. Anya had stopped crying.
But inside the closet, Loid’s breath hitched again.
And Yor, strong, awkward, fierce Yor, kept her hand on his back and hummed the softest sound she could manage. Not quite a song. Just something low and warm, like the memory of a lullaby neither of them had ever learned.
“You don’t have to be big right now,” she whispered once, when she thought he might be asleep.
“I’ve got you.”
He didn’t answer.
But the way he pressed into her hand said everything.
---
Loid woke slowly.
His body felt warm. Heavy in the best way. Muscles loose, mind quiet, no weight on his shoulders for the first time in… maybe ever.
The room was dim, bathed in the soft grey of early morning.
He blinked.
He was in bed. Tucked in. The blanket pulled right up to his chin.
On the nightstand: a bottle.
Full. Warm.
And next to it, a folded slip of paper.
He reached for it with slow fingers, unfolding it like it might disappear.
You don’t have to hide from me.
No name. No flourish.
But it didn’t need one.
His throat tightened. The pacifier, forgotten beside him on the pillow, was damp from earlier, and his fingers hovered near it before he gently set it aside.
He didn’t need it now.
He needed that note.
He held it like a lifeline.
---
Yor sat in the living room, arms wrapped around her knees, staring at nothing in particular.
The sun hadn’t risen fully, but the light had changed. Soft blue casting long shadows across the carpet.
She felt strange. A little disoriented.
Like the whole world had tilted sideways.
But not in a bad way.
In a way that let her see something she hadn’t dared look at before.
Her hands were steady. Her heart wasn’t racing. Her thoughts weren’t chasing themselves around in dizzying loops.
She just sat.
Still.
And then—
Tiny feet on the floorboards. A sleepy yawn.
Anya climbed into her lap without a word and curled up there like she’d always belonged.
“Mama?” she mumbled, thumb near her mouth but not quite in it.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
Anya blinked up at her with big, knowing eyes. The kind of look only Anya could give.
“I’m glad you found each other,” she said.
And then her head tucked under Yor’s chin like a baby bird.
Yor held her close. Close enough to smell the shampoo in her pink hair. Close enough to feel her tiny heart beating.
And she thought, maybe she hadn’t expected this. Any of this.
But maybe…
Maybe regression never really leaves you.
Maybe it just waits to be seen.
Yor closed her eyes and pressed a kiss to Anya’s forehead.
She didn’t say a word.
She didn’t have to.
---
(And here's an epilogue, because I simply couldn't resist!)
Loid wakes up feeling small.
Not in the bad way, not the clawing, panicked kind of small that creeps in after nightmares or long missions or the weight of being everything to everyone.
Just… small. Quiet. Tucked-in.
He doesn’t try to fight it.
He shrugs into an oversized hoodie, the soft gray one Yor always folds so carefully, and pads barefoot into the kitchen, his blanket trailing behind him like a cape. The pacifier isn’t in his mouth, but his fingers twitch like they miss it.
Yor is already there.
She’s not surprised. She doesn’t startle or ask questions. She just looks up, meets his eyes, and gives him the softest smile.
“Good morning,” she says, like it’s any other day.
The bottle was already warming.
Loid shuffles over and lets himself be pulled into her lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Yor presses a kiss to his temple and hands him the bottle. He takes it with both hands, presses it to his mouth, and sighs.
It’s quiet. Gentle. Safe.
On the couch, Anya watches them from over the top of her blanket fort. Bond is snuggled up beside her, tail thumping lazily.
She doesn’t read their minds, not this time. She doesn’t need to.
She already knows.
Papa feels better now.
Mama’s not scared anymore.
And Anya? She feels a little like crying, but not in a bad way. It’s just that warm, fuzzy feeling that fills up her chest and makes her want to squeeze someone real tight.
“I’m glad you found each other,” she whispers to no one in particular.
Bond huffs softly, resting his head on her knee.
She smiles.
It’s quiet. It’s gentle. It’s home.