WHO: @rivenvictors WHERE: close to her house.
She noticed him halfway down the Wash Tub Laundry. Not the loud kind of tailing—no heavy steps, no labored breath—just a rhythm behind her that matched hers too cleanly. Too careful. A step when she stepped. A pause when she adjusted her bag. Like he’d practiced it.
Irene didn’t stop walking.
She kept her pace steady, let the keys in her coat pocket clink just enough to sound like someone not paying attention. Her breath fogged faintly in the cold, but her fingers curled tight in her sleeve, brushing the hilt of the knife she always carried. Just in case.
At the corner near Calley Street, she turned left instead of right—off the main path, into one of the narrow lanes that ran crooked behind the houses. She didn’t glance back.
Let him follow.
The moment his foot hit gravel, the blonde moved.
She pivoted fast—knife out, weight behind the motion—shoving him hard against the nearest wall. The blade pressed just below his collarbone, sharp enough to draw a bead of heat through the fabric.
Then she saw his face.
The breath caught in her throat.
“…Riven?” she said, voice low, disbelieving. Her grip on the knife didn’t ease, but something else shifted behind her eyes. A flicker of confusion. Recognition. Anger, maybe. Or something older.
He looked the same. Just not as tall. Not from what she could remember, but then again, how long had it been?
"Rivy?" she said again, softer this time, like the name alone might anchor him into being. Like if she said it wrong, he’d vanish. Her knife didn’t move, but her breath did—tight in her chest, caught between disbelief and something colder.
“Is this a joke?” she asked, not really to him. More to the night. To whatever twist of the universe thought this was the right time. Her pulse was loud in her ears now, and for a second, she wasn’t sure if she was awake at all.
“Because if I’m dreaming, this one’s just mean.”
