⚡️ Why Don’t You Just Let Your Mother Go?

WHO: @parkskylar WHERE: bun intended

The air still smelled like lavender and old spellbooks—clinging to Irene like second skin even after she’d stripped off her apron and locked the shop behind her. Most nights, she’d go straight home. Avoid people. Avoid…everything. But tonight, the sharp edge in her chest wouldn’t settle, and the idea of silence felt louder than usual.

So she walked. Not far. Just enough to find herself in front of Bun Intended, its neon sign buzzing faintly above the patio lights. The smell of grilled onions and toasted buns curled around her like a hook.

She didn’t even like burgers that much.

Still, a milkshake and fries sounded like something that wouldn’t ask anything of her, so she ordered both, tucked herself into the far end of one of the outdoor benches, and tried to lose herself in the happy chaos of dogs chasing each other through the patio. It helped. A little.

She was halfway through her fries —shoes kicked off, milkshake balanced dangerously on the edge of the table—when she noticed the figure hovering nearby. Looking for a place to sit, scanning the filled tables. Irene didn’t recognize her at first. Just saw someone standing alone, holding a tray like she didn’t know what to do with it.

Irene’s voice came before she could stop it.

“Seat’s open.”

She nodded to the spot across from her, then adjusted her legs to make space, even if she didn’t quite smile.

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.

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 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? ”

Again, Irene didn’t answer right away.

The question wasn’t hard — not really. But the answer lived somewhere deeper than she usually let herself dig. So instead, she walked a few slow paces forward, the crunch of gravel under her boots muted by the rain. The coat stretched between them like a tether, soft and worn, the kind of fabric that remembered too many nights like this. And she held onto it — not for warmth, but for direction. For something to do with her hands that wasn’t reaching out too much, too fast.

The street around them was empty. A quiet slice of the world between thunder and breath. Dim porch lights flickering in distant windows, rainwater whispering down gutters. The kind of place where time felt thinner, like it could stretch or break if you breathed too hard. Irene finally tilted her head, gaze following the sky like it might give her the right words if she stared long enough. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. But not hesitant.

“The storm’s honest,” she said. “Doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. Loud, violent, inconvenient. Beautiful if you’re far enough away. Dangerous if you’re not.” She exhaled through her nose, like the thought had weight. “But at least you know what you’re dealing with.”

She looked down at Allie then, pinkie still looped through hers, the smallness of that gesture settling deep in her chest like a stone sinking slow through water.

“I guess I come out here when I don’t know what else to do with myself,” she went on, soft and unhurried, like the words had been waiting a long time to be spoken. “When it gets too loud in my head. When I can’t stop circling the same five thoughts that won’t go anywhere. The storm… it hits louder than all of it. Forces everything else to hush up for a second.”

Her mouth twitched at the corner — not quite a smile, not quite not. “It’s not peaceful. But it’s quiet, in its own way. Makes me feel like I don’t have to hold so tight to everything.”

The rain clung to her hair, her lashes, her coat. She didn’t seem to notice.

She gave Allie’s pinkie the barest tug — gentle, grounding.

“Sorry I was late,” she murmured. “Didn’t mean to let the storm catch you first.”

Her free hand drifted briefly to Allie’s shoulder, thumb brushing across the damp fabric of her dress like she could smooth out the worry underneath it.

“Next time you get the itch to go twirling in thunder, at least wait for me to bring a better coat.”

         she lets a childhood fear soak through her, when she’d hide from the storms, never the rain, but the lightning and the thunder used to send her under her covers. and then, when that wouldn’t work, she’d find the underside of her bed. the older she got, the more her bedroom door was found locked, leaving her nothing to do but hide.

         “ thank you. ”  it comes out as a quiet whisper against the storm, but she means it. a soft petal pressed down into irene’s palm, she means it. she doesn’t understand it, but she means it. not the danger, not why irene’s steering her away, why irene cares, but that means something, and she’s thankful for it. it means so much, that she cares, and she’s more scared of losing that than she is the storm, and it’s that fear that guides her away from the rain. her friend has all the warmth she needs, and allie melts into the hand that’s only just visiting. it’s irene, and she knows, even with allie’s cotton candy daydreams, she knows there’s something there that always stops her from letting allie in. and now, for just a moment, she has. it’s everything, and allie realizes that it’s not fear guiding her actions, it couldn’t be, she could never be scared of irene. just fondness, the love she has for a blooming friendship.

         even with the pouting, she doesn’t argue anymore, she lets irene warn her and follows along, like she gets it.  “ ‘kay, all done now, promise. ”  it’s still that same quiet, coated in a kind of soft guilt. i’m sorry i’m not where i’m supposed to be, i’m sorry you had to come get me, i’m sorry i’m like this. none of that falls from her, but she reaches for irene’s hand where it’s drawn around her shoulder, hovering with the coat. she links their pinkies, earnestly.  “ pinkie promise. ”

         there’s a blink of silence. allie has no sense of direction, she’s not thinking about where they’re going, only that they’re going together.  “ if it’s- if the storm’s so bad, why are you out in it? ”

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?"

WHO: @sammykeels WHERE: his house.

The bikes were the first thing she saw —two of them, sprawled across the lawn like they’d collapsed mid-flight, one still spinning a back wheel in lazy half-turns. Irene stood at the edge of the driveway, one hand in the pocket of her coat, the other curled loosely around a paper bag that smelled faintly of garlic and plastic takeout. She hadn’t knocked yet.

There was a familiarity to the scene; the scuffed-up sidewalk chalk ghosts, the chipped welcome mat, the smell of someone's early dinner drifting out a cracked window. Safe things. Quiet things. They didn’t suit the tightness still coiled low in her chest.

But then again, neither did this visit.

She adjusted her grip on the bag and stepped forward.

The front door wasn’t locked. It never was when Sammy was around. She didn’t go in, just knocked once —soft, measured—and then pushed it open enough to call into the threshold.

“Sammy?”

Her voice carried, quiet but certain.

No answer right away.

She waited. Then she saw movement down the hall —his familiar frame, hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, sneakers squeaking faintly on the wood.

“Hey.” Her tone shifted as soon as he was close enough to see clearly. Not warm, not yet. But not her usual clipped chill either. Something in-between. Careful. “Didn’t mean to ambush you.”

She lifted the paper bag slightly. “Brought food. You’ve got that look on your face like you skipped lunch again.”

A beat.

“I went.”

Simple. No name. No details. But he’d know. And she didn’t follow it with a lie —not She’s safe, not It’ll be okay. Just that.

She stepped inside then, giving him the space to back away or shut her out, but not leaving. Never that.

“I know you told me about her because I needed to know,” Irene said, setting the bag on the counter like it didn’t weigh a thousand things. “And I’m not going to ask what else you know. Not unless you want to tell me.”

She looked at him again —really looked. His face a little drawn, shoulders tighter than usual.

“I just wanted to see you with my own eyes. Make sure you’re okay.”

Another beat. Then, quieter, just for him.

“So? Are you okay?”

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.

Irene didn’t answer right away. Just watched the woman with the kind of look that skimmed bone. Not cruel, not even particularly suspicious —just precise. Like she was measuring something invisible. Weight. Intent. Teeth.

Then, a shrug. Small. Barely there. “Not everything that’s useful fits between the margins.”

She moved again, slow and exact, reaching for another jar to adjust. A label needed scraping. She used her thumbnail to work at the edge like it might confess something if she pressed hard enough. “Some things don’t have names that play well in the ledger. Others don’t have names at all.” Her voice stayed even. No lilt to soften it, no pause to check how the words landed.

She didn’t look up this time. Just kept working the label.

“I don’t ask what it’s for. You don’t ask where it came from. That’s the rule.”

A beat passed, enough for the silence to feel deliberate. Then, finally, she glanced back toward the counter, toward the curious tapping fingers and the woman who’d stopped pretending to be small.

“You get one favor like that,” she added, and this time her voice held something firmer underneath. Not threat. Not warmth either. Just certainty. “Spend it how you want. But just thisd once.”

She leans on the counter, again, and peers at this woman, eyes searching her up and down. Does she remember her from those first fraught and frazzled weeks? Mayhaps not. On her best behavior, she'd been in those earliest days, save for to the few dregs of Ironwood she'd fished up, none of which are hitherto present.

Best behavior no longer, however; The Deathroot is awake, and it has a twin somewhere in the city right now. She is alive with magical fortitude now. Chaste modesty and shrinking lily behavior have outlasted their usefulness.

"Off the books?" She questions. "Do paint me with curiosity, call me a cat, then."

She drums acrylics on the countertop. "And what could be so sensitive that one working in this shop for your Lady of House needs it be off the book?" Genuine question, genuine curiosity.

She followed without a word.

The stairs creaked beneath her boots, but she moved like someone who already knew the layout, or didn’t care if she got lost. Her hand skimmed the bannister once — more reflex than balance — then fell back to her side. There was too much noise in her head to leave room for grace. Her fingers clenched tight around the charm in her palm, skin pale where it pressed.

She didn’t look at Thera until they reached the landing. When she did, it was sharp — not angry, not yet, just sharp. Focused.

“You said their body needs time,” Irene said, voice low. “Fine. I get that. But why are they here?”

She wasn’t trying to accuse, but the words had a certain edge anyway. Like she hadn’t slept. Like something inside her chest had cracked open and never quite closed again. They would all get in trouble.

“If they’re in danger — if something did this — keeping them in the middle of nowhere while you play nursemaid doesn’t exactly scream smart. You know what they'll think? A witch's got one of our own.”

But the fight drained out of her in the next breath. She wasn’t here to argue. Not really. Not yet.

“I just—”

She shook her head once, as if trying to clear it. Something too thick, too tangled.

“—This is not good, Thera.”

She stepped around Thera before she could be invited again, gaze already flicking toward the room she knew had to be his. Something magnetic pulled her toward it, like her magic could already feel his somewhere just past the threshold.

Only once her hand was on the frame did she pause, not turning back — just holding herself still there in the door like the question had waited until now to surface.

“What happened?”

Finally, her voice cracked a little. Not much. Just enough.

Because Irene could stitch a dream to keep a soul from falling apart. She could hold a barrier for days on raw will alone. But none of that meant anything if she didn’t know what tore Shiv down in the first place.

Her head snapped up as she felt the protective rune in her side door snap. She had know people would come. That the moment she had set the letter people would come to find them.

She rose from her chair and wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders. As she walked around the bed she noticed the spot where her head had left an indent in the bedding, Kanta’s motionless hand seemingly extending towards that spot. She didn’t want to leave them, a warped anxiety that the moment she left the room danger would enter it. Someone would come to hurt them again. But she swallowed it down. Someone was in her living room.

She hadn’t expected it to be Irene. She stood on her stairs and took in the young hunter witch, the girl looked bedraggled. She didn’t know how Irene had connected herself to Kanta but she could see the desperate worry in her eyes. Knew Irene wasn’t here to fight her. A weird knot of pride and longing formed in Thera’s stomach. She was happy Irene had found Kanta. That somewhere along the way the two had found each other. Thera let out a breath. “I’ve done everything I’m capable of for the moment. Their body needs time to heal.”

Thera descended the rest of the stairs. Her voice felt foreign to her as her aching hands clutched the shawl around her. “You are more than welcome to see them, but I fear their body needs time.” Another breath in as she tried to push away the memory of Kanta’s crumpled body, clenching her hands so she wouldn’t feel the memory of his blood coating them. “They need time to heal.” Thera turned back towards the stairs, a silent signal for Irene to follow.