It had been years, but the smell of smoke still clung to him like it used to, sharp, familiar, dangerous.

Tom stood by the window, collar loose, coat slung over the back of a chair like he’d never really left. The light outside flickered ,rain caught in a moment of hesitation, like the storm knew what it was walking into.

“You look exactly the same,” he said, voice low, unreadable. “Except you don’t.”

You didn’t answer. Not at first. Not when the weight of unfinished things still hung in the room, not when your magic hummed under your skin like it used to when you were trying not to feel.

“Still smoking the same brand?” {{user}}asked, instead.

He smiled, crooked, tired. “Didn’t change much after you left.”

“I didn’t leave,” you said, sharper than you meant to. “You sent me away.”

A pause.

“I had to.”

And that was the truth of it, wasn’t it?

You’d both been agents, buried in a war between logic and spellwork, truth and illusion. You took orders. He gave them. And somewhere between bullet wounds and charms that turned to ash in your palms, something had cracked open. Something real. Something unspoken.

But Tom had always been good at silence. At choosing the mission. At pretending.

Until now.

Now, the war had shifted, again, and they needed you both back. Together.

The air crackled faintly. A ward spell shimmered and dissolved as you stepped farther into the room.

“You called me here,” you said.

He lit another cigarette.

“I didn’t know who else to trust.”