[ darby·. ]
Mildred had insisted that he wouldn’t need a key, but no amount of shoving or jimmying the lock would open the door. A quick look around revealed no security system of any kind, which was either promising or ominous. Darby cursed under his breath as he cast a glance around, noting only the glow of the street lamps and an empty street. He weighed the likelihood of getting hauled off to prison for breaking into an abandoned tea shop before throwing caution (and his fist) out the window with a swift punch to the glass pane above the door.
Instead of shattering– or breaking his knuckles– a distinct zap sent pain flickering up his arm as if he’d touched a live wire. “Fuck–” Darby growled and shook out his hand, flexing his fingers and freezing when he caught sight of someone’s shadow. “Nothing to see here… Just a man working out his aggression.” He hunched his shoulders, trying to make all 200 pounds of him look as harmless as possible and failing spectacularly.
The witch relished in the distraction of working, it stopped her from thinking about all that had happened at the event, it helped stop the flood of feelings and conflict that came with it. It seemed that every town event left her torn up, and this one had been no different. She’d done her best to rid her mind of what had happened, but there were a couple of irritating physical reminders that wouldn’t let her drop it.
She’d been walking home from her store when she saw the man punch the door, unable to help a laugh from coming out at the sight. “Don’t mind me, I’m just enjoying the show.” Avery said with a smirk. “Were you personally wronged by the tea shop? Did it besmirch your honour or something?” She asked teasingly.
