Sage Shifts Against Her With A Soft Chitter, Tiny Paws Patting At The Edge Of Her Collar Like She Might

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.

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

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

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

That smile hurt to look at.

So Irene didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause. Just long enough to leave room.

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

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

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

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

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

Irene didn’t pull back when Shiv gripped her shoulders. She just stood there, watching them with that usual unreadable expression — calm, quiet, like still water. But her fingers twitched at her sides, faintly. The only outward sign of how much it cost her to hear him say it. You have to go live it, Irene.

She didn’t respond right away. Just let the silence stretch between them, long and measured like a tide pulling back before it crashed. The fire behind them crackled low, the stars above them steady, indifferent. The sea whispered to the shore like it knew how to keep secrets.

“You think I can’t keep this place?” Her voice was soft, but steady. Not offended — amused, almost. “Don’t underestimate me like that.” A beat. “I’m not the best weaver, but I’ve learned enough to make this last.”

She turned slightly, gaze sweeping over the water, the dunes, the crooked little house that already felt like it had always been there.

“I want to keep it,” she added, eyes narrowing with purpose. “Because this is the only place you’re not unraveling. The magic’s still working through your system. It’s not going to break overnight. If I drag you out now, you won’t just be half-broken — you’ll be wide open. To everything. Every memory that got scrambled, every spell that touched you, every voice that isn’t yours whispering in your head.”

Her gaze met his again, firm and quiet. Not pleading. Just the truth, delivered without edge.

“So yeah. I’m keeping this running. A little longer. Not forever. Just long enough for things to settle. Let it wear off right.”

She paused, her jaw tight. Shiv had given her an order — clear, methodical, backed by reason and logic and concern for the bigger picture. It was the kind of call she would have not respected from anyone else. But this wasn’t anyone else. This was him. And she couldn’t pretend this wasn’t personal.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said, voice lower now. “Trying to give me something to do. A way to step out clean. Get back to the others. Pretend like this was just another assignment.”

Another pause.

“But I can’t. Not yet.”

Her tone didn’t shift, but something softened in her face. A crack in the ice. Not quite a confession — she wasn’t built for those — but something close.

“Thera sent the note. Some people know already. Enough to keep the fire from going out. But if more eyes start turning to us — if someone sees me holding this space, we’ll both be screwed. And Thera... she won’t be safe either.”

She took a step closer. A tiny quirk pulled at the edge of her mouth.

“Can you just trust me?” she asked. “Really. Just… leave this up to me. I promise I won’t mess it up. And if I do, then you can kick my ass.” A shrug. “Or at least try.”

Her gaze held his, steady as ever. “I won’t let you get lost in here. So save your breath. Rest. The calmer you are, the easier it’ll be when it’s time to come back.”

She stepped back, slowly, like she was anchoring them both again in place — not through force, not through spell, but through something stronger. Intent. Presence.

“This works just like the real world. You want dinner? Just think of it. Steak, ramen, oysters on ice, I don’t care — it’ll show up. You want to shower? Swim? You can.”

She turned her head toward the porch where the soft yellow glow still lingered. “There’s a bed in there. Clean sheets. You won’t have to check under the mattress for blades. Water pressure’s good. Books’ll be different every day — I made sure. Want a TV? I can give you that too. Just try not to sleep. You won't feel like you have to, but then if you do, it can complicate things, so let me know. If that need comes up.”

She looked back over her shoulder, expression unreadable again — except maybe in her eyes. A glint of something unspoken. Relief. Fear. Devotion.

“We’ll figure it out. The magic. The who. The why.” Her voice dropped. “But you’ve got to promise me one thing.” She sighed. Riven, why? It wasn't just him, no. That, she'd figure out.

“Let me handle this world. Just this one. Okay?”

Shiv can only nod before closing their eyes and taking it all in. The coolness of the night. The sweet salt in the air as they inhale and exhale. The sweet relief that comes when returning to a home that has been waiting for you. Tranquility unwinds the knots in their muscles, eases their shoulders as Shiv relaxes. Its more than good or comfortable, this is heavenly.

Yet, as much as Shiv would like to completely unwind, they know that this is not their memory to look fondly back on. They are a guest in Irene's nostalgia. Eventually Shiv will have to return to the desert, the ruins of their mind and repair what's left for themself.

Irene can't stay here. She has to let them go.

"No. Unfortunately not. I was working in one of the back offices. The file room. Then someone called my name. That's it...Everything afterward is just static." Shiv sighs. They have no memory of the attack or the attacker. Or rather, attackers. "More than one witch", they repeat to themself, "We can work with that. Later."

"Now is not the time to start pointing fingers. Yama is patient; justice can wait." As much as loss, rage simmers beneath the skin of their tatted back, the last thing Shiv wants is for Irene to throw herself into danger for their sake. More than she already has trying to save Shiv from their own mind.

They take a step forward and plants both hands on Irene's shoulders. The hesitation is clear as day in Shiv's eyes, Shiv's voice as they speak with a heavy heart, "Thank you for everything. But we both know you can't stay here or maintain the beach forever. Your life is outside of this dream. You have to go live it, Irene."

Shiv stops themself. That sounded more like a final goodbye than they meant. This isn't a goodbye. This is Shiv giving Irene an order. "When you wake up, go back to the others and tell them what let happened-- Well, not everything that happened obviously. Mainly that I am stabilized and in safe hands. I'm sure Sammy is running around already; he's gonna need some help keeping everyone else's heads on their shoulders." Shiv stops themself once more. This time with a flicker of recognition in their eye that gives them pause. Its then that Shiv remembers them.

Sammy. Aurelia. Nico. Adrian. Gabriel. Gemma-

Just a handful of the hunters that are depending on them. A handful of hunters that, like Irene, are probably scrambling in their absence. An ugly truth comes to light, one they've been trying to undermine and deny even before the coma: Unfortunately, Shiv is important. Not in a way that is self serving or even speaks to their skillset but goes beyond hunting. A babysitter. A voice of reason. A helping hand. A mentor. A father figure? These roles can't be easily replaced or forgotten.

Shiv can't let their own mind swallow them whole; Shiv can't die here. Their Brotherhood needs them.

"Standard protocol. Two weeks." Shiv takes a deep breath and recomposes themself, back straightened and seemingly standing with a new vigor. "Give me two weeks in waking time to situate my mind. If I am not operational by then, you have full permission to yank me out by whatever means necessary. But my hunt is here. I must to finish it."

"Look. I have no clue how any of this magic works. But you do. That's what makes your skillset unique, part of what makes you a one of a kind hunter." Embrace it. Shiv gives Irene a quiet, reassuring smile. Their hands move from Irene's shoulders to her arms, bracing themself as if the two are about to make endure another hurricane. Irene is not going to like this. "When you go and this beach dissipates, give me no warning. Just rip if off like a band aid. Fast and simple."

"I'll be okay, alright? I'll be okay and I'll be back before you know it. I promise."

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.

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? "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She didn’t answer at first.

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."

tag drop.