Tag Drop.

“You,” she said, dry as old parchment. “Are the reason we keep finding glitter in the mortars.”

She didn’t look up right away, just let the words hang there, flat and bone-dry, while her thumb flicked once more over the tablet before finally setting it aside. Her chair creaked as she stood, already moving like she knew where this was headed.

“Left something, huh?” she asked, tone resigned. “Again?”

No true irritation in it—just the kind of tired that comes from expecting a mess before you even see it. She crossed the shop with the easy familiarity of someone who’d cleaned up after Allie more than once, passing the shelves with the faintest glance, sharp eyes already scanning for the usual hiding spots.

She crouched down near the broom closet, reaching into the gap between the cabinet and the floorboards without needing to be told, and came back up holding a small glitter-streaked notebook with the caution of someone handling a hex in progress. “This thing,” Irene said, holding it between two fingers like it might explode into confetti at any moment, “—has been migrating around the back room for three days. I found it in the tea drawer. Under the peppermint.”

She offered it out, though the look on her face said she’d very much like to throw it in a salt circle and set it on fire.

“Tell your little chaos spirit to stop kicking it under the shelves,” she added, dry as the desert, “or next time I’m keeping it. Glitter pens and all.” And then, the faintest raise of one brow. “Urgent-ish, huh. You’re lucky the walls like you. I was two minutes from bolting the door.”

        “ sorry, irene! ”  it comes out in a chime, almost song-like, and allie meets irene with a sweet, bright smile. the wind sweeps her in and she slips inside, the bell matching the sound of her voice. she is late, and she is sorry for it, but she’s made it just in time before irene locks herself back up somewhere that allie imagines is very cold, very dark, and all sharp corners. like a punishment she can’t understand, even though she’s trying.  “ it is, pinkie promise. ”  her eyes bleed sincerity as she nears the counter,  “ well … ish. urgent-ish. ”  and she did, a hundred percent, forget her dreamless tea, but she’s always forgetting that. really, she’s always forgetting everything, which is why she’s here.

        “ i, um, left something behind, so … thanks for not yelling at me. ”  and while she’s not quite sure where it is, she knows she’s left her something around her somewhere. that something being a little journal, full of bundles of mismatched, scrawled notes in glitter gel pens. anything to make sure she remembers. sometimes, all it takes is breathing in the apothecary for her to learn something.

Irene’s eyes didn’t leave her. Not when she stammered. Not when she forced that smile like it might hold her together. And especially not when she said she’d be fine.

People always said that. I’m good. They almost never were.

The wind slid in off the street, lifting the edges of Irene’s coat and catching the scent of rain still clinging to the trees. She exhaled slow, watching the girl —Cami—wrap her arms around herself like armor.

That smile hurt to look at.

So Irene didn’t.

She stepped forward instead, smooth and quiet, and in one practiced motion, she slipped the coat from her shoulders and offered it—not as a question, but a fact. A choice laid out gently between them. “Take it,” she said, tone low. “I’ve got layers.”

She didn’t. Not really. But she’d walked home colder.

Irene waited until Cami’s fingers brushed the fabric before continuing. “You can keep saying you’re not usually like this, but the truth is —no one’s at their best when they’re bleeding and scared. Doesn’t mean you owe me an explanation.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning the dark behind them out of habit. Something about the way Cami looked over her shoulder had lodged in her gut like a splinter.

At the mention of the woods, she just nodded once, slow. No disbelief —just quiet understanding, like she knew too well the kind of weather that didn’t stay on a forecast. The kind that lived between trees and teeth.

“I know the kind of storms that don’t show up on radar,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. “And I know how people crawl out of them.”

Her gaze met Cami’s then —steady, unblinking, but not hard. Just there. Like a lighthouse. Not chasing anything. Just a place to look when everything else went dark.

“I’m not pointing you anywhere until I know you won’t fall over getting there.”

She nodded toward the edge of the sidewalk, where the streetlight ended and something like quiet lived. “I’ve got a kettle on and a couch that’s not haunted —yet. You want to warm up, no strings, no pressure, you can.”

A pause. Just long enough to leave room.

“I’m not here to save you. But I’m not leaving you out here either.”

   meeting people in such a state like this, wasn't ideally how she thought it'd be, being new to town and all. she had hoped to look less.....like a character from the 100. listening to her speaking about the gym, camila's face fell as she started thinking to herself. 'she could pick up a membership as she go there' she thought to herself, as she could feel the anxiety settling in. " uh..um~" she continued before looking down at her muddy clothes & the shoes in question. "i'll....i'll figure it out, sorry! i'm.......not usually like this~" she stated, mostly to herself as she was slowly getting lost in her head.

at the next statement of being new in town, camila froze a bit before she's looking back at the stranger. "I.....I was just passing through....or actually, i'm here to .....to meet someone." she continued while nodding to herself, as if to steady herself from not being so shaky jumpy. the community center mention did catch her attention, as she was soon turning to see just exactly where she was.

"what?" she asked suddenly when questioned if she was hurt or not. "uhh....yeah i...fell in the woods. the weather was.....crazy." she nodded as she slowly crossed her arms, as if to warm herself. the dampness of her clothes mixed with the mud, was a little bit uncomfortable. when the stranger introduced herself, camila couldn't tell if they were nice or not. reading people was always.....her specialty; not camila's.

"i'm....cami. and I don't wanna trouble you, so a point in the right direction and i'll be good!" she continued firmly, while forcing another smile on her face.

Irene’s head tilted, just slightly. Enough to mark the shift from disinterest to something closer to mild surprise.

Obsidian.

That explained the way he hovered near the door like he wasn’t sure if he wanted in or out. Lounge owners always had that air about them—too many faces, too many favors, too many half-forgotten deals with people who’d since vanished or turned into smoke.

“No need,” she said after a beat. “You’re already here.”

She set the tablet down on the counter, screen gone dark. The glow stayed on her face a moment longer than it should have, like it didn’t quite want to let her go.

“Kiri did keep records. Not exactly in a modern system, though. More... scrawled-in-margins and labeled-by-mood kind of thing.” She reached under the counter and pulled out a small ledger bound in cracked green leather. The edges of the pages were feathered with use.

She opened it, flipping past notes in looping script, some in ink, others in pencil or chalk, as if she couldn’t decide on permanence. Her finger stopped somewhere near the middle.

“Obsidian. Yeah, there’s a list,” she murmured. “Mostly mixers. Citrus peels. Wyrmwood. Fennel. A dried flower she only ever wrote down as ‘nightmouth’—which isn’t a real thing, far as I know, but there’s a jar back there with that label, and nobody’s gotten sick off it yet.”

A small pause. She didn’t look up.

“You’re welcome to come back tomorrow, if you want to talk shop while I’m less... halfway out the door. But since you’re already in, I can get you a starter list now. Most of it’s in stock.”

Then, as if realizing something too late, she added, more quietly, “And if you want tea, I’ll make you some. It’s not dreamless, but it’s warm.”

She didn’t know why she offered that. Maybe it was the look in his eyes—like something about this place pulled at him in a way he hadn’t expected. She understood that feeling.

Too well, maybe.

The mixing scents of the herbs in the air, rosemary the strongest, almost made him turn and walk out. They say scent is the sense most connected to memory, and his days spent reading and working in his family’s own storage rooms packed with herbs were not too far behind him. What should have been a familiar comfort brought only a heavy ache to his chest.

“I’m not here for dreamless tea, although I’d take some if it were offered.” A poor attempt at being congenial. The shopkeeper was clearly annoyed, and it was his own fault he’d pushed off restocking some of the shelves at the lounge for this long. “I, ah.. I am the new owner of Obsidian. I believe the previous owner of the lounge had a running deal with this apothecary to keep certain ingredients stocked? His labeling system is disgusting, so I was unable to identify what some of the empty jars held, but I was hoping there were some sort of store records for his purchases?”

It wouldn’t be any magic herbs. The Obsidian lounge seemed to thrive off of the rumors of potioned cocktails, but he had yet to find any real proof of them. He was fairly good at discerning the magical from the non-magical, in a botanical sense, and none of the empty jars had smelled like anything more powerful than verbena, which is really an herb of debatable magical origins, if you really thought about it, and—

No. He dragged his attention, kicking and screaming, from that train of thought, focusing back on the shopkeeper. He was trying to distance himself from potioneering, not throw himself into a new town’s version of the same thing. “Should I come back tomorrow?”

Irene huffed — not quite a laugh, but not annoyance either. It was the sound of someone deeply unimpressed by Lucian’s usual theatrics and just as deeply resigned to the fact that they always worked on her anyway. Her hand drifted over the blade in her lap — not gripping, just tracing the flat of it like it might ground her a little further into the present.

“Oh, others, huh?” she echoed, turning to eye him, one brow ticking up like she was weighing whether to roll her eyes or throw him in the lake. “That’s comforting. You do remember you’re not technically allowed to threaten evisceration until after dinner, right? I think that was in the handbook. Section four, maybe five.” Her tone was still dry, but her expression had softened — not quite open, but looser than usual. Lucian had that effect on her. The ability to carve space where the weight let up, even if only in slivers.

“Wait.” She narrowed her eyes, mock-affronted. “Did you just call me slow?”

There was a pause. Then, with theatrical gravity, she shook her head.

“Wow. You’re definitely losing another point for that one. Two more and I no longer like you.” A beat. “Or something.”

It came out lightly, but the joke sat on top of something else — a familiar rhythm between them, years old and still intact despite everything. Despite all the places they’d ended up on opposite sides of the room, the field, the war. The kind of connection that endured not because it was loud, but because it was persistent. Threaded through with too many half-smiles and stupid inside jokes to be anything but real.

And when she glanced over at him again, the edge of her mouth tugged — a rare, fleeting smile that touched more than just her lips. Just for a second. Just because it was him. Because the way he said darling and love didn’t land like it did when other people used it — didn’t ring hollow or honeyed. Just fit. Like a coat she'd never admit was her favorite.

“Mm, all in due time,” she repeated, a little softer now, eyes back on the water. “So..” Her voice dropped to that low lilt she only used when she was trying not to sound too curious. “What are you up to, exactly?”

He laughs, an honestly amused laugh that lacked all the mocking and promised pain they often do. Shrugging a shoulder as he takes in her nudge and words. "Ah well darling, I like keeping my insides inside... but other's... I prefer to pull them out." He says casually, like there's no dark meaning behind his words.

"Besides, had I actually sneak up on you, obvious as I was of my approach, then you probably wouldn't get your own tattoo anyway, love."

Not when they needed sharper instincts, to fight against creatures and monsters much faster and agile that a regular human being was capable of. Vicious in their attacks.

He looks at her, studies her for all of a minute to know there's something bothering her that won't ever make it to his ears. Not now, probably... perhaps when she's ready and willing.

He shrugs once more, playful as he looks back out into the space before them.

"As always, darling, you shall see it in due time." He's working on plenty things. All preparing him for a most delightful hunt.

She didn’t answer at first.

Not with words. Just pressed her face deeper into the familiar line of his shoulder and let the silence hold everything that should’ve broken her by now. He was still warm. Still solid. Still Riven. And that —that was the part that undid her the most. Because even after all the miles and blood and years stretched tight between then and now, even after all the things she’d killed and buried just to keep walking—he still felt like home.

A softer kind of breaking settled in her ribs.

He wasn’t as tall as she remembered. She didn’t have to reach anymore. Didn’t need to go on tiptoe to wrap her arms around him. But somehow, being in his arms made her feel smaller than ever. Not in a way that made her afraid. In a way that made her want to stay. Because if Riven was here, if he was real, then maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all lost yet.

And then he said that—Try that knife on me.

Her whole body went still.

She pulled back just far enough to look at him, the truth of him, to believe he wasn’t going to vanish. Her eyes searched his like she was trying to see the seams, the trick of it, the thread that would unravel this illusion if she tugged too hard.

But there was no illusion.

Only him.

“I would never,” she said, and her voice cracked right down the center. “No. No, never. You hear me?”

The words trembled out of her like glass under pressure, but the weight behind them was steel. She shook her head once, sharp and certain. “I’d put a bullet in my own skull before I ever hurt you. Don’t you—” Her breath hitched again. “Don’t you say shit like that. Not to me. Not you.”

She closed her eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe. Then his next question hit her like a cold wind through a cracked door. She huffed a sound —not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. A hollow thing.

“No,” she said, plain and simple. “No. Nothing’s okay.”

Not her mom. Not her dad and certainly not her.

And then, softly, almost dazed, “What do you mean, how did I find you?” Her brows knit, like the question itself hurt. “We live here.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

And the moment she said we, the world righted itself.

The old house. The protective circles. The soundproofing, the wards, the runes scrawled under the windowpanes. She’d kept it all running. For just in case.

She pulled back a little more, enough to take his hand in hers, fingers curling like they used to when she was smaller and braver and full of impossible belief and hope. Just like she used to do when she wanted to drag him away from danger, away from fights he didn’t need to take for her. Back when she still thought he could fix everything with just a smile and a soft hand on her shoulder.

Her voice dropped to something gentler now, touched with something like hope.

“Come with me,” she said. “It’s not far. You’ll be safe there. I don't want them to see you.”

She tugged at his hand again —not demanding, not pulling hard. Just like always. That quiet, steady kind of insistence. A lifeline, knotted in memory.

I can't get to have this.

He wasn't what she remembered. He was no longer gentle and kind— a boy, just as lost as she was, just better at navigating the halls of their haunted house. Who reached to catch her when she stumbled, and stood between her and the dark like it was instinct. A big brother, of sorts. Her shield.

Now he felt like a stranger wearing the skin of someone she used to need.

Would she be disappointed, once she learned the truth? His smile was tight, yet there, just enough to give her something to hold onto. "You can try that knife on me," he said, "See if I’d bleed." Usually ghosts didn't. It was a tease, but there was something in his eyes that didn’t quite laugh. .

When all the weapons dropped and arms wrapped around each other, Riven remembered the last time he’d held her this close. Back then, she barely reached his chest, going up on her toes. She wasn't little anymore, her head fit neatly against his shoulder, no stretching required. And still, she clung to him like he was the only thing left in the world that could save her. Christ. He couldn’t even save himself, let alone her. "Is everything okay?" No, he supposed not from the way she was shaking in his arms, but the words slipped out anyway, as his hand rose to comb gently through her hair— "How did you find me?"

On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?

On an average day, Irene’s pockets are a quiet reflection of who she is — practical, private, and always prepared.

She usually carries her keys, looped with a spare hair tie — always black, always stretched a little too thin from use. There’s almost always a crumpled receipt or two she’s forgotten to throw out, tucked next to a folded grocery list or a sticky note with something half-crossed out.

Wired headphones are a constant — no earbuds or Bluetooth nonsense. She likes the certainty of something that won’t disconnect without warning.

Sage shifts against her with a soft chitter, tiny paws patting at the edge of her collar like she might burrow inside it if given the option. Irene lets her. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just rests her cheek against the top of the little raccoon’s head for a moment, eyes slipping closed like that warmth is enough to trick her into stillness, a moment that barely lasted, before her attention was back to Shiv again.

Irene didn’t look at Juniper right away. Her gaze stayed somewhere near Shiv’s collarbone, the place where breath kept rising and falling slow beneath her palm — proof enough that the thread still held. That what she was doing mattered.

Juniper’s words weren’t wrong. She knew that. Knew it in the way her own body dragged with every movement, like it had forgotten the shape of rest. The way food felt more like obligation than comfort, and how even the water she sipped tasted like ash sometimes, because it never touched the kind of thirst she really had.

But it was Shiv.

That was the beginning and the end of it.

She curled her fingers a little tighter around his, still careful, still there. And after a long breath that she let filter through her teeth, she leaned back just enough that the spell could stretch with her — pliant, practiced, held steady with a flick of her wrist. Sage shifted with her, head tucked beneath her chin now, breath warm against her throat.

“I know,” Irene said finally. Her voice was low. Not defensive. Not even distant. Just worn at the edges, the way soft things got after enough time spent exposed. “You’re not wrong. You’re not annoying.”

A small pause.

“Thank you,” she added, and meant it — even if she couldn’t quite put the weight of it into her tone. She looked over then, meeting Juniper’s gaze for the first time in a while.

She didn’t say she was grateful for the food — she hadn’t touched it yet. Probably wouldn’t, not until the spell settled and the ache in her stomach turned from fog to signal. But the plate stayed within reach, and that was enough for now.

“I know I’m running close to the line,” she admitted, thumb brushing lightly along Shiv’s knuckles, grounding. “But I can’t not be here. Not for him. He’d do the same. Has done the same, even when I didn’t ask.”

There was no wobble in the words. No heroics either. Just fact. The kind of bond that had been carved quietly over time, sealed in things unsaid.

She was quiet for a beat, then her mouth tilted just slightly — not quite a smirk, not quite a smile.

“You can ask,” she said, a little drier now. “You’ve wanted to, haven’t you? Why I’m here. Why I’m sitting in the middle of this, pretending not to be something I am.”

Her eyes didn’t flinch. Neither did her grip on Shiv.

There was a smile as Irene lifted Sage up into her lap. Noting the barely there shift in Irene's posture. Juniper was lucky to have Sage. She was rather in tune with people, and had a knack for knowing when someone needed something warm and fluffy to hold onto. Only causing a little trouble as she played gently with Irene's hair and reached out for the hunter from time to time. 

“Yeah, well someone has to make sure you two are eating. Magic burns more calories than people would think.” This is why she usually got larger portions for lunch. That way if she didn’t finish it all Irene still had plenty to take home. It wasn’t really her job, but she had seen this kind of thing before. Too many times in her past had Juniper skipped a meal because she was too focused on something else. Or simply just skipped a meal. Not a good habit. And not a habit she was keen to see repeated by Irene. 

She nods when Irene says she is managing. It’s a strained answer. She believes her. Irene very much is managing, 24/7, she never seems to stop managing. Her plate is always full, between work, hunter business, witch business, and still finding the time to spend hours here everyday, working some intricate spellcraft from what Juniper has seen. Dream magic is nothing to scoff at. 

“I have no doubt he is doing fine. He has some very competent witches taking care of him.” She makes the statement pointed. “Thera is handling the brunt of the physical care. But you are handling the mental load. That’s not nothing.” She leans back in her chair, letting her legs stretch out in front of her as she slouches with a sigh. “Honestly it’s exhausting just watching.”

Reaching into her own lunch bag she grabs a handful of fries. Picking at those one by one so she doesn’t have to sit up yet. Shrugging a shoulder. “I'm the same as usual. Not enough hours in the day but we still go on. I’m thoroughly relieved to have construction going now. The entire floor got wrecked by the flooding, so today they are ripping everything up so we can look at the foundation. Interesting stuff. I know.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. 

She didn’t speak again for a while. Watching Irene and the way she interacted with the hunter. Using fries to swallow down the sour taste in her mouth. Juniper was no stranger to the complicated nature of hunter/witch association. It was a strange dance. Witches supplying humans with just enough magic to be a threat. Working side by side and only hunters really seemed to get the benefit of the bargain. She wondered what Irene got out of pretending to be one of them. 

“I’m going to be annoying for a moment, but you really can’t run on empty Irene, at least not without exorbitant amounts of adrenaline. If you keep up this pace you are going to burn out.” She didn’t look at Irene, she didn’t want this to seem like a lecture. It wasn’t a lecture. It was Juniper expressing reasonable concern for a fellow witch. This was the conversation that happens before lecturing. 

Irene doesn’t look up right away. Just busies herself behind the counter — adjusting the jar of salt that doesn’t need adjusting, flicking the lamp switch one more time as if that’ll stop the buzzing (it won’t). But mostly, she gives herself a beat. A breath. Just long enough to make sure the lie stays smooth on her tongue, as effortless and worn-in as it’s always been. “I’m not a witch,” she says again, steady, like she’s said it a thousand times — because she has. To strangers. To threats. To people who cared too much or not at all. It never mattered which. It always had to sound the same. “I just work here.” She shrugs, easy and practiced. Like it’s all just coincidence. Like she’s just a woman with a few too many books and a mild intolerance for nonsense.

“Most of it’s just retail.” Her voice is lighter now, teasing around the edges — not mocking, not with Allie — but carefully disarming. “Witches don’t exactly come with HR departments, but someone’s still got to track the moon cycles on the wall calendar.”

The spell wrapped around her hums, faint but firm — the kind that runs deep in the bones, silent and airtight. Designed to slip under notice, to keep the sharp edges of her magic hidden beneath skin and smile and plausible deniability. No slip. No shimmer. Nothing for Allie to feel but what Irene allows.

And that’s safer. For both of them.

Still, the way Allie’s looking at her — bright and soft and full of unguarded belief — makes something uncomfortable shift beneath her ribs. Not guilt, not exactly. Just the ache of being seen too closely, even through a lie.

Her eyes flick to the notebook again when Allie speaks, and for a second, something gentler passes over Irene’s face. Just a flicker. Almost fond. Almost sad.

“You’re better at more than just wishing,” she says quietly, almost like she’s saying it to herself. Then, a little clearer: “Don’t sell yourself short.”

It’s not the kind of thing Irene says often. She doesn’t do comfort well — not the sweet kind, anyway. But for Allie, she tries. Maybe because Allie’s the only person she’s ever met who could make magic out of other people’s words and believe it was enough.

A breath passes, and Irene clears her throat, nudging a candle wick back into place with the edge of a matchstick.

“Still. Keep an eye on what you write in that thing,” she adds, back to dry again. But not cold. “The walls here like to listen. And your kind of magic… the hopeful kind? That’s the sort that sticks.”

She glances up, finally meeting Allie’s gaze, steady and unreadable.

“And trust me — not everything you wish for is something you want coming true.”

        as soon as she lets go, she finds she regrets it. not holding on just a touch longer, not squeezing her harder, not softening like she knows how important it is that irene doesn’t push her away. it’s cherished, and gone entirely too soon. now, she’s holding the little notebook. it fits a little easier, but that doesn’t matter so much to allie. she glides a thumb across the pages, the edges of them. it’s an absent-minded movement, a brush or the gentle pad of her finger, but even that centers her, grounds her memories to something solid. 

        it’s not long, though, as she’s looking to irene with a hopeful kind of curiosity, that allie’s grip loosens on truth, on predictability, and falls dizzy.  “ what? ”  her brown pinches, she whirls to follow irene to where she goes behind the counter. she doesn’t breach that barrier, too afraid of earning irene pushing her away, this time, but she does follow her there, big blue eyes wild with confusion.   “ what do you mean you’re not a witch? this is- this is the witch store. why are you working at the witch store if you’re not a witch? ”  she can’t help but let it feel like another wall, allie’s standing on her tiptoes to try and see over it, reach for it. of course, it makes her impossibly curious, in addition to the total lack of sense it makes. hadn’t she felt irene, like witches feel each other? had she made that all up? she must’ve, because irene says she’s not and even if it doesn’t make any sense at all, she believes her, if only because irene said to.

        her eyes stay soft and round as she listens, a peek of the sun shining through as irene nods towards the journal, her gaze flickers down to look at it, before it goes right back to irene. like she’s looking for … something, but she doesn’t know what it is.  “ oh it’s not really … anything important. i mean it’s all important to me, but it’s, like … just little stuff. anything i hear that i want to remember. like, stuff kiri says, or … um, ”  there’s more names waiting on her tongue, but she leaves them to rest in her heart, instead. irene probably doesn’t care, she doesn’t want to make her listen.  “ but i hope it comes true, whatever it is. wishing’s probably the only thing i am good at. ”