Irene Didn’t Flinch When Allie Touched Her — Not Really — But There Was The Faintest Shift In Her

Irene didn’t answer right away. She rarely did — especially when the questions pressed deeper than the surface. When the words weren’t just about facts or logic, but about identity. About the mess between the lines, the in-betweens no one wanted to name. She stayed quiet, fingers brushing the back of Shiv’s hand like she could trace stability into him. Sage had gone still against her, content and warm, her tiny weight curled like a secret under Irene’s chin. She could feel the raccoon’s small breath rise and fall — steady, grounding. A reminder that even here, even now, someone trusted her without conditions.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. But there was something dense in it — something worn-in and real, like stones pulled smooth by riverwater.

“I wouldn't say I am —no, I don’t know if I am pretending.”

She didn’t look at Juniper when she said it. Not yet. Her gaze drifted somewhere just past her — unfocused, like she was seeing a place she hadn’t stood in for years. A childhood home that never felt safe. A hallway with too many closed doors. A training field with cold-eyed instructors and no room for mercy.

“That’s not fair.”

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t defensive. It was just… true, in a way that sat heavy on her tongue.

“I’m a witch.” A pause. A breath. “But that's something I can't admit openly right now. Not to anyone that didn't already know.”

She exhaled through her nose, the sound soft and tired. Not ashamed. Not brave either. Just resigned to the reality of it.

“I’ve always been one. Born with it in my blood, in my bones. I used to think I could choke it down. Tame it. Repress it until it stopped hurting.” Her lips twisted, not quite a smile. “Didn’t work.” Irene reached up absently to push a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture as tired as everything else about her.

“But my father — he was a hunter. So when you say I’m pretending,” she said finally, voice still soft, but anchored now — to the bed beneath her, to Shiv’s pulse under her hand, to all the things she could never say out loud in the halls outside this room — “You’re not wrong, but you’re not right either.”

She looked at Juniper now. Really looked. Her expression was unreadable, not because she was guarding it, but because there was too much written in the lines of it to separate cleanly. Fatigue. Frustration. Certainty and confusion tangled together like thread through the same needle.

“I don’t know what I am. That’s the truth of it. You want honesty? That’s it.”

The words didn’t come like a confession. They didn’t fall out of her like she was unburdening herself. They just were. Like she’d lived with them for so long that saying them out loud didn’t even sting anymore.

“I’m a witch, yes. And I’m the daughter of a hunter. The old kind. The ones who didn’t ask questions, who didn’t flinch when the orders came down, and he loved me, regardless. And I loved him.” Her lips pressed into a line. “So what does that make me?”

She didn’t wait for Juniper to answer. Didn’t expect her to.

“I’ve spent most of my life figuring out how to survive that question without getting myself killed. And I’m still not sure I’ve found the right answer. I walk like a hunter because I need to. I cast like a witch because that’s what I am. And I don’t belong anywhere because of it.”

She leaned back slightly, enough that the line of the spell adjusted again. The shimmer of it tugged in the air, barely visible except in the way her breath shifted to meet its rhythm. Sage didn’t stir, her little paws tucked tight, a low hum of trust vibrating through her chest.

“I’m not playing some long game, Juniper. I don’t have an angle. There’s no infiltration plan or secret witch cabal waiting for me to bring back intel.” Her mouth twitched, just barely. “Though I’m sure some of them would love to think that. Makes for better stories.”

She glanced down again, at Shiv’s hand in hers. Thumb brushing over his knuckles like punctuation.

“We all have our reasons to be here. Some more than others. And if I can use my powers to help them, then why not? Why can't I be a witch in one moment and a hunter at the next? Why can't I care and be both?”

The plate of food was still untouched, but it didn’t feel ignored. Just… postponed. A promise to herself, maybe, that there would be time later. When her hands weren’t full of something fragile.

“I know I’m burning myself down to do this,” she admitted. “You’re not wrong to say it. You’re not wrong to care.” Her voice thinned for a moment, not from lack of conviction, but from the sheer weight of the line she’d been walking. Every day. Every hour. One foot in the light, one foot in the dark. “But it’s not always about what I want. Or what I should. It’s about what I can do. And right now? This is it. This is the only thing that feels like it matters.”

She hesitated then, long enough to let her words settle. To let the moment breathe.

“I’m not asking you to approve of it. I’m not asking you to understand the way I’ve had to twist myself just to survive in a world that would pick me apart no matter which name I wore.” Her baby blues met Juniper’s again — not challenging, just asking, in the simplest way that mattered. “I’m just asking you not to judge me for it and keep it to yourself."

Another breath, thinner now.

“The world isn’t just witches and hunters, good and bad, light and dark. It’s not that simple. You know it’s not.”

Oop she was caught. 

Juniper had the decency to look sheepish. Suddenly very interested in the pile of fries in her palm. She knew Irene worked dream magic. To put it as simply as possible, but now she was wondering if she didn’t have some kind of mind reading as well. A horrifying concept. It was already a mess in Juniper's head, she didn’t need another person mucking it up.

“That’s… not exactly it. There are a lot of reasons to pretend to be human… It’s the hunter part of it I don’t get. You are running yourself ragged Irene. You say he’s done the same- I’ll believe you. Thera seems to put stock in him too. Whatever. The one hunter that can be trusted completely I guess.” She sighed 

“All that I can rationalize somehow in my head… Pretending to be a hunter? I don’t get it. I don’t see the angle.” It was probably her own biases skewing her perception of the situation. But she couldn’t help that. It felt wrong to just sit by while Irene worked herself down to skin and bone. 

“You don’t have to explain anything to me. It isn’t my business. I’m also pretty horrified I couldn’t keep my thoughts off my face. I will have to work on that.” She sat up straighter, getting more situated in her chair. 

“I’m just trying to make sure you are aware of your own boundaries Irene, what happens to this spell you are working so hard on if you end up on bedrest as well? It’s not always easy to see the effects our actions are having on us in the moment. You are tired Irene, you are not eating or sleeping enough to maintain this level of spellwork.” It was blunt but she felt it needed to be said. 

It was a talk she had given a couple of times when she was coven head. It was also a talk she needed to receive a couple times. She was deeply familiar with both sides of it. Knowing your boundaries as a witch can be some of the hardest learned lessons. Juniper was still reeling from learning her boundaries had been altered; and still learning how to handle the new influx of power. It was a fresh concept to her and she hated to see someone she was starting to see as a friend come up on the wrong side of that delicate line.

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? "

Irene didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t rise to meet the bait like so many did — like Briar wanted her to. She just kept her eyes on the other woman, the corner of the worn label finally peeling back beneath her thumb like paper tired of keeping secrets.

“For fun?” she echoed, tone flat enough to skip.

She set the jar down with a soft clink. Not careless, not reverent — just exact. As if even glass had a place, and she wasn’t in the habit of misplacing things.

“I mend things that don’t belong to me,” she said, matter-of-fact. “I walk places people don’t think to look. I make sure what’s buried stays that way.”

A pause, but not because she was searching for anything. She just wanted the silence to sit there for a moment, thick and quiet and full of things unsaid.

“I’m not here to amuse you,” Irene added, finally lifting her gaze fully to Briar’s. There was no heat in it — just clarity, cool as the bottom of a well.

“And I don’t trade in curiosities.”

She stepped back behind the counter, rolling her sleeves down one at a time, slow and methodical like it was the end of something, not the beginning.

“But you asked. So that’s it. That’s your favor.”

Her hands moved to the ledger again, pen flicking once to mark a line through something unseen, invisible to everyone but her.

“No refunds. No rerolls. If you wanted stories, you should’ve asked for something easier to return.”

Briar's confused by all the obfuscation; ledger this, ledger that. Goodwoman Stephens is brave indeed, dealing with this sort of orderly chaos. Were she to start her own public facing endeavor she'd not last the week before she was caught trafficking in sleep aids because some neck-tied hoglet a city over wanted his cut of the coin. Of course should the police come for her they'd all be quite dead in short order; food for the root, but that would beruin the point; the girl is overcautious.

Still, whether it's the 1720s or the 2020s she supposes a pig's only ever good for carving.

"But asking games are such fun!" She muses. "Tch. You've so serious a tone. I'll wager too that you're quite the stickler aren't you? How about this, as I've no need for any materiel; Tell me, what do you do for fun? Outside this shop I mean. Otherwise, I simply won't believe you know how to have it. That's the favor I ask."

Irene didn’t answer at first.

She just stood there, half turned, coat stretched between them like a line drawn in wet chalk — fading, but still there. Allie’s words landed softly, but they lingered, like pollen in her lungs. You’re a pretty thing. She huffed out something like a laugh, but it was quiet, more breath than sound. The kind of sound that wanted to be disbelief but came out something gentler.

There was no way Allie knew what she was saying. Not really. Not when she looked at Irene like that — like there was no blood on her hands, no sharp edges tucked behind her ribs. Like this world could still be something soft, and Irene someone who could hold it without breaking it.

The rain kept on falling, slower now, steadier — but the sky hadn’t eased. Thunder growled in the distance, low and mean, a reminder that the storm hadn’t finished making its point. Irene glanced up, jaw tight, then down again at the soaked hem of Allie’s dress, the way she shivered under the weight of the cold even while smiling like she belonged to it.

“You’re gonna get yourself struck by lightning if you keep dancing around like that,” Irene muttered, and there was no bite in it — just that soft, tired kind of affection she didn’t hand out freely. “Not a poetic way to go, Allie. Moment’s over. Come on.”

She pulled the coat tighter around her — around them — and her hand lingered at Allie’s back a second longer than necessary. A quiet thing. A steady thing. Something close to safety.

Irene looked at her then, really looked, like maybe she was trying to memorize the shape of someone who still believed the world didn’t bite. And maybe that was why she didn’t say the hundred things clawing at the back of her throat — all the reasons they shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be close, shouldn’t pretend like pretty things could live long when they weren’t careful.

         allie shakes her head, it’s the easiest thing in the world. of course irene isn’t dangerous, matching with her is even less so. it’s natural, it’s perfect, it’s lovely. it’s the perfect day for it, even if the storm turns angrier, wilder, less forgiving for girls who are afraid of them. or at least, girls that are supposed to be afraid of them. allie’s not scared, now. she has irene. and this time, she doesn’t stiffen, or pull back, or watch her with a cautious, careful eye that makes allie feel like there’s a wall between them, even when she’s right next to her. now, allie tries, and irene’s letting her in. even if it’s almost, a whisper of a touch, a slight feeling- a catch of softness, like allie’s closing her eyes and running a finger along her surface. it’s something, and allie holds onto it. the fondness stays in her eyes, watching irene’s reaction to the flower. she’s not mad, she’s not angry, she’s not going to shove allie in the water and leave her behind. allie hadn’t done anything wrong, she hadn’t hurt her.

         it’s why she listens, it’s why she only pouts, doesn’t protest or argue when irene draws them away. her eyes only plead for the whimsy to return for only a moment, before she’s swept under irene’s coat. it had only been the slightest offer of closeness, and she takes it eagerly. it’s only then that she’d considered she had, maybe, been shivering from the cold, and had yet to notice. 

         because there, closer to her friend, it’s warm. she realizes then, the state of her, sopping wet and shoeless. there’s no regret, but she does feel bad for irene’s coat. allie goes, finding it easy to clear a way through the storm, so long as she wasn’t alone, so long as it wasn’t her idea. irene wants her to be safe, so she will. she wants her out of the danger. and, despite their completely separate definitions of danger, allie wants that too, because she does.  “ are you kidding? of course it is! i’m bare-footed, and you’re a pretty thing. ”  she giggles, her finger going to touch the yellow bloom tucked behind her ear, making sure it doesn’t fall.  “ we’re here, we’re meant to be here. if we weren’t meant to, we wouldn’t be. ”  maybe she can get her dance with her, after all.

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."

Irene glanced at the notebook, eyes tracking the neat scratch of pen to page, then shrugged lightly. “Call it thirty-six even. I’ll mark the rest for morning and bag it when it’s all here.”

She didn’t say thanks for the compliment — didn’t even really react, not right away. But her gaze drifted toward the shelf where the skullcap was stocked, and the corner of her mouth tugged in something that almost passed for a smile.

“It’s better now than it used to be,” she said, quiet. “Place was running on fumes when I got here. Half the labels didn’t match the jars. Found a bottle labeled blessing oil that was just sunflower and perfume.” Her brow lifted slightly like she still wasn’t convinced it wasn’t a joke. “Stephens doesn’t do much upkeep. She remembers things. Doesn’t always write them down.”

She watched the little creature — Sage — nose the edge of the basket, but didn’t reach to stop it. Just kept her arms loosely folded, fingers tucked into opposite sleeves. “Long as she doesn’t eat the poke root, we’re good.”

When Juniper mentioned the walk, Irene’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a pause. A flicker of something not quite hesitation.

“I wrap up in fifteen,” she said. “If you’re still around, I can walk a block or two your way.”

It wasn’t a favor. Just a practical offer. That’s how she framed it — like she was doing it for the sake of safety, not company. Still, there was something gentler in her voice than before, like the fatigue had settled into something quieter, less edged.

“You can leave your basket here if you want,” she added, tipping her head toward it. “I’ll keep it behind the counter for pickup.”

Then, finally, she nodded once, as if deciding it mattered enough to register: “I’m Irene. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of me too.”

Juniper smiles easy as the other agrees to look over her list. Walking deeper into the store and looking through the shelves as she passes. This place is comfortable for her. Even if it was her first time in the shop there was comfort to be had around dried herbs and potent mixtures. Even Sage seemed to be relaxed among the scent and atmosphere.

“Ha- no, no um… banishing's. It’s not all for one thing really. Just trying to fill the coffers y’know?” It wasn’t entirely a lie. She tucked hair behind her ear awkwardly. It would be quite a while before she was ready to start growing her own ingredients. “Oh, that’s fine. I figured that verbena would be a long shot anyways.” 

As the basket was placed on the counter, she took a peek inside and smiled. The quality was nice. There was nothing worse than getting herbs with the beginnings of dry rot. These were pristine, however. Well worth whatever the price may be. “This is wonderful, thank you. Would it be possible for me to pick it all up tomorrow? Say late morning? Got pretty much everything else done today so I shouldn’t be held back on account of other errands. What will I end up owing you?” 

She takes out a small notebook to jot down the numbers, so she remembers them. Sage crawled down her shoulder and arm to stand on the counter. Peeking into the basket as Juniper reminded her to not touch anything she wasn’t supposed to. “Juniper by the way. I have a feeling you’ll be seeing a lot of me from now on. New in town and let me tell you I was excited to hear this city has a proper apothecary. This place is very well stocked and taken care of.” She had no idea if this person cared about that sort of thing. But she felt the need to compliment the space anyways. 

The question came out of nowhere from the less than enthusiastic clerk. A soft question that made her smile. People here were surprisingly nice, even when they came off as cold. “I should probably be alright. It’s not that long a walk, streets are well lit. If you are heading the same way I wouldn’t turn down the company for a block or two though.” She offered back. While she felt like she could handle herself, and this woman probably could as well. There was nothing wrong with a little extra security.    

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. ”

WHO: @erisinblood WHERE: downtown.

The bell above the shop door gave its usual tired jingle as Irene stepped out into the night, one hand tugging her coat tighter against the chill. Behind her, the faint scent of lavender and burnt mugwort still clung to her sleeves — the kind of smell that never quite left, no matter how much she scrubbed. She didn’t bother glancing back at the storefront; the lights were off, graveyard shift covered by the new girl with the shaky hands and too many questions. Irene had done her part.

Now the street was hers. Quiet. Dim. The kind of quiet that hummed a little too loud in her ears when she was alone with it for too long.

Her boots echoed against the pavement, rhythm steady, clipped, her hands shoved in her pockets. The streets in this part didn’t sleep, exactly. But they did doze—lights flickering in windows, the odd car sliding by like a ghost. The kind of in-between hour where anything felt like it could slip through the cracks.

She didn’t hear the footsteps at first. Not really. Just felt that prickle at the base of her neck. Not danger exactly—just…attention.

She kept walking.

Then—

“Dianne?”

It hit her like a slap.

She stopped mid-step. Her lips parted slightly, sucking in a breath. And for a second—just a second—she didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Like if she stood still enough, the moment might slide past her unnoticed.

But it didn’t. It never did.

Her fingers twitched where they curled in her coat pocket. Then, slowly, Irene turned.

The woman standing behind her wasn’t a stranger. Not quite. Something familiar hung in the shape of her —like a half-remembered song on the edge of a dream. Irene didn’t blink.

“I think you’ve got the wrong person,” she said, voice even. Too even. Too smooth. A lie she’d used a thousand times, so well-worn it might as well have been armor.

Her voice was tighter now. And under the streetlight, her eyes gave her away —just a flicker, a crack in the calm.

Because Dianne had been gone for a long, long time. And no one had said that name to her face in years. Not unless they knew something they shouldn’t.

She let the silence settle for a beat, weighing the woman with a look that was too sharp for someone trying to play innocent.

But beneath it all, something ancient and uneasy stirred in her chest.

She looked like her mother, sure. But that didn’t mean she was her.

And gods help her if someone else could tell.

Irene gave a small nod, more gesture than answer, like she’d already factored his return into tomorrow’s rhythm.

“They’ll be bagged and waiting,” she said. No fanfare. Just fact.

She reached behind the counter, slid a small paper slip toward him with a neat scribble of initials—hers, not his—across the top. A quiet ledger. A promise.

“You can settle up then,” she added. “I’ll be here early.”

There was a pause, not awkward, just full of the kind of quiet that always seemed to follow her. She didn’t offer a goodbye, didn’t smile, didn’t soften the edges she’d kept all evening. But her gaze lingered a second longer than it had to, steady and level.

“You take care walking home,” she said finally.

Then she turned back to the shelf, already pulling down the next order like the moment had passed cleanly from her hands. And maybe it had.

END.

It was clear that was the closest he’d get to a specific explanation from her. He appreciated what information she’d already offered, at least. Conversation and good company was welcome in a new town, and she was already kind enough to let him linger here when she’d clearly been getting ready to pack up and leave for the day.

“I see, well...” He took another drink from his mug, surprised to see that he’d reached the very bottom of it. “I shouldn’t keep you much longer. Can I come back tomorrow for the rest of the herbs on the old owner’s regular list? I may want to open a regular account here for my personal stores, as well.”

He wasn’t going to continue being a potioneer, but it wouldn’t hurt to have some supplies on hand for emergencies. The unspoken offer for him to return for more conversation was just an added bonus.

She didn’t answer at first.

Just stared —unmoving, unreadable—the knife still pressed flat against his neck like a question she didn’t want to ask out loud. Like if she let it go, everything she’d built to keep herself standing would tumble right down after it. Her fingers didn’t shake. Irene didn’t shake. But inside her chest, something was splintering open. Something she’d buried so deep under years of silence and steel that she barely remembered the shape of it anymore.

And then he spoke again.

Her breath hitched. The sound cracked through her like thunder under frozen lakewater —hairline fractures splintering outward from the center of her. It wasn’t the name that did it. It was the sound of his voice.

The knife dropped.

Not far —just to her side— but it might as well have been a thousand miles. She didn’t even remember stepping forward. Just that her arms were around him, tight, desperate, like if she let go now he’d dissolve into rain and fog and bad dreams. Her fingers curled into the back of his jacket. Her face pressed hard into his shoulder. She held on —like she was drowning, and he was the surface.

And for the first time in what felt like years, Irene breathed.

The kind of breath that didn’t rattle in her lungs. That didn’t feel rationed, or stolen, or half-hollowed out by the weight she’d grown too used to carrying. It hit her like air after too long underwater —sharp, real, cruelly kind.

“You’re not real,” she said against his collar, barely louder than the wind. “You can’t be. I don’t get to have this.”

But she didn’t let go.

Not yet.

Not until the storm stopped sounding like her heartbeat.

Not until she could trust her knees again.

She pulled back just enough to see him —really see him—and the moment her eyes caught his again, she asked,

“What the hell are you doing here?”

It came out hoarse, like it’d clawed its way up from something deeper than her throat. She didn’t mean it like an accusation. Not exactly. Just—an ache, a question sharpened with disbelief. A heartbeat wrapped in barbed wire.

She clung to him like if she moved —if she so much as breathed wrong— he’d vanish into the mist again. Like the rain would cut through the space between them and prove he was never there at all, just a phantom conjured by too many sleepless nights and too many memories she’d tried too hard to forget. Her fingers dug in, not soft, not delicate—desperate. A tether. A lifeline. Like she could anchor him here just by refusing to let go.

Her face stayed pressed against the curve of his shoulder, and she inhaled like it might brand the moment into her lungs, like if she just memorized the scent of rain and asphalt and him, it would make the rest of the world less sharp tomorrow. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Not yet. Not when it still felt like a dream that could turn cruel at any second.

"I missed you so much."

He’d caught the outline of her profile earlier, just enough for suspicion to rise. Then followed her into a shop, pretending to browse the next aisle over, just to catch the sound of her voice. A good night, a casual goodbye — something, anything that would prove it was really her. Next, he had his phone in his hands, fingers swiping up, up, up until his thumb stopped on her name. Irene. The screen stared back at him like a mirror. Call her, Riven.

No. If this wasn’t her, what would he say? Sorry I haven’t called in years? How have you been, little one? He didn't want to sound like a stranger, but that's all he has become to her.

Lost in his thoughts, eyes flicking up and down the screen, Riven lost his balance. Suddenly, a knife pressed too hard into his skin. He was slammed into a wall, like it was child’s play for her to physically tower over a man like him. There was a flicker of something raw in her gaze — pain, maybe hope, maybe the memory of a bond that time hadn’t fully erased. "Irene." a beat, "It's me." He kept his hands where she could see them; empty, and open, and unthreatening.

She didn’t lower the knife. Couldn’t, maybe. Not yet. Not until he'd proven that he wasn't a ghost. That he was something real. "You're not dreaming, It's me."

Rivy.

The word felt like it stole the air from his lungs, pulled him into a time machine, back years, when he was just a kid. Just a bit taller than her, only a few years older, just as inexperienced. Maybe even more alone.

"Hey," he said softly, reaching out a hand. It brushed against hers, cradling the small of her wrist where she gripped the blade. "Come on. Put the knife down." He held her gaze. "I’m not going to hurt you."