Irene Gave A Small Nod, More Gesture Than Answer, Like She’d Already Factored His Return Into Tomorrow’s

Irene watched Shiv’s hands as they worked, and something in her chest went still.

It wasn’t just the methodical precision, the quiet reverence they carried for the steel — it was the way they did it. Like it was more than habit. Like it was memory. The kind that sits in muscle and marrow and doesn’t need language to surface. For a moment, just a brief flicker, her vision blurred at the edges and her father’s hands ghosted over the ones in front of her. That same calm, practiced rhythm. That same kind of quiet focus. Her dad used to say a blade didn’t need to look mean to do damage. It just needed to be respected. Shiv worked like that — like someone who understood what tools could become in the wrong hands, and carried them anyway.

When they smiled, she did too. Small. Unthinking. Like a reflex, not a decision.

She reached for the knife when they offered it, and when they pulled it back just slightly, she didn’t bristle — just raised one brow in mock offense. It was the kind of gesture someone else might’ve earned a sharp reply for. But not Shiv. They were one of the few people who didn’t set her teeth on edge just by existing. Maybe it was the way he never pushed. Never tried to draw blood just to see if she’d flinch. Just anchored himself in the space beside her like it didn’t cost anything to stay. Like someone had told him to watch over her, and he’d decided to take that promise seriously.

She took the blade properly when he passed it a second time and ran her thumb over the newly sharpened edge. A clean hiss of a breath followed — barely audible. “That’s perfect,” she murmured, and meant it.

The blade sat in her hand like it remembered her —like it forgave her for the neglect. Irene ran her thumb along the spine, not the edge, tracing the familiar nicks and wear without looking at it. Her gaze moved on Shiv, steady now, the way you look at someone you’re still trying to figure out but already trust more than you should. “I’m not used to being looked after,” she said, voice quiet but not brittle. “Not anymore. Feels strange. Like wearing someone else’s coat. But... I think I could get used to it. Maybe.” The last word landed softer than the rest, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Then, quieter still, eyes still on the knife, she added, “Don’t worry. I’m not easy to kill. You won’t have to mop anything up.” She glanced up then, something easier behind her eyes. “But I’ll leave a note. Promise. Or a text.” A pause, then, because saying thank you outright always caught like glass in her throat, she offered the closest thing she had — “You’ll know where to look.”

Though unspoken, there is a clear look of recognition towards another item inside Irene’s bag as its set on the table:. a small pouch of dried sigil chalks. Not one of those mundane, painfully-fake brands sold in Crow and Chalice. The real kind of magic their recurring companion carried in her travels, skillfully wielding it in a way that always gently stimulated their hunters' mark and completely captured their attention--

Fortunately, Irene brings their focus back to work before Shiv could further reminisce.

“Definitely not in worst shape...” Shiv parrots under their breath as they take the blade in hand. The hunter gingerly runs their thumb across the edge and lets it snag skin. Clean but dull. This edge should be sharper; it should have sliced their flesh and drawn blood by now. Shiv nods. “Definitely not in worst shape but still handled with great care. Good. I will be sure to do the same.”

Knife sharpening is not a chore but a practiced ritual imbued in Shiv’s being as their hands move on autopilot:

Cloth doused in just enough honing oil prepares the blade. Whetstone, darker coarse grit. Twenty-two degree angle. Moderate pressure. Slide forward, ten times. Sharpening steel. Rinse, dry with separate cleaner handkerchief. Whetstone, light fine grit. Stroke, ten more times. Yes, Appa, ten exactly, I know-

Plenty of meticulous steps to fill the silence, the sharp sound of blade on whetstone leaving room for Irene’s dramatic pauses. “If you ask me, it’s easier to hunt something that is real than not, something that can be understood and given a name. Hunting what refuses to be known or named is much more difficult. Practically impossible”, Shiv scoffs thinking back on the intangible nightmares that torment them. Oh what Shiv would give to stab or shoot or even claw their way out of one of those. “It’d be responsible to say that you should rest and get shut eye when you can, yadadada. But, c’mon. Look at me. Who am I to lecture you about not sleeping?”

“I won’t stop you from training late at night, alone or otherwise. But.” They offer the sharpened blade back to Irene, only to pull it back slightly when she goes to reach for it. Shiv softly smiles. A small jest. “Just be sure to let someone know in case things go south and we need to follow a trail. A note on your fridge or whatever. You have my number.” Shiv offers the blade once again. Earnestly this time.

Irene didn’t flinch. Not when he grinned like that, not when the lollipop cracked against his teeth, not when the salt round spun across the counter like bait with a pulse. Her baby blues dropped to the cartridge just once, brief as a blink, then returned to his face —steady, unimpressed. The look she gave him wasn’t cold, exactly. Just level. Like she was reading off a list in her head and debating whether or not to cross something off.

“Three strides is generous,” she said. Voice low, clipped at the edges like it’d been trimmed down to only what was necessary. “I just make a habit of not breathing deep where the air smells like gunpowder and ego.”

She didn’t move forward. Not yet. Her weight shifted slightly, like a stormcloud might before it made up its mind.

“And no,” she added, tone still flat, “—not shell shock. If I were shaken up, you'd already be bleeding. You just talk too much, Nicolás.” For someone who can't speak, that is, but of course, Irene didn't say that.

Her hands stayed in her pockets, but one shoulder dipped —barely. A faint gesture that might’ve been half a shrug. Or a reset. It was hard to tell with Irene. She wasn’t the sort of person who gave much away on purpose.

“But you’re right. You’re not the story I’m worried about.”

Now, she stepped forward. Just one pace. Close enough to take the round, which she did without ceremony, without thanks. Her fingers brushed the cartridge, weighed it briefly like she was measuring intention.

“I don’t have the luxury of fairytales. Just the truth.” A pause. “And some of us know better than to put both feet on the wire and hope it isn’t live.”

She slid a small envelope across the counter —payment exact, crisp, folded. Not quite delicate, but handled with the kind of precision that suggested she liked things done clean. Then she looked at him again, gaze unreadable. “You finished monologuing? Or is there another round of metaphors coming before I get what I came for?”

Nico leans back on his stool, combat boots braced against the cabinet like the glass is rated for detonation. A bright red lollipop click-clacks between his teeth—cherry, nuclear-sweet, the kind that stains your tongue. Would stain his, if he had one.

A slanted grin carves fault-line across his face at the sight of Irene. With her, he both signs and speaks through the charm. “Y’know, most of Brotherhood come right up to the counter—swagger, scars, the whole ‘compare kill counts’ handshake.” He taps the glass, knuckles a slow drumbeat. “But you? Always anchor yourself exactly three strides back, like there’s a pressure plate hidden under my boots.”

He fans the salt rounds in a neat little arc, thumbnails sparking flecks of brass under the fluorescents. “What is it, agent-provocateur? Shell shock from the last gig? Or do I just smell like C-4 and bad decisions?” His eyes narrow, curious, hungry in that way static clings to cat fur. “I mean, we’re on the same side of the monster problem—or did I miss a memo?"

The lollipop clicks against his molars; each tap feels like a countdown before continuing to sign and speak to mind. “Could be moral hygiene, I guess. Plenty of hunters think I’m a walking OSHA violation with a pulse.” He shrugs, loose and lazy, but his gaze stays riveted. “Still, can’t help wondering what piece of glass you think is gonna stop me if things get jumpy. Spoiler alert: this counter’s rated for price tags, not explosions.”

He nudges one cartridge toward the invisible line. It spins, stops, stares back at her like an unblinking eye. “Step up, collect the discount, prove you don’t believe your own cautionary tales. Or keep your distance and let me invent new ones.” His voice softens—almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse. “I don’t bite, Irene. Not without a safe word. And I’m pretty sure yours is something exotic, like ‘professionalism.’”

WHO: @miyazakit WHERE: Goju Dojo

The dojo was quieter than she expected. Not silent, exactly—there was a hum to it, like a held breath or something waiting to begin, but quiet in that grounded way that pressed against her ribs and forced her to slow down. Think. Breathe.

Irene didn’t usually come to places like this. Places where people had rules and forms and discipline built into their bones. But she needed something, and she’d heard just enough about Tetsuya Goju to know he didn’t waste time asking questions.

The soles of her boots didn’t quite belong against the polished floors. She stood near the entrance for a beat too long, coat folded over one arm, eyes scanning the empty mats. Nothing sacred in these walls, she’d been told. Still—it felt cleaner than most places in the city. Like someone had fought for the quiet here.

She'd booked the session under a fake name. Just in case. People remembered Irene too easily.

When he stepped into view, she straightened. Didn’t smile. Just nodded, curt.

“I’m not here for enlightenment,” she said, tone flat but not unkind. “I just need to hit something.”

A pause.

“A few times.”

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?”

She doesn’t look up right away — not until she’s sure Shiv’s breathing hasn’t shifted. The hand she has curled around theirs is loose, careful, but still tethered. Still there. Her other palm stays pressed lightly against their forehead, thumb brushing idle circles in the spaces where fever once bloomed and the dream still holds.

There’s no magic shimmering off her skin, nothing obvious left to trace. But if Juniper looks close enough, she’ll see the cost of it.

The edges of Irene look worn thin — not just tired, but unraveling in the kind of way that happens when sleep becomes an afterthought and the body forgets how to want for itself. The dark circles under her eyes have taken on a kind of permanence, bruised at the corners. Her skin's a touch too pale. Shoulders tight, like they haven't dropped in days. She hasn’t eaten. Juniper knows that already.

But it’s Sage — bounding toward her with that small, determined reach — that finally draws something faint from her; a breath that’s not a sigh, a look that’s not a wince. Just something softer.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Irene murmurs, voice like old parchment, quiet but not cold. She shifts an arm, carefully freeing it so she can scoop Sage up, letting the little raccoon settle warm and insistent against her chest. Her eyes flutter shut for half a second as she leans back, just barely. Not quite rest. Not quite surrender. But close.

Juniper’s voice cuts gently into the silence, and Irene opens her eyes again — slow, steady. She watches her lower the food to the table like it's some quiet ritual, the way she does every day now. It hits her, again, that quiet kind.

“You don’t have to do that,” Irene says after a beat. Her voice is hoarse, roughened by disuse and wear. “I hope you know that.”

But she doesn’t push it. Doesn’t turn it into guilt or refusal. There’s no sharpness in the words, just fatigue wrapped in something… just grateful. It lingers unspoken between them.

Her hand drifts back to Shiv’s again, grounding herself. She doesn’t say how long she’s been keeping the spell woven tight around them. Doesn’t mention the tremor that runs faint and quiet through her wrist every now and then, the kind that comes from channeling too long without pause. She doesn’t need to.

“I’m managing,” she says finally. Barely above a whisper. A tired smile ghosts across her face, faint but real, eyes flicking toward Sage, who’s now curled half into the fabric of her sweater like she belongs there. "And Shiv's fine. Enjoying a day at the beach."

It’s not a lie.

Her gaze returns to Juniper then — not guarded, not armored. Just open, just tired. And maybe a little surprised she’s still being looked after, too. "How are you?"

When: June 10th, afternoon Where: Crow & Chalice Who: @ireneclermont

Juniper was spread pretty thin since the storm, she was splitting her time between the cafe construction and Theras shop. She didn’t know why this hunter was important to Thera. It left a bit of a sour taste in her mouth honestly. But she trusted the older witch. She would just need to keep a close eye. 

Another close eye she needed to keep was on Irene. To say Juniper was surprised when the apothecary showed up was an understatement. She worked some kind of magic and should have been on her way. But she stayed, and it gave Juniper a chance to observe. One of the first things she observed was how tense Irene was, all the time. Her relaxed attitude was less relaxed and more anxiously apathetic. 

She also hardly ate, spending hours in the back of the shop with the hunter, not a bite to eat, not a sip to drink. So it became a routine. On her way between stores after making sure the day's work was going well she would pick up lunch for the three of them. Irene never asked. Juniper never minded. 

Today she brought Sage with her. The weather was nice and the critter was getting restless in the apartment. Juniper couldn’t blame her. Walking into the shop she dropped Thera's lunch in the fridge before heading upstairs to the guest room. A room she had once stayed in herself. Immediately Sage was off her shoulders and approaching Irene. Arms up asking to be lifted. 

“How are you both doing today?” She asked as she entered. Setting their lunches down on a side table and taking a seat herself with a heavy sigh. She knew the hunter was doing well, between the three of them he was probably doing better than expected. She was more asking Irene, but didn't want to be too direct.

“Mm.” Irene tilted her head slightly, like she was considering whether to answer or how much to give away. Her hand hovered near the tin she’d just nudged back, fingers idling at the edge like they hadn’t quite decided what to do next.

“You’ll get names eventually,” she said. “But names don’t matter as much as habits.”

She shifted her weight, leaning one hip against the shelf. Her voice stayed soft, steady. Not whispering — just quiet in that way people get when they know too much and don’t like wasting breath.

“There’s one who wears gloves all the time. Doesn’t shake hands. Always asks about the fire exit but never uses it.” She glanced toward him, holding his gaze for a second. “Don’t let him sit with his back to the wall.”

Then a shrug, like maybe that was too much detail or not enough. “There’s a woman who comes in once a month to leave something under a seat cushion. You’ll think she’s harmless because she tips too much and smells like cardamom. She’s not.”

She let that hang a moment.

“And if anyone brings their own glassware,” Irene added, “don’t ask what it’s for. Just take your break early.” She didn’t sound afraid. Not even particularly rattled. Just resigned — like she’d been on the wrong end of these people’s stories before and didn’t see the point in sugarcoating it. “You’ll be fine,” she said, after a pause. “You’re already asking the right kind of questions.”

Then, almost like she was remembering something else entirely, her gaze flicked back to the mug in his hands.

“And if it ever feels like the lounge is... watching you? That’s because it is..”

Things that look like people. Half-forgotten debts. He took another sip, trying not to dwell on the fact that it had drawn him in as well. There was little reason in the way he’d stopped on the listing for Obsidian and hadn’t bothered to look elsewhere, and he felt less and less like a person with every passing day, since Jyoti had been put into the ground.

“Somewhere quiet, where they could meet or make deals, I can offer. I’d have to figure out where the previous owner was sourcing the blood...” Jaya said, drumming his fingers on the sides of the mug. It cannot be through legal means, not to an establishment like this. “I... don’t particularly like the idea of serving it in crystal stemware. Both for sanitary purposes and in general.”

Potions-witch or not, Irene was offering him real answers. He’d be a fool to refuse. “Who should I look out for?”

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.

WHO: @rivenvictors WHERE: close to her house.

She noticed him halfway down the Wash Tub Laundry. Not the loud kind of tailing—no heavy steps, no labored breath—just a rhythm behind her that matched hers too cleanly. Too careful. A step when she stepped. A pause when she adjusted her bag. Like he’d practiced it.

Irene didn’t stop walking.

She kept her pace steady, let the keys in her coat pocket clink just enough to sound like someone not paying attention. Her breath fogged faintly in the cold, but her fingers curled tight in her sleeve, brushing the hilt of the knife she always carried. Just in case.

At the corner near Calley Street, she turned left instead of right—off the main path, into one of the narrow lanes that ran crooked behind the houses. She didn’t glance back.

Let him follow.

The moment his foot hit gravel, the blonde moved.

She pivoted fast—knife out, weight behind the motion—shoving him hard against the nearest wall. The blade pressed just below his collarbone, sharp enough to draw a bead of heat through the fabric.

Then she saw his face.

The breath caught in her throat.

“…Riven?” she said, voice low, disbelieving. Her grip on the knife didn’t ease, but something else shifted behind her eyes. A flicker of confusion. Recognition. Anger, maybe. Or something older.

He looked the same. Just not as tall. Not from what she could remember, but then again, how long had it been?

"Rivy?" she said again, softer this time, like the name alone might anchor him into being. Like if she said it wrong, he’d vanish. Her knife didn’t move, but her breath did—tight in her chest, caught between disbelief and something colder.

“Is this a joke?” she asked, not really to him. More to the night. To whatever twist of the universe thought this was the right time. Her pulse was loud in her ears now, and for a second, she wasn’t sure if she was awake at all.

“Because if I’m dreaming, this one’s just mean.”

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."