Irene Doesn’t Look At Her. Doesn’t Need To. She Just Stands There For A Second, Letting The Quiet

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.

On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?

On an average day, Irene’s pockets are a quiet reflection of who she is — practical, private, and always prepared.

She usually carries her keys, looped with a spare hair tie — always black, always stretched a little too thin from use. There’s almost always a crumpled receipt or two she’s forgotten to throw out, tucked next to a folded grocery list or a sticky note with something half-crossed out.

Wired headphones are a constant — no earbuds or Bluetooth nonsense. She likes the certainty of something that won’t disconnect without warning.

Irene watched her emerge—fluid, effortless. Like the sea didn’t just allow her, but had shaped itself around her coming. The kind of grace that made the dock feel artificial beneath Irene’s boots. A clumsy invention. An interruption to something older.

Her fingers tightened slightly on the railing, just once.

“I’m not here to trade,” she said after a beat, voice still quiet, still certain. “Troubles or otherwise.”

She didn’t smile, but something like acknowledgment flickered across her face —thin and weathered, like light through stormglass. She wasn’t startled by the woman’s ease, nor her offer. The world had stopped surprising her a long time ago. But this—this small act of being seen and not dismissed—had a kind of weight that pressed different.

“I’ve got shelter if I need it,” Irene added, gaze drifting toward the churn of black water. “This isn’t about dry clothes.”

The sea cracked louder behind her, a gust pushing against the edge of the dock like a warning. Irene didn’t flinch.

“You jumped like someone who knew exactly where they’d land.” Her eyes cut back to her. “That’s rare.”

The wind pulled her hood loose then, tangling strands of hair against her cheek. She didn’t fix it.

“You don’t owe me company,” she said finally. “But I won’t say no to it.”

And still, she stayed where she was —hands steady on salt-slick wood, boots rooted in storm-soft ground, eyes on the woman who had come out of the sea like a story no one dared finish telling.

She heard her. Not by any human range. But she was no human.

Ha-Jeong didn’t really want to leave the water. The stranger was correct. People shouldn’t be swimming in this. Shouldn’t even be out in this. Yet she was. Despite her apologies and interruptions, this human still stood there. A silly thing yet her countenance held such sadness she was reluctant to leave the young woman alone.

In a few strokes Jeong was at the dock again and with little effort hoisted herself out of the water to perch below the forlorn girl. “While the sea will take your troubles sonyeo, sometimes it isn’t quite worth the price.”

She looked up at the girl. “The main facility isn’t far if you are looking for some sort of dry place, but I also won’t interfere if you wish to somehow wrestle with your demons.” Ha-Jeong leaned back on her arms tilting her head up towards the rain. On another person this stance could have looked relaxed but it had been centuries since almost any pose she could take had been able to convey that.

She hadn’t meant to stop.

The road was half-eaten, gouged by rain and salt, the edges soft and unreliable. Her boots sank just enough to be irritating. She’d been walking for a while—no destination, no plan, just a direction that felt better than turning back. Her hood was up, scarf pulled too tight at the neck, fingers stiff in her coat pockets.

The truck looked like it had tried to reason with the shoulder and lost. She might’ve kept walking, but the shape in the driver’s seat moved. Jolted, more like. Then a voice—muffled, defensive.

Irene stepped closer. Not enough to be intrusive, but enough to be seen clearly when the driver twisted toward the window.

“Congratulations,” she said flatly, lifting her voice just enough to carry through the rain. “You’re not dead.”

Her eyes skimmed the truck; stuck good, probably been here a while, cab fogged slightly, the kind of tired that lingered even in posture. Blanket around his shoulders, so either cold or trying to comfort himself. She didn’t care which. She wasn’t judging. Not really.

“You planning on becoming one?” she added, eyes steady. “Because you’re about three hours from the road washing out completely. Give or take.”

She didn’t reach for the door, didn’t crowd him. Just waited there, a half-soaked figure with wind-tangled hair and a stare like she was the one who’d summoned the storm.

“You got anyone coming?” A pause. “Anyone who can make it through this?”

There was no rush in her voice. No panic. Just the kind of tired patience that came from already knowing the answer.

who: open where: the side of the road

He manages not to fully skid off of the shoulder of the road, the emergency brake coming in clutch at the very last second. The engine groans a little as Kevin puts the truck into park before shutting off the engine entirely. Rolling the window down, he sticks his head out the window and can tell that the back wheel is stuck in the mud and there was no way it was getting out without help. His head is mostly drenched when he pulls it back into the cab and he sighs, banging it gently against the headrest.

His phone is open on the center console next to him, Kali's message still flashing brightly across the screen.

"Get off that man's dick and go home."

He had missed the message at first, mostly because he was on the man's dick, but he doesn't really think that extra 90 seconds would have mattered that much in the grand scheme of things. Either way, he and his truck are now both stuck in the rain, and he can already feel his joints reacting to the drop in air pressure. It feels like sandpaper rubbing against his bones, and he leans over to his glove compartment to grab his stash of edibles. He sure as hell wasn't driving anytime soon.

Since he's unable to run the engine, he reaches into the back seat to grab one of the blankets he keeps for Saturn. It's got dog hair all over it, but it smells like her so he wraps it around his shoulder and tries to find a comfortable position in his seat. He sends a couple texts out, to people who might be wondering where he is, but there is a big fat red "!" letting him know that nothing was being delivered. With his battery only at half, he sighs, turning off every app he wasn't using to try and preserve it for as long as possible.

Kevin's not sure if he falls asleep or lets the weed lull him into a comfortable doze, but he jumps when he hears a knock on the driver's seat window. His knee cracks uncomfortably from the movement, and he grunts as he shifts, looking out at the blurry figure in the storm. "I'm fine!" he tries to shout through the window. "It's dry and I can wait it out!"

Irene didn’t roll her eyes — she didn’t give him the satisfaction. That would’ve meant his noise reached her, that his cocktail of smirks and blood-jokes managed to press somewhere beneath her skin. Instead, she let the silence stretch thin and humming, like piano wire drawn taut between them. One sharp note away from slicing skin.

She watched the wobbling cartridge settle, its nose pointing square at her sternum like a dare, and didn’t blink. Let it rest there. Let him imagine it made a difference.

“Cute trick,” she said at last, dry as old paper. “Shame it only works on people who don’t know how many times you’ve missed.”

She took the cartridge off the counter without looking at it, let it spin once on her fingertip before palming it, smooth and precise. That old dancer’s grace — all economy and control, every movement a message. I could ruin you and never lift my voice doing it.

“You mistake the shape of silence for strain,” she continued, her tone dipping low, precise. “Just because I don’t break the glass doesn’t mean I don’t know how. You think I’m one bad day from snapping?” She leaned forward a fraction, voice softening — not sweet, but sharp enough to cut clean. “I’ve been one bad day for other people. More than once. Don’t mistake composure for mercy.”

Then, just to underline it, she smiled. Small. Clinical. The kind of expression you might see on someone flipping through morgue tags.

Her gaze ticked down to the smeared inventory sheet, still smudged with whatever grease-stain bravado passed for his signature.

“You know,” she mused, brushing the corner of the page lightly, “If I wanted a toddler with impulse control issues, I’d raid the daycare wing of the Order’s training program. At least they shit their pants less when they get scared.”

She let the sentence hang there for a beat, sweetened with just enough venom to sting.

“But you—” she gestured vaguely to him, his posture, the chair, the grin stitched into his face like a bad scar — “You’re still chasing your own echo, pretending it’s a monster. Is that what this is now? Playing boogeyman to get someone to look at you? You gonna spook some street witches next? Kick over a hex circle and call it a win?”

Then she straightened — not defensive, not retreating, just done indulging. Jacket cuffs tugged sharp. Voice flat again, bored around the edges.

“You want to hunt together?” she echoed. “Tell me what’s in it for me.”

A pause.

“Besides the obvious disappointment, I mean.”

And then, like a knife slipped between ribs on an inhale, soft, while leaning slightly closer. “Or are you still calling it a hunt when the targets don’t shoot back?”

Nico rolls the lollipop stem against his molars, splits it down the grain with a wet crack, then flicks the splinter into the trashcan like a gauntlet. Irene’s voice is still humming in the air—clean, judicial, taste-tested—so he folds his arms behind his head, tips back on the stool, and yawns. Wide. The kind of yawn that shows spite and maybe the ghost of last night’s whiskey. Lets it hang there, jaw unhinged, until the lights buzz louder than she does.

“God,” he sighs from his necklace into the ceiling, “Irene, they should bottle you and sell you to insomniacs.”

The stool claps down on all four legs. He leans over the counter, elbows wide, grin gone lazy. “Look, I get it. You’re the sharp scalpel, I’m the rusty hacksaw. You do neat incisions, I swing ’til bone dust fogs the room. It’s cute you think the surgeons always walk out cleaner.” He drums a fingertip on the cartridge she’s taken. “Metal’s metal either way. Same death inside.”

His gaze skates to the inventory sheet lying untouched between them, a neat grid of typewritten calibers and order codes. He drags a dirty thumbnail across the column of quantities, leaving a smear that obliterates three numbers. “Oops,” he signs. “There goes the paperwork. Guess legal’s gonna have to clear that, too.”

She’s still statuesque, frost-marble perfect. He studies her stillness—how it strains at the edges like a violin string tuned a half-step too high. “You do haunt, sweetheart,” he says. “Not with ghosts, but with everything you’re holding back. Makes a man wonder what color the spill would be if someone poked the dam.”

His hand snakes under the counter, comes up with another cartridge—this one dull brass, dented near the rim. He balances it on its base, spins it, lets it wobble to a stop pointing at her heart. “Tell you what.” The cartridge disappears again, swallowed by a fist. “You keep pretending my fail-state is predictable, and I’ll keep pretending you’re not one spark away from shattering. Symbiosis, right? Brotherhood loves that word.” He winks, mock conspiratorial. Then the grin sharpens, shark-fin breaking water. “You asked what I’m hunting? Today—splitting headaches shaped like your voice. Tomorrow? Whatever bleeds the loudest. Maybe we tag-team it. First time for everything, yeah?”

Nico tips his head, regarding the lollipop cut blooming red on his cheek. A slow swipe of his tongue—copper, sugar, grin.

"What say you? Want to hunt together?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHO: @cutthroat-service WHERE: thera's place

The tower was quiet this late —just the hum of stillness and the weight of too many hours folded into the dark. Irene hadn’t said much when she arrived. She never really did. Thera had opened the door without a word, like she’d been expecting her. Maybe she had. Irene hadn’t asked how.

Now it was just her, the steady rise and fall of Shiv’s breathing, and the thrum of something still clinging to them—like a wire pulled too tight and left humming in the wind.

She moved slowly, boots soundless on the floor as she crossed to the bed, pulling the chair closer. Her coat was still damp from the walk. A long shift, a longer night, and now this—whatever this was going to be.

Irene sat, eyes soft but tired, and let her hand hover for a second over Shiv’s face. Cold fingers, colder than usual. She touched their forehead lightly, thumb brushing against damp skin.

“Hey,” she murmured, low enough it didn’t have to be answered. “I’m gonna try something.”

She didn’t know if they could hear her. Didn’t know if they’d recognize her even if they did. The file had been thin. The fear, thicker.

Her eyes closed. Her body stayed behind.

But her mind slipped forward—past breath, past waking—toward the quiet edges of a dream she hadn’t built yet.

Toward Shiv. Wherever they were. Whatever they were seeing. She was going to find them.

The breath she took before slipping under was shallow—more habit than need. Like she could brace herself for something she couldn’t see. Like that ever worked. Irene had walked through a lot of dreams. Built some from nothing, pulled others back from the brink. But this was different.

This one wasn’t hers.

This one had teeth. It had magic, and it was the wrong kind.

Shiv’s mind wasn’t open so much as cracked. The kind of break that didn’t bleed but never really healed, either. And she could feel it the second she stepped in —like walking barefoot onto glass. The air didn’t smell right. Not dream-sweet, not unreal. Just off. Wrong in a way she couldn’t name.

She stood in the dark for a moment, the place slow to take shape. This wasn’t a memory, not exactly. It shifted like sand under her thoughts. Sounds crept through the silence —muffled, tinny. A phone ringing somewhere too far to reach.

Irene frowned and took a step forward.

She didn’t know what she was walking into.

Didn’t know if Shiv would know her.

Didn’t even know if she’d know him in here.

But the connection was still there —fragile and thin as a spider’s thread, tied to her body back in that quiet room, tied to his heartbeat, still going.

She followed it.

Because someone had to.

Irene tolerated the hug like she might tolerate a cat sitting in her lap uninvited—still, unmoving, but with a faintly stunned look in her eye like she wasn’t entirely sure how it had come to this. She didn’t return it, not exactly, but she didn’t push Allie away either. Which, for Irene, was saying something.

“Matching energies,” she echoed, dry as ever, but her voice was quieter now. Less like bark, more like rustling leaves. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

She let Allie take the notebook without protest, though her fingers lingered a beat too long before letting it go. Like maybe part of her was tempted to hang onto it, if only to make sure it didn’t end up under the peppermint again. Or the radiators. Or that one cursed drawer that ate things whole.

At the question, though—do you have something like it?—Irene’s expression shifted.

Not visibly. Not much. Just a flicker in the way she blinked, the angle of her shoulders as she turned and started walking back toward the counter. Something closing behind the eyes.

“No,” she said simply. “I’m not a witch.”

It was too smooth. Too practiced. Not even a hitch.

“I just know a thing or two about herbs. Plants. I read a lot.”

The lie settled neatly between them, well-worn and wrapped in just enough truth to pass inspection. It always sounded better when she said it like that —like it wasn’t a big deal. Like the books and the jars and the faint, prickling hum of the walls around them weren’t strung together with old wards and stranger things. Survival, after all, had never been about honesty.

She paused near the counter, reaching to flick off a lamp that had started to buzz again, half-listening to the light catch in Allie’s laughter.

“You should be careful with those kinds of notebooks,” she said, tone light enough to sound like she was joking—though the words had an edge to them, buried deep. “Write the wrong thing down and it might try to make itself true.”

Then, as if to soften it —because Allie was still glowing at her like Irene had hung the stars with her bare hands —she added, “But I guess that’s your kind of magic.”

She gave a short nod toward the journal. “Just make sure it doesn’t end up in the peppermint again.”

        she giggles, a little apologetic, but mostly just tickled with humor. and, anyways, she’s pretty sure irene’s kidding. allie’s never put glitter in the mortars on purpose, but maybe if it’s gotten on her hands … still, her eyes flicker over to them, just to make sure the stone of them isn’t entirely bedazzled. but, before she can fully set her gaze on them, irene’s talking about her little lost thing, and allie remembers why the wind brought her back here.

        her head tilts sheepishly. yes, of course, she’d left something behind again. really, it doesn’t matter so much as long as she keeps coming back to the apothecary, and she always does. if she could hold onto things longer- memories -it wouldn’t matter so much. but it was on her mind and worth a try and she had hope and now, here she is! and here irene is, and she’s found it.  “ oh my gosh, thank you, thank you! you’re the best! ”  she forgets about her quest to keep irene from getting too grumpy with her as her eyes catch hold of the little journal. allie squeals, and rushes forward, wrapping her arms around irene’s shoulders in a brief squeeze, fueled by a rush of affection.  “ you’re so good at finding things, i think that’s why we’re friends. ‘cause we have, like, matching energies. ”  she lets go soon enough, resting back down on the ground, instead of pushed up on her tiptoes, reaching for the clouds.

         allie takes the journal back from where it’s dangling from the tips of irene’s fingers, clutching it gratefully, tender, to her chest. there’s more laughter spilling from her lips.  “ i’m very lucky, but it’s ‘cause of you, silly. ”  she doesn’t believe irene’s threat of keeping it, mostly because there’s nothing in there that’s all that interesting. of course, it’s all interesting to allie, but … everything is.  “ do you have something like it? like, a little book you keep all your magic stuff in? ”

Irene didn’t flinch when Allie touched her — not really — but there was the faintest shift in her posture, the smallest roll of her shoulders like some old, instinctual tension had stirred from its sleep. Still, she let her take her hand. Let her tuck the flower behind her ear like it was nothing. Like it didn’t burn with the strange warmth of being chosen.

“Matching, huh?” Irene’s voice was quieter now, almost rough with the effort of keeping something leveled out beneath it. “Dangerous thing to do with someone like me.”

But she didn’t pull away.

She didn’t know what it was about Allie — the way she moved through the world like it hadn’t taught her to flinch yet, or maybe like she’d learned to laugh through the ache anyway. Irene remembered that feeling. Not well, but well enough to recognize the ghost of it. Back when her magic still had wonder in it. Before it twisted under the weight of what she’d had to make it do.

Allie’s magic pulsed gentle — alive and bright like sun-warmed petals and laughter too early in the morning. Irene’s had teeth. It could peel the paint off reality if she let it. No comparison, really. No overlap. But it was impossible not to wonder, just for a second, what it might have felt like to be the kind of girl who danced instead of watched.

What it might’ve meant to laugh with her, instead of being the one standing in the storm with a pocket full of warnings and a blade under her tongue.

But now wasn’t the time for that.

Her fingers came up — slow, steady — brushing just once against the flower behind her ear like she couldn’t quite believe it was real.

“Alright, come on,” she said, voice firm again. Not unkind, but all the softness tucked neatly back behind the grit. “Let’s get you out of here. It’s not safe.”

She glanced once toward the street, water swirling in gutters and lightning stretching pale veins across the dark sky.

Irene shifted her coat open slightly, just enough to drape one side around Allie’s soaked shoulders. She didn’t ask if she needed it. She just did it. Quiet, certain, like it was the only thing in the world that made sense right now. “This isn’t a place for bare feet and pretty things.”

         irene gets that same bright affection as she always does, allie’s always happy to see a familiar face. the early morning brings a potent enthusiasm, the rain a chill that ups the swallowtails in her heart to hummingbirds. her pulse becomes a steady hum, instead of a beat she can track. faster and faster and faster until allie’s bouncing on her toes. it keeps her warm, and it keeps her from springing forward to envelop irene in a very wet and cold hug. she giggles, shaking her head, shaking off irene’s warning about the mud. how’s she supposed to feel the ground, if she has her shoes on? silly, silly, silly.  “ you’re so silly, nothing bad’s gonna’ happen to me. ”

         her smile beams soon after, half-way preening, irene’s words feel special. you seem happy is like a treasure amongst the usual clouds of distrust that allie fights her way through with sweet smiles and cheerful words. “ i am happy. ”  and, really, she is, listening to irene with interest and curious eyes and-

         … guess there’s a first time for everything. “ really?! ”  the words spill out of her mouth, faster than she can process them, the same going with her eager hands, going to land on irene’s own. she manages softness, in that all-consuming, fond excitement.

         but as she turns back to irene, so giddy she almost trips over her own two feet, she realizes there’s something … missing. “ oh, oh wait- ”  the fabric of her skirt is completely soaked, which means finding the pocket of it with clumsy fingers is even harder than normal. blue eyes dart down as she finds another yellow flower, one like the bloom she had tucked behind her own ear. in allie’s warm palm, the flower breathes new life. its thirst satiated by the rain, it looks just as pretty as it did when she’d plucked it from the ground. allie reaches up to tuck it behind irene’s ear, smiling warmly as her hand flutters away, admiring her friend and the flower.  “ there, now we match! ”