romy blue thorne

She’d hate to admit it, but a smile had crept onto her face, where a scowl had been just a second ago.

"Don't be fucking ridiculous. It’s a wreck. I can barely hold the damn brush right, and you’re out here acting like I just hung it in the Louvre." It had been months. Months, and months, and till her hand shook, still the sweat came, still the brush slipped, slipped, slipped—

What was the point of painting anymore, when she couldn’t even do it right? She was no Monet, or whatever his name was. All she knew how to do was kill. And even if her vendetta was long buried with Skinner’s rotting corpse, that didn’t change the truth: there was nothing else she was good for.

What had once been her means of survival was now her life. Her identity. Being anything else, that was the kind of dream she’d never get to have.

"Keep your money, Thorne. You'll need them to pay for a new teacher."

How else was she supposed to tell Romy she was leaving? Have a fucking heart to heart? That wasn't Anika.

She set the brush down and leaned over, tilting the canvas more her way so she could really look at Romy’s work. The colors were good. Impressive, even. She reached out, dragged a fingertip through the red corner, smudging it just enough to shape the figure better.

"Your aunt sounds like an asshole."

Romy didn’t flinch when Anika smeared the red — just watched, curious, like she was witnessing a ritual only the other girl knew the meaning of. Her brush stayed in her hand, suspended mid-air, the tip dripping a soft arc onto the tarp between their feet. “Who the fuck cares about the Louvre anyway?” she said after a second, shrugging one shoulder like it might shake off some of the tension. “I don’t. Too many stairs. And everyone pretends they like the Mona Lisa more than they actually do. You’re doing fine. Better than mine, for sure. And besides, it’s not a freaking competition.”

She angled her canvas back toward herself, gave it a dramatic side-eye. “Though if it was, I’d probably sabotage you by accidentally spilling water on your masterpiece. So, really, you should be grateful this isn’t televised.” A smile bloomed there, crooked and half-swallowed, but real. “I like it,” she added, looking at Anika’s piece again. “Want me to lie and say I don’t?”

The words that followed landed like a glitch in the air — a new teacher — and Romy blinked, turning her head just enough to meet Anika’s eyes with a kind of quiet steadiness. “A new teacher?” she echoed, the line barely above a whisper. “I don’t need one. I’ve got you.” Her tone was light but anchored, like she was trying to make something stick between the lines. “Last time I checked, you’re not a quitter. So shush it.” Another beat passed, a little longer this time, before she added, softly, “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Morgan catches up to Romy, Star by her side, the spaniel content not to rush things too much on this lovely day. "Same to you -- it's a miracle if I ever get up before noon," she laughs gently. The dog puts her paws gently on Romy's shin and Morgan gently reprimands her. "Hey, hey -- leave her poor defenseless knees alone."

She's trying to keep it cool and normal, because as far as she knows, that's all Romy knows. But on the off chance it's not cool and normal, she's not sure what the girl is thinking. Does she remember anything about the night? The murder, the mention of vampires and how her honorary aunt was absolutely attending as a glorified juicebox? Is Ro looking at her like she might be one of the walking undead? Did someone get inside her head?

"Here, let's go take a seat on the bench," she suggests, gently whistling to Star and waiting for Romy to follow. "Sorry to, uh, accost you like this. I dropped by Doughfellas after the party and you weren't there... and, well, when your coworkers weren't sure where you were, I was worried you didn't... make it home safely."

To anyone else, in any other city, it would mean something bad. Kidnapped, lost, left your cell phone somewhere and it died. But in Port Leiry, that also comes with a side of maimed, dismembered, eaten, turned into a monster. The sunlight is a good sign, at least, though she scans Romy's features for any scars -- wondering if the sleeves hide a different story.

"Some party, huh?"

Romy looked down just in time to catch a pair of paws against her shin — soft, eager, entirely undeserved — and a tiny, involuntary sound caught in her throat. “Oh no,” she whispered, like Star had just handed her a tax bill instead of a gentle show of affection. “Not the knees. That’s where I keep all my trauma.” But her voice was fond, her grin tugging in earnest now, and within seconds she was crouching down, coffee balanced against the edge of the bench as she scooped the spaniel into her arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her fingers scratched gently behind Star’s ears, thumb brushing a spot just under her collar with practiced care. “Hi, pretty girl. Miss me?” she murmured, like she hadn’t just spent the last week dodging any form of comfort that might break her open. But animals had a way of pulling the truth out of people — even if that truth was mostly just, I needed this more than I realized.

She looked up at Morgan after a beat, cheeks a little pink, hair falling loose from where she’d tried to clip it back. “Don’t apologize,” she said quickly, adjusting Star so the spaniel could nest against her legs while they walked toward the bench. “I should’ve… I don’t know. Texted. Sent smoke signals. Something.” She sat carefully, hands still on the dog’s fur like it grounded her. “I’m sorry I disappeared. I just…” A pause. “Needed time.”

The words felt small, like trying to describe an earthquake with a shrug. She didn’t know how to say that her brain had felt like scrambled cable static since the gala. That Lucas being alive was a blessing she hadn’t known how to process. That she’d replayed the conversation with Morgan over and over until she started to wonder if she’d imagined it. That now, every face she passed — even the familiar ones — looked a little bit more like a maybe.

Then her foot taps him beneath the table, and they're back at that outdoor bench by that restaurant talkin' like friendly folk. People do hold onto things, he gets that. Garrick's got a lot he ain't able to let go off so easy these days. But he's tried. He don't get how Romy's so young and she's carrying demons like sunspots on her skin.

He can't work out if she's fuckin' with him about a costume, either. But he certainly ain't smiling the same way he had been; it's not so funny, but there's a curve to his mouth that watches her all hawk-like. He don't know what they're doing here, chinwagging about pizza, and cheese sticks. She's playin' footsie under the table, and burning him with jewellery in the same breath.

Garrick's nice, 'til he ain't.

"Paris ain't that nice." Truth. (To him.) He's got plenty memories of Frankie griping that it ain't Bordeaux or the wine is simply fuckin' shite. Some endless stream about love lost (again), and the women are better in the South, or the North or anywhere else that ain't the capital. Paris is full of folk who think dining on a tower is all mighty-like. It's dirtier than a ship's hull, and it ain't got no good streets. Garrick doesn't have any stories he wants to share right now, just a lotta hesitation and querying of her real intentions.

In another life, Garrick might of bled her dry by now along with the rest of the behind-the-counter lot. Pulled the shutters down on the pizza joint and made her sing like a canary. But he ain't gonna, 'cause there's a lot he don't know yet about this town. Not enough about her or what she's dragged him all smiley in here for.

You know how it goes?

He don't, actually.

Romy caught the shift. She always caught the shift — the way people’s faces changed when the inside got too loud to hide. The way smiles stopped reaching eyes even if they stayed stitched across mouths. Garrick had gone quieter, more watchful. Still there, still playing along, but something had slipped between the booth cushions, and she wasn’t sure if it was her fault or just the way things went these days. Everyone was tired. Everyone was off. The whole damn town felt like it was holding its breath waiting for another shoe to drop — and Romy had seen enough ghosts lately to know some of them didn’t wear shoes at all.

She didn’t push. Not yet. But the mischievous tilt of her mouth eased into something gentler. Softer. Like she might not understand exactly what was wrong — but she understood. Bad days came and went. Hers had just started stacking like overdue bills.

Her eyes dropped when he nodded toward her hand. For a second, she looked at her rings like she hadn’t really seen them in a while — just worn them out of habit, out of need. Then she smiled, slow and easy, and began slipping them off one by one.

“These?” she echoed, setting the first one on the table between them with a light little clink. “Nothing much. This one’s from my cousin. Birthday gift, two years ago. He picked it because he said it looked like something I’d wear anyway.” Another beat, and her fingers found the next ring — a thinner band with a small green stone, faded at the edges. She took more care with this one. “This one’s older. Family heirloom type thing. My aunt gave it to me when I turned sixteen. Says it belonged to my mom.”

She held it between thumb and forefinger for a second, turning it under the light like she was checking for secrets. “It’s supposed to be polished every so often, but I always forget. My aunt kinda has to remind me. Still pretty though, right?” She glanced up at him then — half-grin, half-memory. “It’s the only thing I have of hers, really. Besides the eyes. That's what I've been told.”

Another ring followed, this one a little chunkier, plain, no stone. She rolled it off her finger and onto the table with the others, arranging them like mismatched chess pieces. “This one’s funny,” she added. “Someone left it here. This booth, actually. I picked it up, figuring they’d come back for it. They didn’t. So now it’s mine by cosmic adoption. I wear it so they know I kept it safe. Or maybe because it looks cool. Jury’s still out.”

At least, those reasons certainly helped her justify it. They were annoying little shitfaces, and that would hopefully make them wary of harassing any future female service workers handling heavy items on the regular. Made it a good reason to satisfy the curious urge to see someone hurt.

She snagged a stick. “You’re the best,” she said, before taking a bite. After swallowing, she looped back to Romy’s response. “Good on you for taking some time off. Like, everyone needs to take a break more often. Especially when you’re working in a pizza shop when it’s this hot outside, ugh. I don’t know how you stand it.” She twirled her straw with her finger, fiddling as she decided how much to pry here. “But it doesn’t sound like just a normal mental health day, huh? Post-apocalyptic paints a real picture.”

Romy shot her a look, like girl, don’t tempt me with a good opening. “A plague,” she repeated with a slow nod, reaching over to give her straw a solemn, ceremonial twirl. “A public health crisis, even. I say give you hazard pay and a gold medal. You’re doing actual community service, Nori. Somebody oughta name a scholarship after you.” She took a bite of pizza, chewed thoughtfully, then added with her mouth half-full, “Imagine how many future little twinks you just saved from a lifetime of unchecked delusion. The ripple effect. It’s science.”

But when the conversation shifted, so did something in her eyes. A twitch at the corner of her smile. She leaned back again, elbow on the table, chin balanced in her hand like she was trying to look casual about a weight she hadn’t put down yet. “Yeah. Not exactly a summer vacay,” she said lightly, though the air around the words was thicker now. “There was this… thing. Event. Gala. Very shiny. Very traumatic.” A beat. “Turns out the town’s got more secrets than my internet search history, and mine’s already deeply embarrassing..”

She let that sit, watching Nori’s face out the corner of her eye before nudging the Coke closer to her like a peace offering. “I’m not trying to be cryptic. I just…” Her voice softened, fingers absently peeling the edge of a napkin into confetti. “It’s the kind of stuff you don’t expect. And once you know it, you can’t unknow it. Like someone yanked a curtain and suddenly—boom. It’s a lot.”

Wow. Profound.

"I mean, like, there are other colors that are good. But blue's not like, desperate or anything."

There was a time, Ren acknowledges silently and inwardly, that they actually knew how to talk to people, before the world had this extra layer of performance over top of it. And it's not like they aren't used to extra layers of performance anyways, but there's just something... wrong now. With every interaction. Is this girl, this clever girl with the funny cadence and sidewinder smile the sort to play with magic or drink blood or howl at the moon?

They aren't sure how to tell yet, not like some of the others say you can.

"But hey, the building can't second guess you right?" Ren motions to the brick and mortar. "It's happy to hold the paint, or whatever."

Romy’s grin twitched just a little wider at blue’s not desperate or anything, a small, choked-off laugh catching in her throat like it hadn’t been cleared for use yet. “That’s the best endorsement I’ve heard all day,” she said, eyes flicking back to the paint with something almost fond. “Not desperate. Just a little emotionally unavailable and prone to zoning out in supermarket aisles. Classic blue.” She was joking, obviously, but her tone was light enough to float — like she was trying to keep the air between them from sinking under its own weight.

She gave the bucket a half-hearted nudge with the tip of her shoe, letting the pale color swish slightly against the rim. “I used to think color theory was all vibes, but turns out it’s just psychology wearing a beret and smoking cloves in the back of an art class. Still— kinda comforting, knowing a wall won’t spiral into an existential crisis because you picked something too sad.” She tilted her head toward the bricks like they were listening. “Bless you, wall. You judgment-free legend.”

Then her gaze flicked back to them with their thoughtful silence and careful words that felt like they were trying to tread water in a pool too deep. Romy knew the feeling. She’d lived in it since the gala. Since Lucas. Since the moment someone flipped the town upside down and all the secrets spilled out like guts. And now? Now she looked at people and wondered what they were, not just who. But he had been kind. Nervous, yeah. Maybe unsure. But she’d seen something careful in him, something a little broken in the same ways she was, and it made her want to lean in instead of away.

“Also,” she added, voice softening just slightly as she bent to grab her brush, “for the record, existing near me is never something you gotta apologize for.” She tapped the wooden handle against her palm, faint flecks of dried paint dusting off. “I mean, unless you’re secretly a time-traveling demon with a tax fraud record and a vendetta against donuts. In which case, I might have to reconsider. But otherwise?” She gave a crooked smile, shoulder bumping theirs lightly as she passed. “You’re good.”

And then her name.

"Ow!" She says, pulling her head out of a cupboard under the sales counter, rubbing fingers against where she'd just knocked the back of it against the frame of the cupboard door.

"Oh..."

It's not that she doesn't want to see Romy, or that she's the bad kind of surprised - she'd just never really expected to see her again. At best, Autumn had assumed Romy'd thought she was insane - its own kind of frustrating, but then she'd realized that she probably just had good sense; werewolf or no, she'd seen her skulking into her apartment covered in blood and bramble not the most enticing re-introduction to an old acquaintance. "I... I could eat a donut."

Romy nodded, like the movement might fall apart if she gave it too much weight — and stepped inside properly, letting the door fall shut behind her with a soft clink of the bell. The coffee tray shifted in her grip. She held it out like a peace offering and something else, too — maybe a shield, maybe an apology dressed in caffeine and cinnamon sugar. “They didn’t have the kind with sprinkles,” she said, her voice a notch too light, like it was trying to keep the air from getting too thick. “But I got the next best thing. Chocolate glaze and seasonal regret.”

She passed the bag to Autumn gently, fingers brushing hers for just a breath, and then looked away — eyes drifting toward the nearest bookshelf like it might offer a script for what came next. God, she’d rehearsed this. Twice in the mirror. Once on the way. And still none of the words fit right now. Everything felt… frayed at the edges. Like her.

Her breath hitched — not with emotion exactly, but with effort. With the sheer heaviness of trying.

“I owe you an apology,” she said, quietly. And then again, louder, like she wanted the shelves to hear too. “I just… really don’t know how to say it properly, so— I’m sorry. For not believing you. For doubting. For not listening.”

Following the gala, Morgan decides to do some check-ins, especially with friends and loved ones. So much can happen at one of those events, and mercifully she's been allowed to retain her own memories of the evening. Even more fortunate, she didn't have an absolute disaster of a night, compared to the stories she's heard of the last one.

Sure, she woke up feeling like she had a wicked hangover after letting Kiri and Laure feed off of her, but... eh, the blood comes back.

But stopping by Doughfellas, she's worried when someone tells her Romy hasn't been in for a few days. Morgan checks back, but still, nothing. She's worried, knowing any number of things could have happened to the girl -- death and dismemberment are only a few of the options swirling in her mind. Still, Morgan does her best to carry on, checking in with those she can still reach.

It's not until one sunny mid-morning as she's walking Star around the edge of a park that she spots the familiar face -- "Romy?"

Romy had not been expecting her name to carry like that — bright and unmistakable across the park like someone had flung it under a spotlight. She turned mid-step, startled, hair catching in the breeze and mouth full of iced coffee she wasn’t even enjoying, just sipping out of habit. And then she saw Morgan. Morgan, with Star trotting dutifully by her side and that familiar warmth that had always made Romy feel a little like a kid caught playing hooky from school.

“Oh,” she said, swallowing quickly and tugging her sleeves down like they might cover the very weird way her heart did a somersault. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.” Her voice sounded normal, she thought. A little hoarse, maybe. Sleep-deprived chic. “You caught me in my elusive wild form — daylight hours, rare sighting. You should feel honored.”

She managed a smile. It was crooked at the corners, but real. It was also laced with just enough nervous energy to betray her. Because seeing her aunt — seeing her now — it unlocked something tight in her gut. Something that hadn’t really settled since the gala. Since that conversation with her aunt. Since the supernatural pulled off its mask and said boo, you’re part of this too. And Lucas— god, Lucas was alive, and Romy was still riding the edge of that miracle like it might vanish if she blinked too hard.

But now, here was Morgan. Sweet, steady, her aunt Morgan. And Romy hadn’t texted. Hadn’t dropped by. Hadn’t done anything except vanish for days and pretend she hadn’t been drowning in the weight of revelations and memory and a whole new world under her feet. She hadn’t avoided her aunt, not really, but what the hell did you say when you found out your entire bloodline came with footnotes and hidden chapters?

Her fingers curled tighter around the coffee cup.

She felt smaller now, with a shaky hand wrapped tight around the paintbrush, barely anything on the canvas that didn’t look like it belonged to a toddler. Blue, orange, and green bled into one another, muddied shapes where eyes stared back at her in that familiar light— like a photograph she might’ve kept in a wallet.

But Anika never kept anything for long. Never settled anywhere long enough to unpack her bags.

Looking around her now — at the bits and pieces that made Port Liery what it was, at faces passing by, the familiar windows across the street, she was reminded how much this place had given her. And how much it had taken. Here, she’d met Romy. And here, her art had meaning again.

Her voice cracked sharp into the silence, deflecting before it could get heavy. "That look like anyone would give a shit and a half for, Thorne?" Because why else would she be busting her ass, with one good hand, if not to cash out? Romy was always there, hovering, spilling encouragement over her head and shoulders like some overly-attached mother at a high school pep rally. "Now show me yours. You’re the student here, remember? I’m supposed to be your crippled teacher."

Romy didn't answer right away — just tilted her head at Anika's mess of a canvas like she was studying a storm cloud for its silver lining. The colors were a wreck. The strokes? Unhinged at best. But the thing about art, the thing Anika always forgot, was that chaos didn’t cancel meaning. Sometimes it was the whole damn point. And Romy saw it there, beneath the blue bleed and orange blur. That familiar ache tucked into the tilt of a jaw. The memory of something that once mattered. It looked like someone would give a shit and a half — if they were paying attention.

She let that thought sit in her chest for a second before finally glancing over, brows raised, tone light. “Don’t call yourself that,” she said flatly. “I will hit you with a brush. And I’ll make sure it’s one of the gross ones I forgot to wash out last week.” She held her own brush like a threat, then softened just enough to bump her shoulder lightly against Anika’s. “Besides, I think you’re doing great for a quote-unquote crippled teacher.”

Then, a beat. Romy turned to her own piece and sighed. “Mine sucks. It’s giving elementary school art contest, but the kid forgot it was due.” Still, she angled it toward Anika like she was offering up a soul fragment. “But I’ll let you roast it. Fair’s fair.”

And then—quieter, but just as sure— “I’d ’d pay for yours.” She said it like it was nothing, like it wasn’t the kind of thing she’d been turning over in her head for weeks. “Seriously. I’ve been saving. You know, working double shifts, skipping the good snacks, being responsible for once.” Her lips twitched. “My aunt’s already losing her mind with all the mediocre bullshit I painted for her birthday. Might as well gift her something real before she replaces me with a Hobby Lobby print.”

The hand falls beneath the table and onto his thigh for a moment, whilst she slides a tray of goods down. His other arm rests out along the back of the booth ledge.

"Oh you've carved a name into it 'ave you?" He makes a point to glance around the booth, as if to look for some woodworked initials. Garrick's left his in plenty of vessels at the bottom of the locker. They ain't mean nothin' now.

He slides his gaze back to her, as she clambers in across from him. They narrow: "Ghosts ain't leavin' you, even here?"

She might be one of the most haunted by phantom types he's ever met; she's only a youth, how can she be followed by shadows everywhere? He ain't greetin' his ghosts on the regular an' he's got centuries worth. Gives them a finger and tells 'em they can have him when he's dust. But he thanks her for the food, and there ain't nowt appealing about the grease, and the plastic she presents but he sips the Coke and plucks up one of them stick-things to take a bite.

As he expects, with taste buds that ain't got the skills to know anything but bread and water of centuries gone. These cheese things taste like ash that'd been mixed with stale water. Cement mixture at best, wallpaper paste at worst.

He takes her word for it that they're good. He keeps chewing until it's gone.

Garrick's lost count of exactly what parts of her he's dodging; the food; her questions; that shiny fuckin' ring on her finger she ain't ever mentioned. Maybe she ain't even know. "Is this because you's seen me at that restaurant way back?" he asks, knowing that it's a gimmick-house full of faux sailor garb. And he may not forget the sight of her with that tricorne, talkin' like she belonged on a ship sailing right into the battle of cannons and gunpowder. But she's fishing, still. Garrick's fingers curl inwards, the bones quietly cracking as he thinks about his answer for her. "You think there's no google across the Atlantic or somethin'?"

He tries not to smile too wide, but he's not sure what to make of Romy anymore. He don't know what she's here for, or what she really wants from him and his company. There's no good stories he's got to share; none that'd belong in the mind of an angel saint that's too kind to strangers in the dark.

But, he's still askin', because her answer surprises him. "You ain't ever left this town?"

Romy made a noise at the back of her throat, amused and vaguely offended in the way only she could manage. “Carved a name into it? What do I look like, someone who carries a pocketknife for romantic vandalism?” Her hand slid across the table, index finger tapping against the edge like she might consider it now, just for the bit. “Nah. But if you check under the booth, there might be a sticker that says Romy was here, eat shit.” A beat. “Possibly accompanied by a very anatomically incorrect drawing of a seagull. Not my finest work, but I was, like, fourteen.”

She grinned at him then—all sunshine teeth and shameless mischief. When he said ghosts ain’t leavin’ you, even here?, she didn’t answer right away. Just gave a little shrug, like she was trying not to say too much. “Guess some places just hold on to things,” she said finally, quieter than the mood deserved. “Some people too.” Her foot nudged his again under the table — a small thing, not playful this time, just present. She didn’t ask why his hand had twitched. Didn’t press about the way his fingers curled like they were disgusted by her touch. Not yet. But she noticed. Romy always noticed. And she remembered.

“Oh, my god, is this because I saw you in costume once? Garrick,” she said, voice lilting into gentle mockery, “— if I judged people based on cosplay choices, I’d never have made a single friend in this town. And besides—” she tilted her head toward him, a half-sincere, half-teasing gleam in her eye, “—you pulled off the coat. I stand by that.” She took a sip of her coke, then leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “You’re nice,” she said, suddenly and without fanfare. “You’re funny. I like that.”

It wasn’t flirty. Not really. Not exactly. Just honest. Blunt, even. The kind of thing she meant when she said it, and wouldn't walk back later. “Googling is not the same and you know it,” she said, poking her straw through the ice in her drink. “That’s like saying you know what Paris tastes like because you ordered a croissant off Uber Eats once. It’s not the same, Brinewater. There’s no soul in it. No weird locals or bad signage or weird airport smells. Just algorithms and disappointment.”

“He said you were dead, he said he’d...” eaten you. Let the full moon rip you and our parents apart. He almost shut his eyes, the desire to block things out and recenter himself at that thought almost winning out against the need to keep etching her face into his mind, but he blinked back the tears that were still falling instead. “That I should forget you, forget everyone, and I...”

He was getting choked up again. Somewhere he thought he’d managed to it lock up tight, that kid who was told to forget it, that he could cry all he wanted when it was fresh but moping about it after so much time was weak, was trying to climb up out of his throat. It was making it difficult to speak. 

“If you’re going to keep crying about it, grab a shovel, dig a hole, bury some rocks, and move on. At some point, you're just making it miserable for the rest of us, too.”

Move on. He’d tried. He’d pushed it all down, tried to focus on other things, told himself that it was a part of his life that was closed, nothing but a bunch of rocks under the dirt and a pile of rocks over it, Thorne etched on in sharpie.

“I’m sorry.” For giving up, for letting himself stop looking, stop hoping. For carrying the absence with him like an empty space in his heart that didn’t need anything in it, lying to himself that he was fine being hollow, that he didn't need to look for closure for so long that he had pushed off even looking for his aunt and cousin, not knowing his sister was there the whole time. 

Romy didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at him — really looked at him — and it was like her heart cracked somewhere beneath the surface, soundless but loud, the kind of rupture you feel in your bones long before your brain can catch up. Lucas’s face had changed in all the ways the world changed you; time, pain, monsters. But his eyes —god, his eyes— they were still the same ones that used to squint at her across the table when she stole the last pancake. The same ones that held her steady when their world was falling apart the first time.

And now those same eyes were full of something she’d only seen in a mirror. That quiet, awful grief of someone who’d been forced to survive. He said someone told him she was dead. That he was meant to forget. Move on. Words dropped from his mouth like rocks in her chest — he said you were dead, he said to forget everyone — and Romy froze. “Who?” Her voice wasn’t loud. Just… stunned. Brittle. “Who the hell told you that?” Her hands hovered like she wasn’t sure whether to hold his face or shake him. Her lips parted again like she was about to ask more but the way he looked at her just… undid her.

Because he wasn’t fine. Not really. He had that look — the one she knew too well. The look of someone who’d been surviving by holding their breath too long. And her brother, her big brother, even taller and older and sharper at the edges, looked like he was still waiting to be punished for hoping again. So instead, she reached up, gently this time, her palm against the side of his cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye.

“Ssh,” she murmured, like she used to when they were kids and the thunder got too loud. “You’re home now. That’s what matters.” Another breath — shakier this time. The tears hadn’t stopped. Hers or his. But she smiled through them, small and trembling and real. “It’s not your fault, Luke. Okay? Whatever happened, you’re here. That’s all I ever wanted.” And she meant that. She had waited. The words came easier now, like opening a floodgate one careful inch at a time. “I missed you so much.”

It'd been cooler when Ren had taken the commission from the rich lady in the music shop. They certainly hadn't realized how long stuff like this took to go through, get set up, et cetera. Permits were a thing. Licenses and stuff. Now it's summer, and they can't find a damn tie for their hair, so they're just dealing with it. Whatever.

The gala had been a sort of end-cap to their introduction to this city's brand of normal, even as they're still figuring out what normal looks like for them. The werewolf shit, it makes it hard - hard to fucking follow through on what they want. They've settled something in between for now - something that's soul crushing, but not so soul crushing that they want to rip their skin off whenever they get a raised brow or a double take. Middle ground is preferable to nothing at all.

It makes being perceived a little easier, if nothing else.

The long side wall of New Moonlight is a blank canvas made of brick, and all they know is they're working with a couple other artists on it, none of whom they've met yet. Everyone's getting set up - it's good weather all week, perfect for getting this mural under way. They've got a bunch of tools in their belt, art and otherwise, and they move to grab one of the buckets to set up before they realize somebody else has already filled it . "Oh, hey, sorry," an apologetic shrug follows. "I can uh, get another one."

Romy had been there a good ten minutes before she actually started doing anything. Not in a lazy way — in a my brain’s still buffering kind of way. Her bag was set down by the edge of the wall, half-zipped with a sketchpad poking out, earbuds in but no music playing, fingers twitching with leftover adrenaline she hadn’t asked for. Being back out here, around people again, in daylight no less — it felt... foreign. Like wearing shoes you haven’t broken in yet. Everything pinched a little.

She didn’t even want to be painting a mural, not really. She’d originally come out looking for sample paint, something to slap on the busted-up shed behind the house. Some dumb project to distract her from the fact that the world now came with claws and fangs and memory spells that tried to dig her name out of her own skull. But then she'd seen the flier, and something in her went, hey, remember color? So here she was. Shaking out a ponytail with no elastic in sight, looking about as held-together as a bird’s nest in a wind tunnel.

She had just settled on a pale blue — not because she loved it, but because it didn’t make her flinch — when the figure by the buckets caught her eye. Their voice hit her ears like static through an old car radio: a little tired, a little apologetic, like maybe they hadn’t meant to exist so loudly just then. Romy blinked once. Twice. Looked at the paint bucket in question and then up at the person holding it.

“Hey — no, you’re good,” she said, waving a hand like she was shooing a fly off someone else’s mistake. “You can keep that one. I’m still having a crisis about whether blue is too here’s a rental deposit and my LinkedIn for me anyway.” She offered a lopsided smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach the eyes but tried anyway. “Figure I’ll just stand here awkwardly and pretend I totally meant to show up early so I could debate color theory with the side of a building.”

"Oh my god, you're not gonna believe the assholes I had to deal with at the alley the other day!"

Why does everyone she know keep trying to drop off the fucking map?! Seriously, it's starting to get old. She's not letting another friend disappear into the fog of Port Leiry, so now she's settling into a booth at Doughfellas with Romy to finally hang out. They've got food, drinks, and surely some good gossip built up from the last few months.

Romy snorted into her straw the second twiggy ringleader left Nori’s mouth, the kind of laugh that came from the diaphragm, like it surprised even her. She dabbed at her lip with a napkin like that would somehow make her seem more dignified, but let’s be honest — she was halfway through a slice of garlic knot pizza and dignity was not the vibe tonight. “Oh my god, Nori, you legend,” she grinned, eyes crinkling. “Sixteen pounds? That kid’s spine probably got rearranged like a sad little IKEA shelf. You know that moment’s gonna haunt his locker room ego forever. You’re basically doing the Lord’s work.” She popped a mozzarella stick into her mouth and leaned back, posture slouched in that too-familiar way that meant she’d finally relaxed — at least on the outside. Her gaze flicked sideways for a second, just enough to study Nori’s face while she chewed. There was something grounding about her. Uncomplicated. Loud in the good way. Human, as far as Romy knew. Which lately was a rarer trait than she’d thought.

“I’ve been… okay,” she said, and her voice was quieter this time. Honest. “All things considered.” She picked at a crust edge, glanced out the window briefly like she might spot her missing sanity clinging to the fire hydrant. “Just got back to work today, actually. Took some time off. Needed a minute to, y’know, gather my thoughts.” A beat. “And by thoughts I mean emotional debris. Like a post-apocalyptic cleanup, but in my head. I'm glad to see you thought. Come, I'll share my food with you. I'm on a break and the sticks are amazing.”

"Well now you's brought the Greek's into it, how can I refuse? I ain't about to upset no ancient ghosts. 'Specially those Byzantine lot." He's teasing her 'bout her choices and his foot is sliding over the pizzeria's doorway behind her.

She grabs his hand and tugs him the rest of the way.

His fingers twitch, just once, where warmth scalds against his palm. It's a sudden, sharp kind of sensation and he quickly releases her hand with a subtle moment of confusion. He bites back the hiss that comes as a surprise. Flashes a too quick smile as his fingers curl inwards. He feels the stripe that's tender on the inside of his hand. He don't know if she realises what she's got, but he notes the ring on her finger; it doesn't reek of verbena, but there ain't no other way.

They're by a booth in the corner and Garrick has warning bells clanging in his mind that she's something other than what she appears. But Romy don't stop on account of him when her bag lands on the booth, barking orders at him like he's lost at sea.

Maybe he is.

Garrick's fingers cease feeling the burn on his hand, and despite the flash in his gaze, he's too old to make a scene this late, this public in the night. Ain't no fuckin' way. He don't have a scooby if she knows, and if she does, she's makin' it real tough to wanna say a thing about it. He keeps it light, but there's less consideration.

"I ain't mind, Romy. I'll eat anythin'." And he's feeling like he will now.

But then she asks — and it's one of those questions that ain't just her hand touching the surface of the wave, it's sunk deep, like she wants to know what it's like to be sucked in by the ocean; see what it hides beneath.

He's just as careful with his answer: "Ay, what gave it away?" But she's askin' him softly, like it's soaked in innocence. He nudges his head towards the counter. "Go gets your food, I'll wait." Then he slides himself into the corner booth, so he can sneak a look at the healing scald on his hand. Garrick don't know her game, but he ain't sure he can leave without knowin' it.

Romy didn’t notice the twitch at first. Not until after — when she was halfway to the counter and the memory of his hand flinching played back like a bad cut in an old movie reel. Too fast to register in the moment, but too strange to forget. Her brow furrowed, just a little. Enough for her to glance down at her own hand like it might offer a clue. Nothing. Just her usual rings and the faint scent of pizza grease that probably lived in her skin now. Still, something in her chest gave a quiet thump of warning, and she wasn’t sure if it was instinct or paranoia. Lately, the line between the two had gotten hard to see.

By the time she came back, tray in hand, the thought had folded itself into the corner of her mind like a note she’d read later. The mozzarella sticks were already starting to congeal (because of course they were), but she made up for it with a peperoni pizza and a coke so iced it crackled when she set it down — lemon slice and all. She slid the tray onto the table like it was sacred cargo and plopped down across from him, her usual smile back on her lips.

“Get comfy,” she said, nudging the tray toward him with two fingers. “This booth’s basically my second home. It’s got everything — bad lighting, questionable upholstery, and an occasional ghost of customers past. Real cozy.” Then, with a tilt of her head, she gestured to the food like it might speak for her. “Mozzarella sticks, pepperoni pizza, and the coldest Coke this side of the Mississippi. Anything else your heart desires, don't be shy about it. I mean it.”

After a beat, she added lightly, “You dodged my question, y’know.” She flicked a glance toward him over the top of her soda. “Where you’re from. You look like someone who’s seen a lot of maps. And maybe... outrun a few cartographers.” Then she leaned back, foot nudging his under the table, lazy and harmless. “I’m not gonna interrogate you, Brinewater. I just like stories. Especially the ones that sound a little impossible. I've never been out of town, so.”

“It’s you. It’s really you...” How many times had he hoped this would happen? How many years had it been since he’d had to force himself to cut that hope away, to try to move on until she was just a painful memory and another empty seat in the front row at his wedding? She was here. This was real. “You’re alive.” 

He’d had time to rehearse what he would say, to try to plan out what he would do, but all of it had gone out the window the second he’d seen her. Planning didn’t matter, whatever half-truth explanation he'd come up with for how he was still alive didn’t matter, she was here, she was alive, and he didn’t even have the space in his heart to feel bad about the fact that he’d started crying. Not those little automatic tears that come when something stings, but big, shoulder-shaking sobs that were only made worse from the effort to hold them in, the kind of crying he hadn’t done in over a decade, pulling over on the interstate when he’d finally left his first pack behind. 

In some distant part of his brain, he felt a little bad for getting the shoulder of her shirt wet, but he’d be able to apologize for it later, a thought which quickly rolled into the realization that he'd still be able to talk to her later, to see her later, to actually have her in his life from now on, and to be a part of hers.

Romy didn’t let go. Not even when her lungs started to ache from how tightly her chest had locked around her ribs. Not when the wet warmth of his tears started to soak through the fabric of her shirt. Not when her own body started trembling from the weight of it all — memory, relief, disbelief — crashing over her like a goddamn tidal wave. She held him like she might never get to again. Like if she loosened her grip even a little, the universe would change its mind and take him back.

His voice cracked against her shoulder, and that was when the tears came — real ones. Hot, stinging, silent at first, then hiccuping out of her in gasps that didn’t sound like her at all. Ugly little sobs that scraped up from some place deep she hadn’t visited in years. Her nails curled against his back. Her face pressed harder into his shoulder like she could disappear into him if she just pushed hard enough.

She didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. Just kept shaking her head against him like no — not no to him, not no to this, but no to everything else. The lies. The grief. The way the world kept turning without him in it. She hadn’t been built for that world. Not really. Not ever.

Eventually, the words clawed their way out of her. Not neatly. Not even in order.

“Everyone said you were dead,” she choked out, voice raw and cracked like broken pavement. “I—I told them you weren’t. I knew you weren’t. They looked at me like I was losing it, like I needed to let go, but I couldn’t. You were—” Her breath hitched again. “You were just gone. And I kept saying, you just needed time. You just needed time to come home.”

She laughed then — or tried to. It came out more like a sob with ideas. “God, Lucas. You absolute asshole,” she whispered, but it sounded almost like thank you. Her fingers curled tighter into his shirt for a second before they finally loosened. Her hands slid up, knuckles brushing his jaw as she pulled back enough to look at him.

And there he was. All of him. Older, heavier in the eyes, marked by something she didn’t understand yet — but still him. Still Lucas. Her Lucky Luke.