She shouldn’t be out. She knows she shouldn’t be out.
The wind was picking up by the time she stepped off the curb with her bag of essentials —a few candles, batteries, water purification tabs, and a box of matches she’d definitely pretend she didn’t already have four of. Enough to make her look responsible, not enough to make her feel less like she was just pretending at being calm.
The spell at the house would hold. It had to. The wards were layered, written sharp and tight into the corners with salt, red thread, and sweat she hadn’t meant to cry. It was good work. She rarely admitted to being proud of anything lately, but that spell… it would hold. Long enough for her mother to sleep through the worst of it, anyway.
And Irene? Irene needed air.
The streets weren’t empty yet, but they would be soon. Most windows had already been boarded, the sharp metallic tang of storm-braced magic riding the breeze. Her boots left muddy half-prints on the uneven pavement as she walked, head down, the plastic bag swinging at her side. She didn’t have a destination. That was the point.
Anywhere but home. Anywhere but there.
The docks called to her—not because she liked the sea (she didn’t) or found solace in its violence (she absolutely didn’t)—but because it was the last place anyone with sense would linger. She could pretend for a few minutes that she didn’t belong anywhere else either.
And that’s when she saw him.
At first, just a shape in the distance, upright and dark and laughing in the rain like something pulled too fast from a dream or a warning.
Her steps slowed.
It wasn’t the figure that stopped her—it was the feeling. The storm recognized him. That’s what it felt like. The wind didn’t whip around him, it curled. Familiar. Like he belonged to it, or it to him. She didn’t know which was worse.
“You’re either insane,” she called out over the howl of the wind, voice even but thin from disuse, “or looking to get dragged straight into the harbor.”
Irene stopped a few feet off, the grocery bag bumping lightly against her knee. Her hair was soaked, curling around her jaw, her coat clinging heavy to her arms.
“And you’re laughing like it’s funny,” she added, quieter now, more to herself than him. “God. What the hell is wrong with you.” What the hell was wrong with her?
But she didn’t leave. Not yet. Let the wind scream. Let the sea rise. She wasn’t ready to go home either.
who: open to anyone wandering about ! ♡ where: Outside . / when: Day One, Hurricane Jac .
thing is, césar knows the smell of a storm.
it’s fiercer, now, when he’s far more wolf than man, so much so that dark fur covers every inch of him, deep sharp canines lie behind a curled lip. giving way to the monster of his body is supposed to let him feel free, feel wild, but all it’s managed to do since coming home is make him paranoid. a wary, feral animal, nobody likes him at all. it doesn’t make him useful, only dangerous. césar likes it this way, keeping everyone out without even having to touch them at all. just the threat of him is easy enough.
thing is, césar should know the smell of the storm, should know better than sticking around as the clouds start to darken and churn, how the air begins to taste of ferocity and the water grows vengeful. but, honestly, he just doesn’t fucking care.
he cares just enough to force his body back into human shape. dark curls, and dark eyes, and the same kind of wild imbued in him as there was moments before, as a wolf. he walks through the city, watching as the weather just begins to worsen. some unfortunate soul has left their laundry out in the pouring rain, césar plucks it from the line. even cold and wet, it suits him just fine. now clothed, he watches the sky, the water, lets his eyes trace over port leiry, even hurricane ridden. the storm is beautiful, the ocean wild, he feels right at home. the boats are sure to be dust by dark, similarly to any person sticking around, and the docks …
the docks.
huh, how about that. yuisa’s pride and joy, soon to be swallowed by waves. césar laughs. he laughs, and laughs, and laughs. as he wipes both an amused tear and a sweep of rain from across his face, he finds that his own hurricane plan doesn’t matter as much. he’ll figure it out along the way, wonders if his previous indiscretions at that college party two years ago would bar him from entry of the stadium. césar tips his chin up to the sky, and breathes it in.
Irene tolerated the hug like she might tolerate a cat sitting in her lap uninvited—still, unmoving, but with a faintly stunned look in her eye like she wasn’t entirely sure how it had come to this. She didn’t return it, not exactly, but she didn’t push Allie away either. Which, for Irene, was saying something.
“Matching energies,” she echoed, dry as ever, but her voice was quieter now. Less like bark, more like rustling leaves. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
She let Allie take the notebook without protest, though her fingers lingered a beat too long before letting it go. Like maybe part of her was tempted to hang onto it, if only to make sure it didn’t end up under the peppermint again. Or the radiators. Or that one cursed drawer that ate things whole.
At the question, though—do you have something like it?—Irene’s expression shifted.
Not visibly. Not much. Just a flicker in the way she blinked, the angle of her shoulders as she turned and started walking back toward the counter. Something closing behind the eyes.
“No,” she said simply. “I’m not a witch.”
It was too smooth. Too practiced. Not even a hitch.
“I just know a thing or two about herbs. Plants. I read a lot.”
The lie settled neatly between them, well-worn and wrapped in just enough truth to pass inspection. It always sounded better when she said it like that —like it wasn’t a big deal. Like the books and the jars and the faint, prickling hum of the walls around them weren’t strung together with old wards and stranger things. Survival, after all, had never been about honesty.
She paused near the counter, reaching to flick off a lamp that had started to buzz again, half-listening to the light catch in Allie’s laughter.
“You should be careful with those kinds of notebooks,” she said, tone light enough to sound like she was joking—though the words had an edge to them, buried deep. “Write the wrong thing down and it might try to make itself true.”
Then, as if to soften it —because Allie was still glowing at her like Irene had hung the stars with her bare hands —she added, “But I guess that’s your kind of magic.”
She gave a short nod toward the journal. “Just make sure it doesn’t end up in the peppermint again.”
she giggles, a little apologetic, but mostly just tickled with humor. and, anyways, she’s pretty sure irene’s kidding. allie’s never put glitter in the mortars on purpose, but maybe if it’s gotten on her hands … still, her eyes flicker over to them, just to make sure the stone of them isn’t entirely bedazzled. but, before she can fully set her gaze on them, irene’s talking about her little lost thing, and allie remembers why the wind brought her back here.
her head tilts sheepishly. yes, of course, she’d left something behind again. really, it doesn’t matter so much as long as she keeps coming back to the apothecary, and she always does. if she could hold onto things longer- memories -it wouldn’t matter so much. but it was on her mind and worth a try and she had hope and now, here she is! and here irene is, and she’s found it. “ oh my gosh, thank you, thank you! you’re the best! ” she forgets about her quest to keep irene from getting too grumpy with her as her eyes catch hold of the little journal. allie squeals, and rushes forward, wrapping her arms around irene’s shoulders in a brief squeeze, fueled by a rush of affection. “ you’re so good at finding things, i think that’s why we’re friends. ‘cause we have, like, matching energies. ” she lets go soon enough, resting back down on the ground, instead of pushed up on her tiptoes, reaching for the clouds.
allie takes the journal back from where it’s dangling from the tips of irene’s fingers, clutching it gratefully, tender, to her chest. there’s more laughter spilling from her lips. “ i’m very lucky, but it’s ‘cause of you, silly. ” she doesn’t believe irene’s threat of keeping it, mostly because there’s nothing in there that’s all that interesting. of course, it’s all interesting to allie, but … everything is. “ do you have something like it? like, a little book you keep all your magic stuff in? ”
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?”
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 stops. Not all the way — not like someone caught — just enough that the wind tugs her coat sideways as she turns her head, just slightly, enough to look back over her shoulder. Not enough to give him the satisfaction of her full attention. Just enough to remind him she heard.
Her voice is quieter now, but it carries. A low current in the air, sharp as salt on an open wound.
“Funny thing,” she says, slow, measured. “You always think you’re doing the hunting until the ground gives out under you.”
She doesn’t give him a smile — wouldn’t waste one — but there’s a shift at the corner of her mouth. Not amusement. Something older. Worn. Closer to warning.
“Your kind shouldn’t be out in the rain.”
Her gaze flicks to the sky, where stormclouds roll like smoke on the edge of something worse. Then back to him, steady.
“Not when people would love nothing more than to see what you look like flayed open and nailed to someone’s cellar wall. Wet fur’s easier to skin.”
There’s no venom in it. Just fact, spoken like a woman who’s seen it done and didn’t bother looking away. Maybe even held the knife once.
Then she turns fully, shoulders settling back like a door swinging closed. No dramatic exit, no theatrics — just the kind of silence that comes after a line is drawn in chalk and left for the rain to erase.
“I don’t smell like nightmares. You do. I just know how to handle them.”
now, she’s the one full of bullshit. césar rolls his eyes. now, they’re sick of each other. “ for someone who’s tired of me talking, you sure like putting words in my mouth. ” he’s a monster that doesn’t respect much. the sea, the natural chaos, they might be the only things in all the world that he does. and vengeance, he loves that shit.
you’d better know how to swim when it pulls you under. “ wanna’ bet? dare me. ” he’s not a domesticated thing, hasn’t lost the pure, natural instinct to stay alive, but- he’s always been easily beckoned to a wine-dark sea, being dragged under the waves sounds better than whatever the fuck he’s doing now. whether or not he survives that is none of his business. his instincts will kick in, or they won’t.
césar watches her turn around. despite the wolf that tingles under his skin, that wild nature threatens to turn skin to fur under stolen clothes, he doesn’t enjoy this chase. it’s a battle of pride, he’s a stubborn thing, and, truly, he just doesn’t care enough. there is nothing here to stoke the saliva from behind canines, to make him thirst and hunger for this. he’ll find another rat to play with, if the boredom persists. the man inside him refuses to be reduced to an animal, trailing along pathetically for a morsel of attention. but the wolf … catches a whiff of something familiar. a herb of the magical variety, one he knows from trial and error. the herb worked, but it wasn’t enough for what césar needed. once he focuses in on the smell, it’s impossible to ignore. it only grows stronger, and the storm, the sound of her turning feet, it all turns to background noise. it’s so strong, the smell of the herb, he believes he could follow it through, wherever she goes home to. wherever she’s hiding from. still, he comments bluntly, like he isn't sure, like he's too sure, like it's another part to this game. " you smell funny, who're you hiding from nightmares? "
There was a flicker in her expression —not quite surprise, not quite protest. Just something that passed through and didn’t linger. Her gaze dropped to the canvas bag like she’d forgotten it was even there.
“You don’t have to do all that,” she muttered, toeing it a little closer with the side of her boot. “I wasn’t angling for a tune-up.”
Still, she didn’t say no.
The bag gave a dull clink as she set it on the table. Inside; a cloth-wrapped bundle of throwing knives, a small pouch of dried sigil chalks, a pair of worn leather wraps that smelled faintly of smoke, and—carefully tucked in a separate sheath, her father’s knife. The grip was dark with age, the edge clean but dulled from use. Nothing flashy. Nothing ornamental. Just the kind of tools you carried because you had to, not because they made you look the part. Tools that had seen too much and kept quiet about it.
She picked up the blade, turned it once in her hand before setting it down for him to see. “It’s not in the worst shape,” she said. “But it’s not great either.”
Then, silence again. Long enough to leave space, short enough not to close the door. She leaned back on her heels, arms folding loosely. Eyes steady on Shiv now, but unreadable.
“I don’t like saying things out loud,” she said, eventually. “Feels like naming them makes them real.”
A pause.
“But the apartment’s too quiet. And the shop smells like the past. And I don’t know if I’m just tired, or if I’ve been tired so long it started to feel normal.”
She blinked once, then looked away, pretending to study the laundry machine like it might offer an answer. “So yeah. I figured training. At least it’s motion.”
Another beat.
“I wasn’t really expecting company,” she said, a little softer this time. “But I’m not about to turn it down.” And in its own strange, backward way — that was thanks.
“If that's the case, the washer's all yours.” Though her suggestion may be a lie, the invitation rings true. The laundry machines will still be there, no matter if Irene decides to use them now or later.
Yet there seems to be something else on her mind besides laundry or training. It’s just a matter of chipping away at that cold, distant exterior.
Shiv meets Irene’s glance with a shrug. “Sure. I'm free to join. Or accompany. Or make noise.” Three very different tasks depending on what exactly Irene is trying to accomplish. “Training is all well and good, but there’s probably better ways to fill the quiet. At some point, routine just becomes part of the humdrum, right? Just more quiet on top of quiet. Can't have that... Here.”
Shiv leans forward with one hand planted on their desk as the other points to her small discarded canvas bag. “What kind of training gear have you been carrying around all night? I can bet whatever it is will be in need of some deep cleaning or sharpening. Including that blade of yours.”
That blade being the silver-edged knife on her thigh, of course. How could Shiv not see it? The antique of a weapon sticks out of her outfit like a sore thumb.
"C'mon", Shiv clears their table and reaches into their drawer for the cleaning supplies they had immediately on hand. "Let me run a quick maintenance check. On the house. Just start filling the silence and say what's actually on your mind."
END.
Irene stepped out into the night without hurry, coat already buttoned against the bite in the wind. The door clicked shut behind them, shop light spilling warm and gold onto the pavement for a breath before dimming again. She didn't say much at first — she rarely did. But her gaze flicked once toward Juniper and lingered a beat longer than it needed to. Not exactly assessing. Not quite protective, either. Just… noting. Marking presence.
When Juniper spoke, Irene let the quiet settle before answering — like she was giving the question room to breathe before deciding how to respond.
“Coffee,” she said simply. “Black’s fine.”
Her voice didn’t soften, but there was a steadiness to it now. Like she’d decided something, even if it didn’t show.
She walked a few paces, hands in her pockets, the sound of their steps meeting damp asphalt and the distant murmur of streetlights humming to life overhead.
“Appreciate the offer,” she added, a little lower, like the air had thinned around the words. “Not necessary, but… it’d be welcome.”
She didn’t mention she’d be getting some anyway. Not for the taste, not even for the ritual. Just to keep her eyes sharp when sleep kept missing its mark. She’d spent too many nights lately counting hours by the bottom of a mug. But she didn’t say that out loud. Didn't need to. The walk stretched ahead of them, shadows curling long, and the city had the kind of hush that always came just before something tried its luck.
Better to stay alert. Better to keep moving.
And for once, she didn’t mind the company.
“Mm,” Irene hummed, a noncommittal sound. She didn’t look surprised. If anything, she looked like someone slotting a puzzle piece into place. “Sounds about right. Most people who end up here didn’t mean to. Or didn’t plan to stay.”
She watched him over the rim of her own mug now, steam fogging faintly between them.
“The lounge has always had gravity. Even before it was Obsidian,” she said, voice a little lower, like the walls might be listening. “Something about that corner keeps pulling strange things toward it. People. Things that look like people. Half-forgotten debts. You know.”
Or maybe he didn’t. But if he was still sipping the tea like that—carefully, like someone who grew up taught to test for toxins before taste—then she figured he knew enough. You can't ignore the magic.
At his question, she let out a soft breath, almost a laugh.
“Yeah,” she said. “There’s many.” Her eyes flicked up again, sharper this time. “Some just want somewhere quiet. Some want to make deals. Some want to drink blood out of crystal stemware and pretend they’re still civilized.”
Irene reached over to nudge the tin of tea leaves back into place on the shelf.
“You’ll learn which is which pretty quick.”
Then, almost as an afterthought—though her tone was too even to be casual—she added, “You ever need help knowing who not to serve… you can ask.”
“Neither. I simply needed a change. I wrote to some people who I hoped would be helpful to know in a new town, and received a response from someone who lives here.” Jaya said, leaning back on the counter before Irene set down the mug.
He took the mug gratefully, cooling the tea a second longer than necessary. An old habit, one he was barely even conscious of at this point, taking in the scent for any clear signs of known poisons. His mother was a careful woman, and no potioneer worth anything would let their children roam free without ingraining the basic instincts to avoid being hurt by any rivals. All he could pick up was chamomile, and a note of apples. He took a sip as he considered what she said.
“I've never tended bar before, no. I was only trying to purchase the apartment above the lounge. The owner was clearly sick of being here, and wanted to be rid of more than the apartment. I got a very good deal on the whole place.” He paused, the mug an inch from his mouth. “I... had not considered the more nocturnal customers. Are there many, in this town?”
Irene didn’t speak at first. Just stood there in the rain, coat stitched to her like a second skin, eyes set in a line that didn’t waver, didn’t blink. The storm had settled into something steadier now — a long, needling drizzle, the kind that soaked slow and stuck like guilt. It blurred the edges of the world, smeared the headlights in distant driveways, turned her breath to ghost-pale smoke.
When she finally exhaled, it was quiet. Not exasperated. Not angry.
Just… tired.
“I’ve met some suicidal people,” she said, voice low and dry, “— but this beats them all.”
She didn’t mean it cruel. There was no heat in it. Just the matter-of-fact weight of someone who’d walked through too many doorways behind bodies that couldn’t say no when it counted. Her gaze ticked down the side of the truck, traced the dented fender and the rust creeping out like ivy from the wheel well.
The wind shifted, pulling her hood back enough to reveal more of her face — pale skin flushed red at the cheeks, rainwater dragging hair across her jaw like threads of ink. There was no pleading in her expression. No desperation.
Just a quiet, aching kind of certainty.
“You want to stay? Fine. That’s yours to own. But don’t pretend it’s about sparing anyone else. You will die. And worse, you might take more people with you who are dumb enough to come out for you.”
The joke doesn't land, but he didn't really expect it to. But he's skeptical at her stance that he's got anything worth something to someone else. Even if a vampire were to come along, his blood probably tastes like pharmaceuticals and weed, not exactly the most appealing to anyone, and maybe he would make for a decent chewtoy for a werewolf if they didn't mind how stringy he was.
"Look," he sighs. "I get it. I hear you." They're the same warnings that have been rattling around in his head for hours, with each passing refusal. "But this truck... it's the only good thing that I have of my dad left." Fuck, he doesn't even know what the point of explaining it is. He was a shitty dude, left Kevin and their family with a ton of shitty problems, and yet, it wasn't always so bad. This truck is a reminder of those moments. It sounds even stupider now in his brain but he doesn't mention that part.
"I'm sure you're willing to help, and I appreciate it. I do. But I'm not leaving. It's my choice if I want to get wiped off the map with my truck, but I'd rather no one else get caught in my stupidity." She has no attachment to this truck or Kevin, and he wills her to listen to that. "The tow's gonna come, and I'll be fine." He has to be.