i need my girl

The bell above the bakery door chimed.

Skyla flinched at the sound before she could stop herself.

It was soft. Familiar. Chosen, even — a little piece of gentle she’d picked out years ago because it reminded her of summers that didn’t hurt. Today it sounded too loud in the quiet of the shop. Too awake. Like the world was moving forward without asking if she was ready.

She wiped her hands on her apron even though they weren’t really dirty, just something to do with them, and stared down at the counter where a tray of dough sat half-shaped. Three rolls were perfect. One was burnt. One she’d flattened so badly it looked more like a memory of bread than bread itself.

“Okay,” she murmured to no one. “We’re… we’re getting there.”

The ovens hummed. The early morning light spilled through the front windows, catching on flour dust in the air like tiny ghosts of warmth. The shop smelled right. That was the worst part. Everything smelled the way it always had, like sugar and yeast and something that promised comfort. Her body kept expecting joy to meet it.

It didn’t.

Skyla reached for the timer, realized she’d already turned it off, and let her hand fall back to the counter with a quiet thud. Her gaze drifted to the small chalkboard by the register where she’d written the day’s specials out of habit. The handwriting wavered halfway through. She hadn’t finished the last line.

A breath left her — slow, careful, like she was afraid breathing too hard might knock something else loose.

“I can do this,” she whispered, the words a practice more than a promise. “I’ve done harder things than this.”

The door chimed again as someone stepped inside, and Skyla lifted her head, forcing the shape of a smile into place. It didn’t reach her eyes, but it was real enough to offer.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Sorry — give me just a second. The ovens and I are still renegotiating our terms this morning.”

She gestured vaguely toward the counter, then back to them, as if trying to remember the choreography of being herself.

“What can I get you?”

He could see the look on her face even from the other side of the counters, and more than that he could see the look in her eyes - the one that said the last thing she needed was to be rushed. That maybe, just maybe, she could use someone to talk to. He wouldn't push that on her, wouldn't insist, but he planned to stay there in the quiet with her and see if she made the choice.

Taking a seat on the other side of the counter, Jackson pulled up and waited.

Elijah stood near an open doorway, one hand resting loosely against the frame as he watched the room settle into its own rhythm. The gathering wasn’t particularly loud, but it carried that familiar hum of people trying to feel normal around one another — conversation threading through the air, laughter surfacing in uneven bursts. He’d loosened his tie earlier, more out of habit than discomfort, and the small concession to informality made him look almost approachable.

After a while, his attention shifted toward someone lingering a short distance away, their presence a quiet counterpoint to the noise around them. Elijah moved closer at an easy pace, not in a rush, not as though he were interrupting anything important.

“I find these things are easier when one admits they’ve been standing alone for too long,” he said mildly, tone warm without ceremony. His gaze flicked briefly toward the room, then back. “It’s not the solitude that’s the trouble. It’s pretending it’s intentional.”

He stopped beside them, posture relaxed, hands loosely clasped behind his back.

“If company is unwelcome, I’ll happily return to my corner,” Elijah added, a faint, dry humor in his voice. “But I thought I might take the risk of conversation before the night convinces me I’ve forgotten how to start one.”

"Nah, might as well stay and share this corner with me," he waved a dismissive hand. "If neither of us is talkin' to the rest of these folks at least it'll look less conspicuous if we're standin' here together." He raised his drink a little, toasting company. "Not your scene either?"

The city at night never slept—not anymore. Not since the Merge, not since the fog, not since Triad painted its threats across every street like an open dare. Anastasia had grown used to the restlessness; she thrived in it, even. Silence was the dangerous thing. Quiet meant something was creeping up on them.

That was why she was out now, in a half-lit alley that opened into a broken streetline, stretching the stiffness from her arms after hours of training drills she insisted were “just in case.” Her boots scuffed against the cracked stone as she paced, jaw working on the last of a piece of gum she hadn’t replaced in hours.

She exhaled, breath pale in the cold.

“I swear,” she muttered, “if one more thing goes sideways tonight, I’m moving to the Day Court and pretending I’m a pacifist.”

Her gaze flicked upward as she sensed someone approaching—sharp blue eyes narrowing, but not unwelcoming. If anything, she looked… relieved to see a familiar presence. Or intrigued by an unfamiliar one.

“Well,” she said, straightening slightly. “Either you’re lost… or you’re looking for trouble.”

A beat. A faint smirk.

“Lucky for you, I happen to be good at both.”

He took a longer look at her, though, and a smile broke on his face. "Wait - I know you. Well, I don't know you. I know about you. Drea said Eliza was talking about some cute blonde she met in a bookstore. In that case I definitely can't fight ya, even if I wanted to. So we'll have to postpone that."

Charlie wasn’t hiding — she didn’t do that — but she was taking five minutes where no one could yank her into another crisis. She’d claimed a stretch of crumbling stone at the edge of the street, boots planted, arms folded, watching the city breathe unevenly around her.

The wind carried the scent of rain and magic, old brick and something burning in the distance. Nothing urgent. Nothing she needed to sprint toward. For once.

She let out a slow breath and tipped her head back, loosening the tension in her shoulders piece by piece. “This place…” she muttered, half to herself, half to the veil overhead. “It never decides if it wants to collapse or impress me.”

Footsteps — or a presence — drew her attention. Charlie didn’t startle, just shifted her weight and looked over with that familiar steady, assessing gaze that always landed somewhere between are you trouble? and do you need something?

Her chin lifted in greeting, dry humor flickering at the corner of her mouth.

“Well,” she drawled, “either you’re lost, bored, or making this my problem. Go on then — which is it?”

She didn’t move away. Didn’t close off. Just held the space like she always did — firm, grounded, open if someone wanted it.

“Take a seat or walk with me,” Charlie added, nodding once. “Your choice.”

Taking a seat beside her, he dropped a paper bag of fast food at her feet and set a drink beside her hand. "But more important than either of those, I come bearing food. I know you too well to think you've taken time to eat the last little while, so I came to make sure of it. It ain't fancy, but since when have we ever been fancy?" That grin lit his features again. "Eat up. There's enough in there for two meals, and Drea might have slipped in a little somethin' from that bakery too."

Leaning over, he nudged his shoulder against hers. "And while you eat, you can tell me about the most annoying parts of bein' the sheriff of a town that's now two towns and a bunch of Fae courts."

He tugged his jacket tighter as he stepped into the cooler night air, cheeks warm from cheap whiskey and whatever sugary monstrosity someone dared him to try earlier.

Okay, so the sugary monstrosity had been his idea.

His head buzzed pleasantly, not drunk but definitely in that zone where the world felt a little looser around the edges and his thoughts felt a little too honest.

He walked a few steps down the uneven sidewalk, weaving around a tipped-over street vendor cart, before stopping under a broken lamppost that crackled every few seconds like it was trying to spark itself back to life. Music still thumped faintly from inside the bar, mixing with the distant hiss of ley-line energy threading through the city’s veins.

Zach scrubbed both hands over his face, pushing his hair back with a laugh that was half amusement, half exhaustion. Nights out helped - until they didn’t. The adrenaline always caught up with him eventually, leaving that jittery, open feeling in his chest he pretended wasn’t vulnerability.

That’s when he heard footsteps sliding into the quiet. Not stealthy, just present. Zach lifted his head, offering a crooked grin that was equal parts friendly and trying-too-hard. "Hey," he said lightly. "If you’re out here to rob me, fair warning - I only carry emotional baggage and maybe like five bucks tops."

( @darkskiesrpgstarters )

He closed the distance between them, turning his gaze upwards to take in the sparking lamp. "And then there's that stuff. Tech that don't work, places cut in half..." Jackson trailed off and shook his head. "But enough of that. You look like you're a few sheets to the wind already, so I can either be the responsible pack leader and take you home..." his expression turned mischevious, "or I can take you to the next bar and we can keep this night going. On me, of course, mister five dollars."

He slapped Zach on the shoulder. "What's it gonna be?"

The forest didn’t sound the same on this side of the Merge.

Lyric felt it the moment she crossed the treeline—too many heartbeats, too much human noise pressed against old roots that remembered quieter laws. The air carried iron and engine oil alongside moss and leaf rot, and the moonlight fractured oddly against half-collapsed stonework ahead.

She paused at the edge of the clearing, one hand resting loosely near Threnody’s hilt. Not drawn. Just… ready.

There was a man there.

Broad-shouldered, steady in the way of someone who’d learned to plant himself between danger and others without ceremony. Werewolf—she knew that much instantly. Pack-alpha weight sat on him like a second spine, old and earned, not borrowed. He wasn’t prowling. He wasn’t hunting.

He was guarding.

Lyric stepped forward deliberately, boots crunching once against gravel so her presence wouldn’t be mistaken for an ambush. The autumn wind shifted with her, carrying cedar and smoke and something older still.

“I won’t cross your line,” she said calmly, voice low and even, pitched for someone who understood boundaries more than threats. Her hands stayed visible, relaxed at her sides. “But this land called to me. Loudly.”

Her gaze met his—unflinching, bronze-green and scar-marked with a life spent in wars he didn’t recognize.

“Lyric Thorne,” she added after a beat. Not a title. Not a challenge. Just a name, offered straight. “Autumn Court. I’m not here for your pack… unless something’s already hunting it.”

A pause, measured. The faintest tilt of her head, assessing without disrespect.

“And you,” she continued, eyes sharp but curious, “stand like someone who doesn’t move unless it matters. That usually means responsibility.”

She stopped a respectful distance away, the forest holding its breath around them.

“So tell me,” Lyric said quietly, “am I standing on guarded ground… or shared ground?”

The woman who approached out of the silence and dark didn't carry a threatening aura with her - but there was no mistaking that she could be a threat if she chose to be. It raised the hackles up and down his back, but he didn't make the first move.

"Good to know you, Lyric Thorne of the Autumn Court. Jackson Kenner, Alpha of the Crescent Pack." He looked around them, spreading his arms a little. "Both. This land is guarded, but I'm not going to keep anyone out who isn't here with bad intentions."

He took a breath, and let his posture relax. "If the land is calling to you, if you think there's something hunting my people, then let's take a walk. You can see if anything else calls out."

Kaidan Meadows stood apart from the lantern tables, not bothering with quill or ink, not joining the murmured wishes and the careful handwriting of names. The paper lantern pressed into his hand was blank, its pale glow catching faintly in the curl of shadows at his boots.

His attention wasn’t on the fountain or the crowd. It was fixed upward, toward the veil where the horizons rippled. Tonight, as the first wave of lanterns rose, the sky had answered. Starlight shimmered against the barrier — deep, endless, and unyielding. The mark of the Night Court. His Court.

He let the silence stretch, gaze hard, unreadable. Then his mouth curved into that familiar half-smirk, sharp as a blade hidden in velvet.

“Mortals write wishes,” Kaidan said softly, though his voice carried easily over the hum of the square. “Fae know better. Stars don’t grant mercy. They remind you of what it costs.”

The lantern turned once in his hand, unmarked, untouched, before he set it adrift on the fountain’s water. His eyes never left the veil, the starlight bleeding through like a promise—or a warning—as footsteps approached.

“Welcome to Valaria,” he added, quiet, sure.

"Wishes are pointless," he murmured as he walked up next to Kaidan. Supernatural hearing went a long way toward picking up even quiet words. "Learned that a long time ago. But thank you for the welcome, at least."

The smell of roasted herbs and fresh bread drifted from the doorway of Le Fleur Nocturne, one of the few restaurants still standing after the Convergence. Inside, the kitchen was chaos in the way only a chef could love — salvaged ingredients, uneven stoves, and half a dozen pots going at once. But Wesley stood outside now, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest as he watched the Square flicker alive with lantern light.

The city felt cracked in more ways than one. Families searching for each other. Strangers huddled together like old friends. And Wesley — well, he did what he always did. Fed whoever came through his doors, made sure no one went hungry if he could help it.

He pulled a towel from his shoulder, wiping his hands absently, before speaking to whoever lingered nearby. “Funny thing about people,” he said, voice low, steady, with the hint of a smile. “You give ‘em a hot meal, and for a little while, they forget the world’s ending outside. Sometimes that’s all anyone really needs.”

Wesley tilted his head, studying the fractured skyline before turning back, eyes warm but sharp in their own way. “So—what about you? Looking for a distraction, or just hungry enough to take what you can get?”

The smell of the restaurant had found him first, and Wesley's voice second, enough to stop him near the door. "What's that old saying? Armies march on their stomach? That's the thing, for sure - give a person something to eat and it's amazing how much more willin' they can be. How much more creative, how much smarter. Food is a great equalizer."

He shrugged. "Honestly, couldn't tell you what I came looking for. Followed my nose, like that cartoon bird."

evelynn’s lantern dangled loosely from her hand, forgotten for the moment. her eyes were fixed down the fractured road toward the nola district, where the veil shimmered darker than the rest — a horizon cut in starlight and shadow. she could almost see it as he had shown her: cities carved of crystal and obsidian, skies alive with falling stars, rivers that glowed like molten silver. the night court. home, though not hers. not yet.

her chest tightened with something she couldn’t name — wonder, longing, the sharp ache of possibility. she hadn’t realized how still she’d gone until a voice nearby snapped her from the trance. her fingers clenched instinctively on the lantern’s frame, grounding her back in the broken city. she exhaled, blinking back to the square, to the warmth of lights and faces around her. a smile curved across her lips, soft but unshaken. “sorry,” she said, glancing toward the one who’d pulled her back. “you caught me daydreaming.” she lifted her lantern slightly, eyes still glinting with the echo of starlight.

"Which one's his? Well, yours, I s'pose, sooner or later." The father in him hoped for later, but he would never hold her back from it. "Point it out for me?"

She hooked a finger in his shirt and tugged him closer, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And don’t you dare stop being that man. The mud, the mess, the stubborn—fine. We’ll negotiate the mop.” A beat, then a smirk. “But if you ‘forget,’ I’m scheduling you for a midnight bottle shift and calling it even.”

Her hand slid into his, thumb tracing circles like a promise. Her eyes softened, the teasing folding into something steadier. “You know what I love most? That no matter how ridiculous you act, you always come back. To me. To this.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, voice low and sure. “So keep the smolder. Keep the mud. Just don’t ever stop coming home.”

He smiled as he was tugged in, the press of her lips to his pouring new life and new happiness into him, as it always did. "I suppose that's fair; I can work with that deal, I promise. Even if I'll definitely forget sometimes just so you know it's still me."

When her head rested on his shoulder he leaned over and let his rest against it. "Nothin' on this Earth would ever stop me coming home, Drea. So long as you're always gonna be here when I do. Because there's nothin' in this world that means more than that. A house is just a place - home is you."