The Tooth roared on Fridays.

Every table was full—wolves with their dice and their loud boasting, witches trading charms over gin, mortals brave or foolish enough to drink in a room where eyes sometimes glowed back at them. Smoke curled under the rafters, lanternlight shivering against bottles lined like soldiers.

Elara moved through it all with practiced ease, tray balanced, eyes everywhere. A sharp word here, a raised brow there—just enough to keep the peace. She could feel the wards humming under her skin, ready to flare if anyone pushed too far.

Malachi thrived in it. He spun bottles with lazy grace, poured shots without measuring, laughed with anyone bold enough to meet his eyes. His grin caught light like a blade, too sharp for comfort, but no one called him on it.

That was when V slid in through the door, fur collar askew, paint smudged, her laugh softer than usual but still catching ears. Lantern Walk girls trailed behind her, bracelets jingling.

"Darling!" she called over the din, waving at Elara as if she weren't already in the middle of a dozen orders. "Save me before I collapse. My feet hate me and my clients are worse."

Elara bit back a sigh, dropped the tray at a waiting table, and circled back. "Sit. Water first."

V flopped onto her usual stool, resting her chin on her hand. "If you insist." She tipped her wrist, showing a faint bruise under her pearls. "This one's been asking me about my dreams. Over and over. He smells like wet iron... Gives me chills."

Malachi's hand paused on a bottle, just for a heartbeat. His grin slid back in place. "Dreams are dangerous currency. Spend them wrong, and someone else owns you."

V groaned, hiding her face in her glass. "Listen to him, always so dark. Elara, tell me I'll live."

"You'll live if you stay away from him," Elara said flatly, sliding a full glass of water toward her.

V's laugh bubbled again, lighter this time. "Mother hen, as always. What would I do without you?"

"Fall apart faster," Elara muttered, but her hand lingered on the glass until V took it.

The night raged on around them—wolves shouting, witches arguing, mortals sneaking glances at Malachi's too-bright smile. V drifted between laughter and exhaustion, until her friends finally slipped out, arm in arm, leaving her slouched against the bar.

When last call came, Elara found her stretched across the battered couch near the stove, pearls loose around her wrist, coat bundled as a blanket.

"She's not moving," Malachi said softly, watching from the shadows with that wicked grin.

"Then she stays," Elara replied, tucking the coat higher. The Tooth hummed low, the wards steady, the city still breathing beyond its walls.

The morning came too bright through the cracked blinds. Elara dragged herself from bed, muscles aching from too many trays, too many steps. The wards hummed steady in her bones as she padded barefoot into the kitchen.

Voices drifted from the sitting room. One bright, teasing. One low, smooth.

V was curled on the bar's old couch, hair mussed, coat slipping to the floor. Her pearls lay on the table beside her like shed skin. She sipped from a mug Malachi must have poured, legs tucked under her as if she belonged there.

"Darling," she said when she spotted Elara, "your couch is a saint. Better than half the beds in Lantern Walk."

"You're supposed to go home," Elara muttered, setting the kettle on the stove.

"Home," V echoed, wrinkling her nose. "That place isn't home. This feels more like it."

Malachi leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled, eyes glittering. "Careful, little pearl. You'll make her blush."

"I don't blush," Elara said sharply, though the heat in her cheeks betrayed her. She poured herself coffee, then slid another mug toward V.

V accepted it with a grateful hum. "See? Mother hen." She sipped, then glanced up with a softer smile. "Thank you. For letting me stay."

Elara hesitated, then nodded once. "You were tired."

"Always tired," V said, half to herself. She twirled one pearl between her fingers, the motion restless. "But here—it's easier to breathe."

Malachi's grin curved. "That's the trouble with safety. Once you taste it, everything else feels hollow."

V studied him for a long moment, then shook her head with a laugh. "You always have to make things sound like riddles."

Elara gathered the empty cups, ignoring the way Malachi's eyes followed her. "You should get back. Before your girls wonder."

V sighed, tugging her coat over her shoulders. "Fine. But only because you'll scold me otherwise." She paused at the door, "Until tonight?"

Elara looked at her, quiet for a beat. Then: "Until tonight."

V blew her a kiss and slipped out, her laughter trailing into the morning streets.

Malachi's chuckle filled the silence she left behind. "You keep her close, darling. Closer than you admit."

Elara set the cups down harder than she needed to. "And you enjoy watching me try not to."

"Endlessly."

Later, as Elara walked the market streets with her basket tucked tight against her hip, haggling for herbs, bottles, and candles. The vendors knew her well enough not to argue long—she paid fair, but she never paid more than she had to. A self-taught witch kept her accounts balanced as carefully as her wards.

The air smelled of frying oil and coal smoke. Children darted between stalls, chased by a weary Watchman. Somewhere in the Docklands, a ship's horn bellowed low, carrying over the rooftops.

"Apples?" the old fruit-seller asked, holding out a bruised basket.

Elara shook her head. "Not today."

Back at the Tooth, Malachi was leaning in the doorway when she returned, sleeves rolled, eyes glinting. "Shopping already? You'll make the other wives jealous."

"I'm not a wife," she said, brushing past him.

"Mm. Not yet."

She ignored the grin curling at his mouth, carried her basket inside, and began restocking the shelves. He followed, as always—offering to slice lemons, sneaking tastes of her tinctures, leaning too close when she bent to stack bottles.