ethereal, almost ghostly

The comment on her appearance might be a good thing, actually. It disarms her for a moment, at least, making way for something akin to a smirk. Still a little too tense, a little too fleeting, but something. “At least I’m consistent then, huh?” Morgan’s foot upon hers makes Ingrid sigh, setting down her coffee in order to right her hunched posture, though her jaw still clenches hard. “Meyer wasn’t into that shit anymore and Mira wasn’t about to step in so somehow good ol’ Maksim took charge. Can’t say I paid much attention but, you know, a knife between the ribs will sort of catch your focus.” Her words are muttered at best. Not that she can’t handle her own fight if one starts, because she sure as hell can, but she’s also not in the mood to pick something in the middle of a cafe. A cafe that watches her with a collective reproach when her voice does eventually raise, but Morgan wields a returning glare that gets the eyes off her back. Gives Ingrid time to decompress again, unclenching her jaw, though her foot picks up its drumming once more. Morgan’s frustration echoes her own, and Ingrid nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Plus I did put you through something. Don’t think I don’t remember you screaming, ‘cause I do. I’m not trying to risk that again.” What does she care about death, really? Just a bout of darkness, the way she sees it. No, what she cares about is the fact that Morgan doesn’t deserve any more loss. And sure as hell not like that. “Nothing they’re giving me, anyway, but who knows if that means a lead doesn’t exist. Could just be trying to cover their tracks. Not like I’m not going to sit there and let them do it. Not sure where else to go, though. The council, maybe. I dunno. Maksim told me to go fuck myself, basically. In dumbass bureaucrat terms.” Summary concluded, a sip of coffee drank, and a huff of frustration exhaled, Ingrid finally gets the chance to look at Morgan rightfully. She looks weary, and Ingrid feels a pang of guilt then, knowing the depositing of this news likely doesn’t help. So she listens instead, giving a measured nod. “You know my offer still stands. That money from my dad isn’t doing much anymore unless I want, I don’t know, a third floor on the shop. And you won’t be indebted to me. But I know that’s probably not what you want.” That delivery is punctuated with a shrug, far from offended. Morgan deserves some independence, and if money will rob her of that, it’s not worth it. “Cece still not answering your calls?” Seems like this cousin has some shit to own up to, but really, that’s none of Ingrid’s business. Not wanting to stray back to the meeting, she goes on. “You think she’d want a part in it if she did come back? The inn, I mean.”

Her expression tightens with worry, and the memories of that night: a fire flickers in her peripheral, and when she turns, a tad startled, its only a woman in a hideous orange shirt. Not the fire, and not the blood. “You remember that? I almost hoped you didn’t remember any of it.” Her voice is pitched low, well-aware that this is the last place either of them want to have this conversation. It isn’t one she wants to talk about anywhere, in truth, but her eyes stay on Ingrid’s face, trying to find steadiness in the face she knows so well. She remembers screaming, and the ache in her throat when she was sitting in the hospital later, and all of it is secondary to Ingrid’s own aches from the night.  The fear is Morgan’s, but most of its Ingrid’s, and the pain is most certainly hers. “You’d be better at the job than him,” she says with a grimace, even if she imagines leading is the last thing Ingrid wants to do. “You’ve got the knowledge, and the experience in a way, and you care. That’s clearly more than Maksim will ever be capable of doing if he’s not going to even help you -- and they have to have some lead. Its been...” She counts back the days, and grimaces at the way time flies. Between the fire, and the damages, and her family being the mess it is, and then her and Ingrid - the best thing by far -- she hasn’t kept well enough track of days. “Long enough,” Morgan concludes, still frowning.

It loosens at the offer, and she huffs a laugh, a grateful smile appearing as the amusement ends. “Your money is yours, you might not want something now but who knows, maybe you’ll find a motorcycle to drool over by next Christmas, or a new house, or something,” she tells her, soft, pairing it with a squeeze of Ingrid’s hand across the table, touched by the offer. The money is something holding over Ingrid’s head, and much as Morgan would like to ease its burden, she can’t imagine trading one person’s money for another. No, she dug her own grave, she’ll find the ladder out, too. Morgan huffs again, but no laughter comes with it and she leans back in her chair, arms moving to cross over her chest in thought. “She isn’t, I don’t know why. It’s been, god, it’s been over a year now and she still hasn’t hit me with anything? If it wasn’t Cece, I would think she had died.” But, no, of all the people in her family, Cece might be the one she thought would end up in a grave first, she’s sturdy in a way Morgan didn’t appreciate until she, too, became a hybrid. Or whatever it is being a hybrid means for someone like her. “I don’t know,” she admits, truthfully. “I think she liked it here, but can she handle the memories? I don’t want her to let this place go, its our home.” And if Cece won’t keep it, then Morgan will, even if she finds the weight of it heavier than she anticipated. Lettie, after all, made it look effortless.

Date: December 16th 2020 Time: 10:19 am Location: Ground Up Café

Listen: it’s not like she meant to come storming into the cafe looking like smoke’s about to come out of her ears. Really. Not the intention, not at all. But there’s no avoiding it. Not right now, as she clenches her jaw so tight it feels like it could snap in on itself. The barista is practically shaking in his boots at the sight of her and Ingrid is bound toward ordering anyhow when she spots Morgan. Sitting with an expression that seems to be either alarm or concern (or, knowing Morg, both) and already with two cups of coffee in hand. It’s enough to make Ingrid deflate, or at least check herself, exhaling before muttering a gruff apology to the employee in question. She then settles onto the stool across from Morgan — though settling may be a strong word. A foot taps, hands clench and unclench, and nostrils flare. “Such bullshit, Morg — thank you.” She’s not so uncouth as to not be grateful for the coffee. Even if caffeine may be the last thing she needs right now. All the same, she takes a sip, then runs a hand down her jaw before continuing. “It is such bullshit. Says he doesn’t know a thing. Which, of course, why would he tell the truth? But he’s not even going to save the skin of his own people? I’m not his closest fuckin’ crony, I get that, but he’s gonna let me die for that? Forget me, huh, what about Clark? Says it’s ‘a most unfortunate tragedy,’ and he wishes he knew. If he thinks I believe that fuckin’ garbage—” It’s only then that she realizes that her voice has risen, that eyes are on her again. With a clearing of her throat, Ingrid settles further down in her seat, waiting for eyes to be averted before she continues, softer now. “I don’t wanna feel like I’m bound to go through that shit again. Hell, I don’t wanna put you through that shit again. I just… I can’t fuckin’ take this sitting down. I can’t. But no one’s gonna help me, it seems. Everyone’s forgotten but me. You and me.” Foot still drumming, Ingrid gives her head one last vehement shake before looking to Morgan fully. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to — I’m not trying to yell at you. Sure isn’t your fault. I just…” A shrug, a sip of coffee, and she tries to mind her manners. “How, uh… how’s your morning, anyway? Better than mine?”

@morgancortez​

The cafe doesn't fall silent at the opening door, but the barista has this strange look on their face and its answer enough on who entered. Morgan spins in her seat, coffee cups in hand, eyes widening at the look on Ingrid's face. "You look like hell," she comments simply, sliding the cup over to her. She remembers how Ingrid likes it, and it might be a tad cold, but it's better than tackling this conversation with nothing at all. Her booted foot stretches out, nudging Ingrid's gently to halt the tempting, though it doesn't stop her jaw, or the flicker in her eyes, or the angry jitters. Her own eyes narrow with distaste. "I don't recall this man being here when I left. Is he a new person? Where are the Lowell's?" The politics of Lethe drift over her head, never important enough to warrant another look. It isn't like the politics of the nation which she watches out of obligation when voting season calls, but Lethe asks nothing from them except obedience really. Eyes are on them, but Morgan tosses her hair and raises her brow, meeting them one by one until they drift away. "Hey, you aren't putting me through anything, I want to be part of this. You almost died -- and we didn’t even find who did it!” she says, sharpness slipping free where fear couldn’t. When she blinks sometimes, she still sees Ingrid’s ashen face and her fingers twitch on the coffee cup, a sign of distress that she hides by taking a gulp of her lukewarm drink. It helps, but only some and Morgan settles it down to be ignored. “They have no leads at all? Nothing to help us? Damn it. But, look, I don’t care if it is just you and I who remember, you aren’t going at this alone, we’re going to find this guy,” she promises. The question warrants a shrug, because her morning is... as most mornings in Lethe: watch the inn, watch her mother, watch over her shoulder, watch over Ingrid’s, too. Its a long line of wariness that makes sleep elusive sometimes, but she doesn’t want to touch on that. Instead, she supplies, “I’m trying to pay back Isaac. He lent money for the repairs to the inn during... all of this, in exchange for like a partnership? The inn isn’t mine to share though and I can’t imagine Cece wanting to share with someone she doesn’t know.” If she ever comes back. “The bank was a lot less eventful than your meeting.” 

It’s the sort of thing worth being embarrassed over, really. A schoolgirl crush to say the least, and a deeply unrequited one at that. Until now. Until Morgan says words she hadn’t even imagined in her dreams. Embarrassment will come later, maybe. But honesty comes now, as Ingrid nods quietly in response to Morgan’s questions. “Long time before that, yeah.” After the night in the alleyway that had seemed like the end of all things. Except it wasn’t, and Morgan had proven that. Morgan, who dropped everything to be by her side. Still not sure how she deserved that – how she deserves this, cradling Morgan’s hands like she does. Kissing her like she does. That’s even more of a fantasy fulfilled, as hands on her waist pull her forward, providing so many electrifying points of contact, her own hands exploring even after they part for air. Tracing cheekbone and jaw, their contours imagined but never before touched. Impossible. Until now. Until a laugh comes from her at Morgan’s repeated affection, and she nods, unbothered by how their noses bump. Ingrid’s sure she could say it until the end of time, or at least all night, if she allows herself to start. So she simply nods, quickly placated by another kiss. The stuff of dreams. She allows herself to be guided, then, even the loss of some proximity seems painful. Sitting across from Morgan never is, though, especially when her fingers are being tinkered with. “Don’t apologize.” She’s quick to admonish, her head shaking. “It wasn’t fair for me to feel that way, so I kept it to myself. You know me. Never, uh, never forward with feelings.” 

Until now. Until her lips press to Morgan’s knuckles, another action she’d barely even allowed herself to contemplate before. “Half a year, though. That’s… that’s something.” She’s bound toward something else, too, more words she’ll probably be flustered over later, when there’s the sound of glass shattering outside. Raucous laughter follows it, so it’s not all that troublesome, but still, Ingrid sighs. “Never a dull moment, huh? Oughta get that – hey.” She shakes her head as Morgan moves to stand. “Probably stupid drunks. I’ll clean it up, cut some more people off. Don’t worry about it.” She’s quick to depart, despite her glance back over her shoulder. Just as quick to return, though she’d made a request in the midst of her beeline back to the kitchen. “All good. C’mon.” Ingrid guides the party’s hostess to the dance floor rather than returning to the bar, her smile revived when her request is fulfilled. She drops Morgan’s hand only to hold out her own again as the lights of the party shift, changing the mood alongside the slow song she’d asked of the DJ. “Dance with me?”

Morgan blinks, processing, trying to pinpoint the moment she figured it out herself, but it seemed like such a gradual thing, something that came with no eureka moment for her to point as the beginning. When she came to Lethe, certainly, and found Ingrid waiting for her, arms open, without judgment for the things Morgan had done. She blinks again, mouth open to protest, fingers tightening around Ingrid’s in protest. If Ingrid isn’t allowed to feel this way to her, Morgan doesn’t know who can, but its silenced by the kiss Ingrid presses against her knuckles. A sweet thing, so terribly soft for Ingrid, and more telling than any words, really. “Well, good,” she says, and it’s lame, but she has so many feelings and so little way to think of how to explain them. The shattering glass is almost a welcome distraction, one that draws her to her feet for only half a second, grip on Ingrid’s hand slipping to her disappointment. “They know how to interrupt a moment,” she agrees, lips quirking, glancing back at Ingrid in surprise for a moment. Only a moment, and then Morgan is smiling, head tilted, calling to her as she leaves: “Try not to break anything if you have to fight them.”

She’s putting away the cake, because it’s something she thinks the two of them can eat later, when the party is over and they are done playing hostess for people they don’t even know, when Ingrid returns. “What, did someone rip their costume again? You can’t keep laughing at people for it, the last lady was nearly naked and I thought her friend would blow up-- Oh.” She stares, wide-eyed and surprised, and the lights are changing, slowly, the music softer. It’s a night of surprises, but a pleasant one. Her lips curve again, the smile soft, and she twines their fingers together and steps closer to her. “That question will always be a yes,” she tells her, fingers sliding from her hand down her arm slowly, enjoying the feel of the soft skin beneath, before her arms are wrapped around Ingrid’s neck, sighing. Ingrid is taller than her, but not by much and she almost presses a kiss against her cheek. Almost, and stops a breath away with a glance around. But what does it matter, really, if someone else sees? Ingrid loves her, that doesn’t change just because the two are in public. Her eyes return to Ingrid’s, and she lets them stay there, melting into her touch. “Suppose I’ll be able to get dances out of you once in a while then. It comes with the territory, you dance with me and I’ll follow you wherever.“ She isn’t hard to please, really, and it’s hard to think with this new weightlessness, to know this thing with Ingrid is more than she’s ever dreamed.

So she hadn’t been dreaming. That’s what Morgan’s statement affirms, and Ingrid finds herself exhaling in relief. It’d been one hell of a question to ask, and she’d been braced for a denial, a rejection. To be laughed at, though she knows that’s not Morgan’s style. It’s reassuring. Yet even this, this not acceptance yet not denial… it’s not enough. So in the quiet of a frightened pause, Ingrid allows herself to push forward, toward the truth: “Tell me what?” Morgan looks anxious, Ingrid can see that much, and so she doesn’t like pushing into it. But she needs this answer. She gets it, alright. And it’s not like they haven’t said this before. This is different, though. Morgan’s wide eyes say as much, as do her trembling fingers. Ingrid almost hates to know she’s the cause of that sort of anxiousness, but the words preceding it had been sweet enough to let her forget. Instead, she reassures in the ways she knows Morgan will take it best: her fingers twine with Morgan’s without hesitation, and she keeps the eye contact steady and sure. She’s been certain of this for longer than she cares to admit. Since before fiancés and lost parents and businesses owned. But she’d never expected reciprocation. That’s Morgan, though. Always subverting her expectations. “Hey – hey.” Firm but soft, her words sever Morgan’s. When she’s got a firm hold on her gaze, Ingrid takes a moment to just nod. How she wishes she could go back in time. Tell herself from a decade ago that she’d end up here. Like this. 

“Shit.” That’s not a negative, no. Far from it. Just… a remark on her own surprise. “Morgan, I…” Her lips pin together, the words hard to come by, even if she feels it. And so her gaze simply searches her friend’s again, and she nods once more. “Yeah. Yeah, me too. For, uh, for a long time. And I didn’t remember, actually. Or well, I thought, you know, I must’ve made it up. But if I had remembered, um…” Her hand drops Morgan’s and she takes steps to close the small space between them, her own exhale shaky. Ingrid’s fingers lift then, tracing a gentle line from shoulder to neck, taking her time. How lucky she is, to touch Morgan like this. It doesn’t escape her. She’s slow with it, as much to savor as to give Morgan the chance to push her away. To change her mind. But she doesn’t, even as Ingrid’s palm cups her jaw in the way only dreams have allowed before. “If I’d remembered, I would’ve done this much sooner.” And she kisses her, slow and careful, the light in the kitchen impossibly bright. Illuminating it all. But Morgan deserves to hear the fact of the matter, doesn’t she? The thought occurs to Ingrid only once her fingers are in the other girl’s hair, once they’ve pulled away for air. Maybe it’s their proximity that gives her the nerve. “I love you, too, Morgan. Of course I love you.”

Her life is going to change in the next several seconds, be it for something good or bad, its too soon to say. She hasn’t had to put her heart on the line in years, and she forgets how nerve-wracking it is to talk about things like feelings, to take the risk that someone might send her packing. Ingrid, though, is looking at her, and she takes strength in her presence. Their eyes stay locked, and she speaks the words into existence. I love you, and she thinks the look on Ingrid’s face is priceless, thinks that somebody she’ll be able to look back on it with something like fond laughter. Morgan swallows back a jumble of messy explanations, holding tight to her fingers, and she laughs, more shakily than she likes to admit, as Ingrid swears. She can’t worry, not when the hand holding hers is steady, and sure, and Ingrid hasn’t been one to sit on something when it needs to be said. Ingrid doesn’t make her wait, doesn’t make her work for it, and her apprehension dissolves, forgotten, as Ingrid moves closer to her. The hand on hers is gone, but the touch isn’t, and she shivers as the touch, shoulders relaxing, sinking into the feeling of something she’s only imagined. “Before you were hurt? Before I came back?” she asks softly.

There’s a space between them, a last gap to bridge, and Morgan steps into it. No more hesitating, no more worrying. Morgan loves her, and Ingrid loves her, and nothing else matters. Ingrid kisses her first, and she can’t help smiling against her lips, hands finding their way to rest lightly on Ingrid’s waist. Her fingers brush against the exposed skin, but she is lost in the kiss, in the way Ingrid holds onto her. Lost more as her hands slide into her hair, as the kiss deepens, and her head is spinning when they break apart. Morgan doesn’t pull away, and she can’t help the wide smile on her face. “I love you,” she repeats, smile wider still. Morgan bumps her nose into Ingrid’s gently as she sighs. More honesty, and she draws back a little, linking their hands again, and she kisses her once more, briefly, relieved she has an excuse to do it. She isn’t sure what to label them, but as she brings them over to the chairs around the table, she doesn’t mind. She laughs abruptly, shaking her head at her own obliviousness. “All this time and I didn’t notice, I’m sorry.” Morgan plays with her fingers. “You have far more patience than I ever gave you credit, I didn’t even last half a year knowing this. I thought I would blurt it out on accident half a dozen times.”

Ingrid would like to think she’s hard to surprise. Don’t have any expectations for people and they can’t let you down, right? But that philosophy only works for so long. It’s near impossible to hold up with someone she’s known for as long as she’s known Morgan. Blame that for her surprise, then, as Morgan subverts her expectations entirely, pressing warm lips to her cheek seemingly without a second thought. The sort of thing that makes Ingrid have to swallow hard, blinking. “Glad you, um, glad you like it.” She finally nods, her smile wavering thanks to the force of surprise more than anything else. A brow raise is all she manages at Morgan’s announcement, and Ingrid watches her go quietly, fingertips raising to her own cheek. Well, shit. Isn’t that something. A conclusion has just been drawn when Morgan returns, and Ingrid’s smile is wider now at the sight of the cake. “Shit, Morg. Thank you. You didn’t have to do this for me,” the temporary bartender shakes her head, but she’s smiling still. “C’mon. We should share, but there’s no knife behind the bar. Figured, you know, for the best.” Ingrid nods back toward the kitchen, bringing the small cake there. She’s intent on just going about her business and cutting it in half for them to split, but her free hand has wandered to her cheek again, and she sighs. No, she’s got to ask. Stupid as it may be. “You did that before.” Ingrid turns back to her friend, blinking against her own words. “No, uh, shit. Not what I meant. I meant, um…” Fingers against her own cheek for another moment before they fall, a heavy exhale preceding more sensible words. “I was thinkin’ maybe I was… I dunno, seeing things. They had me all on all sorts of stuff to help with the whole knife between the ribs thing, so I was sure I was dreaming or something. But now I think… maybe I wasn’t.” Unusually wordy for her, but this is the sort of thing she doesn’t typically say. Stalling done, Ingrid finally gets to her point, the cake still between them and the party raging in the next room. “Morgan, if I’m making shit up, you can laugh at me… but did you kiss me that night in the emergency room?”

Morgan doesn’t want to share any of this with someone else. Not the cake, which only matters in that it brings something soft to Ingrid’s face when she sees it, but the time with Ingrid in general. Its been a month since the situation at Ingrid’s shop, and the fire, and the near death, and it still makes Morgan shiver to think about it. She doesn’t want to waste anymore time -- and yet she’s said nothing about the kiss. Nor has Ingrid, though she doesn’t know if her friend even remembers, and she knows what Ingrid is asking before she even finishes speaking. The cake is on the counter, momentarily ignored, and Morgan chews on her lip. “I can explain,” she blurts out, fingers finding a path through her hair, messing up the carefully arranged curls in her worry. Ingrid calls it a dream, and not a nightmare, but Morgan feels like she’s reading into it. “I, uh, I thought you were going to die in there, and I wouldn’t have had the chance to tell you.” She feels like Ingrid: single sentences, and long pauses, and stumbling words uncharacteristic to Morgan, but Ingrid, at least, might know how to say the things stuck in Morgan’s throat. “I wouldn’t have a chance to tell you that I love you.” Morgan moves around the table to stand next to her, one of her hands drifting down to Ingrid’s, and though she shakes, she finds it easier to speak now that the first part is over. How much lighter she feels to say it! To have it out in the open, like she is no longer a balloon a hair too full. No more cutting off her words at the last second, worrying about which one is too much. She takes a breath, and continues. “So I kissed you, it was the only thing I could think of to do. Then you were okay and I didn’t think you remembered. You had so many other things going on, it didn’t seem right to talk about it, and then I didn’t know how to say it when you were better. I mean, no matter what, you’re my best friend, I’ll take that over anything,” she ends, taking in the look on Ingrid’s face and bringing her words to an abrupt halt.

Date: October 31st 2020 Time: 8:10 pm Location: Oddities Inn

After sunset, the party launches into full swing. The official commencement of the festivities seems to have eased the furrow in Morgan’s brow that was starting to look like a permanent attachment over the last few days. Watching their valiant hostess on the dance floor, Ingrid finds herself mirroring her smile, even from her position behind the bar. Dancing and schmoozing isn’t exactly her style, but cutting people off brings her a degree of joy. Wouldn’t want Morgan to have to deal with the booze anyway, so she’s here. She needs the host’s attention, though… and gets it by giving a small wave as one song segues into the next. When Morgan approaches, Ingrid puts her palms up as if in surrender. “Listen. I know it was my birthday, not yours, but this day is practically your Christmas. So I figured…” She reaches under the bar for a moment, pulling out a black-wrapped box with a hand-folded bow. “A present.” The small box is slid across the bar, and Ingrid appraises Morgan’s expression as she opens it. A proper spirit box wasn’t a cheap purchase. Or maybe she’d just been scammed. But it’d seemed worthwhile. “It’s a – well, you know what it is. Anyway, uh, I found it online. Not sure if it’s any good or whatever, but I figured while that douchebag still has your gear… it’s better than nothing.” It’s punctuated with a noncommittal shrug, despite how important as this feels. “Happy Halloween.”

@morgancortez​

Morgan pouts a little, thinking of the many failed cake experiments and the fact that she didn’t finish any of them in time for Ingrid’s actual birthday, and then lights up at the sight of a present. “Oh my god,” she murmurs, lifting the spirit box out and weighing it in her palms. Its not the same one from her own work, but she hardly expects Ingrid to dole out that sort of money on a one-off gift for her friend, partner, something. Still, it strikes a chord in Morgan, and a wave of heat shoots up her cheeks, a smile shortly following it. “Its perfect! I was starting to miss some of it. I love running this place, and planning the events, and dragging you along to all of it, too, but this... Well, I just like it, so thank you,” she finishes, a little lamely, but no less genuine, setting it down on the counter and leaning forward to press a thankful, impulsive kiss against her cheek. “Happy Halloween, and I know I’m a little late, but I have something for you, too!” She tucks the box under the bar once more and disappears into the kitchen, returning with a small on which sits a cake. Bourbon based, something she hopes Ingrid will like more than a regular one. A soft smile is on her lips as she scans Ingrid’s face. “You’ll like this cake, and don’t worry, I won’t sing happy birthday to you in front of everyone. But happy birthday, Ingrid.”

Isaac wrinkled his nose at his cousin as soon as she tried to minimize her needs, though by now he should be used to that reaction from her. Didn’t mean he had to validate it though. “Uh no, I did have to come. You’re my cousin, more like my sister, so it matters to me when you’re upset.” With that he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and gave her a quick hug, only to get barraged with a question about Ollie and a look of horror once she sees the dark marks that haven’t yet faded from his wrist. Isaac isn’t too concerned if they will, he isn’t vain, but he doesn’t fancy explaining them to everyone he knows for the near future either. The easier of the two first, he thinks. “Ollie is currently asleep in the bed of his ‘not boyfriend’ Adam, according to Adam himself. He got a little beaten up when the crowds went full riot, so Adam fixed him up for me.” Isaac said drily, hand going to rub at his wrist as if he could still feel fangs dug into it. Before Morgan could ask again, he held up a hand for a moment to put words together, then began to explain. “She was jumped on her way home. I think by some goons that belong to Katherine Irving’s brother. I don’t think she would have made it back home, she was drained so dry, so I…let her feed on me. It’s not a big deal, Morgan.” He shrugged, then nodded at her. “How’s Ingrid?”

She shouldn’t be so surprised, half of Isaac’s personality was worrying about his family and the other half was something a little scary, something she saw in only brief flickers. With the talk of Ollie being hurt during the parade, and Riley being attacked, Morgan could see the fire lit behind his eyes, dulled only by his concern. For them, and for her. “You can’t turn your back on any of us for a second without us getting into trouble,” she said quietly, a smile turning up the corner of her lips. No one was dead, and that was a victory wasn’t it? Given how tired she was, and how tired he looked, it didn’t feel like one. Not yet. “Katherine Irving has a brother? We’ve never seen anything from him before, and if he’s attacking Riley of all people, they must not be close.” The council family wasn’t the type of history that Morgan enjoyed studying, but she knew enough vague details about it to know that Riley and Katherine were related in the same way Odette and Katherine were. The last of his words tugged at her brain, coming to the forefront, and her eyes widened. “Isaac, that was dangerous, she could have hurt you badly! And then where would you be, where would she be?” She ran a hand through her hair, trying to expel the nervous energy following her like a shadow since she left the hospital that morning. “She... I think she’ll be okay, they told me there was no silver, and that’s a good thing. Werewolves heal fast when they aren’t hybrids.” A slow blush spread across her cheeks, and she pressed a hand to her face. “I, um, might have kissed her.”