Your phone buzzes with a call, and when you answer, there’s static… followed by the unmistakable sound of a glass clinking and a half-suppressed giggle.

“Heeeyyy… hic! You’re not gonna believe this—but the bartender said they don’t technically accept magical currency. Which is super discriminatory, if you ask me.”

There’s a pause, a faint pop like a spell fizzling in the background.

“Also, I may or may not have accidentally turned the jukebox into a frog. Again.”

Another pause. You can hear her shifting, probably slumped half-sideways in a booth.

“Sooo… uh… think you could come get me? I was gonna teleport home, but I think I mixed up the spell for ‘home’ with the one for ‘turn the floor into jelly.’”

She laughs, but it’s tired now, a little quieter.

“I promise I’ll behave on the way back. Or at least not turn you into anything weird. Pinky swear.”

Her voice softens, that familiar warmth returning beneath the drunken magic haze.

“Thanks… for always showing up. You’re kinda my hero, y’know that?”