[hr][center][sub][color=cecece]Present - Morning[/color] [color=734e66]◈[/color]  [color=cecece]Joanie Porter, Marth Oldfox[/color] [color=734e66]◈[/color]  [color=cecece]The Docks (St. Dymphna’s Home For Wayward Youths)[/color] [color=734e66]◈[/color] [color=cecece]Joanie[@Natty], Marth[@Memoria][/color][/sub][/center][hr][table][row][/row][row][cell][url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5661939][img]https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/1069869642589409300/1520649901275484310/JoanieHQtrimmed.tuxpi.jpg?ex=6a41f714&is=6a40a594&hm=521007f7bba2dadbacd4d26333fffe1b30644751c3832bb4cf31df928f037078&=&format=webp[/img][/url][url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/5661930][img]https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/1069869642589409300/1510779496528216104/Marthclearskin.tuxpi.jpg?ex=6a1e0e8c&is=6a1cbd0c&hm=ffacb6a1330c56c3396c58a262f646a336b30b5302261befbd5e089b405a61ce&=&format=webp[/img][/url][color=2e2c2c]▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇[/color][/cell][cell][quote]

[color=8d8e8f]
Another day, another job interview.

This one was at a coffee shop that told her she didn’t have enough experience to pour drinks. The rejection sat heavy in her chest, another reminder that she was running out of options.

[color=silver]“Joanie, this is the third one this week.”[/color] Mrs. Qadir exclaimed as they moved through the hallway, their arms filled with laundry.

Given everything with Rowan, Mrs. Qadir was stretched thin, her worry spilling into every corner of the house. Joanie coming home after failing yet another interview was just another problem on her belt.

[color=plum][b]“I know, I know”[/b][/color] Joanie said, heat rising in her chest. [color=plum][b]“It’s not my fault.”[/b][/color]

How on earth was she meant to get experience if no one wanted to hire her? It was a vicious cycle.

Mrs. Qadir simply shook her head in response, stepping closer to the laundry shoot. [color=silver]“You have been distracted. Anyone can see it.”[/color]

Joanie’s jaw tightened. [color=plum][b]“That’s not why they turned me down.”[/b][/color]

Deep down though she knew it was a factor. Her temper had been worsening the last few days. It hasn’t been help by that Detective’s phone number taking her straight to an answering machine. She had left a message but wasn’t hopeful.

There wasn’t much room for hope these days.

[color=silver]“Maybe not,”[/color] Qadir said, her voice sharpening, [color=silver]“but I’m worried about you sweetie. You come home everyday looking like the world is ending. You barely sleep. You barely eat. You are out every night searching for Rowan. I understand why, but I cannot have you falling apart right now.”[/color]

[color=plum][b]“I am not falling apart,”[/b][/color] Joanie snapped. [color=plum][b]“I am trying. I am doing everything I can.”[/b][/color]

[color=silver]“I know you are,”[/color] Qadir said, softer now, but the fear in her voice was unmistakable. [color=silver]“But child services are breathing down my neck. They want answers. They want proof this home is stable. They want to know why a boy is missing and why the older kids look exhausted and frightened.”[/color]

Joanie looked away, throat tight. [color=plum][b]“So this is my fault.”[/b][/color]

[color=silver]“That’s not what I said.”[/color]

[color=plum][b]“It’s what it sounds like.”[/b][/color]

Qadir’s composure cracked. [color=silver]“I’m scared, Joanie. I’m scared for Rowan. I’m scared for all of you. I am scared of losing this home. I am doing everything I can to keep this place together, and I need you with me, not fighting me.”[/color]

[color=plum][b]“I can’t do this right now,”[/b][/color] Joanie muttered, the pressure behind her ribs building until she felt it in her fingertips. She dropped the clothes in a heap at her feet.

[color=silver]“Joanie…”[/color]

She turned sharply, the movement sending a faint tremor through the wall beside her. Mrs. Qadir’s eyes flicked to it, worry deepening, but she did not speak again.

Joanie stormed down the stairs in a tight, frustrated huff and pushed into the kitchen, needing space, needing air, needing to get away before she said something she could not take back.

—--

For the next few days, Marth slept beneath the crooked roofs of the Old Prue Gables.

It was safer there, everyone agreed, than letting him stay alone in his flat in The Docks with Bruno able to appear and vanish like a bad thought. The decision had been made around the long dining table with the grave democracy of family panic. His mother with one hand over her mouth, his father going silent in the way he did before anger found its color, Sybil speaking in clipped and poisonous little sentences, and Bone trying to make jokes and failing at every single one. Marth had confessed the whole thing, or nearly the whole thing, after the Remembrance break had ended.

He had not enjoyed being the subject of everyone’s love when love had become alert and armed. The Old Prue Gables itself seemed to take the news personally. It creaked around him at night like an old aunt keeping watch. The plum-gray walls held lamplight late into the evening. Someone always knew when he came downstairs or when he needed tea before asking. Marth noticed Bone pretending not to be waiting in the hall when he returned from brushing his teeth.

All at once, it was tender, suffocating and unfortunately, safer. So Marth behaved.

He went to Oceanside Middle School in the mornings, taught his classes, and returned directly to the Old Prue Gables as soon as the school day ended. No wandering. No coffee shops unless accompanied. And certainly no traveling home alone with his mind half-open to the city.

Marth’s family had become especially creative about texting him when traveling alone was his only option. Sybil sent threats disguised as check-ins, the kind only big sisters could do with instinctive finesse. Bone sent humorously artful photographs of himself looking suspiciously through windows. His mother sent little hearts, then long silences, which were worse.

Marth kept telling them he was all right. This was not untrue. It was only incomplete.

Still, other worries had begun gathering at the edges of him. One of his students, Rowan, a resident of St. Dymphna’s, had not been coming to music class. While absence was not always disaster, Marth had learned that silence around children often had weight. The recent report of missing Grays had made that weight heavier. Every rumor seemed to have teeth now.

There had been other small heartbreaks too. Samir’s love song had not survived the morning after all. Marth had not needed his gift to know it. One look at the boy’s body language had told him everything. Seventh-grade affection had met the world and limped back from it. Marth had felt ridiculously sad about that, perhaps more than was reasonable.

After a few days, half-distracted and uncharacteristically wound tight with his students, Oceanside’s principal (once he confessed to her why he was not performing at his best) [i]asked[/i] him to take some time off. So he did.

When Marth got the chance, he volunteered at St. Dymphna’s Wayward Home, though he had always disliked the word [i]wayward[/i]. It made the children sound like roads that had been chosen incorrectly, when most of them had only been pushed, chased, lost, hidden, or left to find their way through a world that kept moving the signs. He helped where he could. Music sometimes. Groceries sometimes. Homework, little repairs, errands, piano accompaniment for the few who could be talked into singing. Over time, he had formed relationships with some of the young people there. Not dramatically as some savior with a songbook and a soft cardigan. Simply by returning. There was power in returning, he knew. Children noticed who came back.

Joanie had noticed, though Marth would not have presumed to say what that meant.

On this particular visit, he spoke first with Mrs. Qadir. They sat in her office with the door half-closed and talked about Rowan—and Joanie, who apparently had stormed off not long after he had arrived. They talked about Rowan’s missed school days and whether anyone had seen him. They couldn’t help but assume there was a connection between him and the reports of the missing Grays, which had begun to make every ordinary absence feel haunted.

Mrs. Qadir was one of the few people outside Marth’s family, Oceanside’s principal, and Bruno, who knew what he was. A Gray. A telepath. A man who could hear more than anyone had given him permission to. She did not ask him to use it. He was grateful for that. He was also aware of what it cost not to ask when his power made it so easy to pry.

By the time Marth entered the kitchen, he was carrying a cardboard box of groceries balanced against one hip. Of course, Joanie was there. Mrs. Qadir had informed him as much.

Marth saw her before she saw—no. He did not let himself reach for more than what he could see. He closed his mind gently but firmly, the way one closed a door in a house where someone might be sleeping. Whatever Joanie was thinking belonged to Joanie. He would not brush against it by accident, if he could help it. Not right now when she had enough people in the world trying to take things from her without asking. Still, he had eyes. And his eyes were enough to tell him what her mind did not need to. Her posture had edges today. Her expression held a silver undercurrent. This was not the ordinary 18-year-old bad mood that came with boredom or insulted pride. This had sparks to it.

And as Marth gazed at her for that brief moment, really gazed at her, there was understanding and quiet, tender solidarity.

Perhaps even more than that.

There was witchlight in his eyes. Soft, starry, and comforting like magic.

Marth shifted the box against the counter and began unpacking it without ceremony, setting cans in small, tidy rows. He did not look at her too directly again. Direct concern could sometimes feel like a lamp held too close to the face. He had learned that from students, his siblings, and even himself. He took out another can and set it beside the others, finally speaking to Joanie without looking at her.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“Mrs. Qadir said I’d find you in here. Everything alright?”[/b][/color]

Without waiting for an answer he turned, opened one cabinet, considered it, and gave a small, thoughtful hum.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“Actually, yes…this is worse than I feared.”[/b][/color] he said with a sort of breathlessness that made it sound like he was noting something to himself with a murmur. His mouth tilted, not quite a smile and not quite asking for one.

She had been stewing in silence when he entered, her eyes were fixated down on the table she sat at. Her eyes blinked up at Marth as he placed down the groceries, before giving him a smile as she tried to bring herself out of her mood.

She was back up onto her feet in an instant, moving to help as if on autopilot. She grabbed a bag of carrots and some greens before making her way past him to the fridge.

Marth was one of the few volunteers Joanie actually respected. Most of the people who drifted through the house came with that look in their eyes that said they were here to save each and every one of them. Some of them talked to the kids like they were made of glass. Others talked to them like they were problems waiting to happen. Marth never did either. He moved through the place like someone who understood that help did not need to be loud to be real.

She had never been in his class. By the time he started teaching at Oceanside Middle she had already aged out of the system. But the younger ones talked about him with a kind of easy fondness that was rare for a teacher. Joanie did not know if all of that was true, but she believed enough of it.

[color=plum][b]“I’m fine.”[/b][/color] She lied, placing her items neatly into the fridge’s vegetable drawers. Even she could tell by her tone unfortunately that that wasn’t the truth though.

[color=plum][b]“You know how it is,”[/b][/color] she continued without turning. [color=plum][b]“Long morning. Kids were loud. Qadir’s stressed. Nothing new.”[/b][/color]

It was like she was trying to convince herself.

Thankfully his follow up comment as he opened the cupboard was a good distraction. Her eyes flicked in the direction of Marth and the open cupboard before him as she made her way back to the bag.

[color=plum][b]“What’s wrong?”[/b][/color] She asked inquisitively.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“Ooooh, nothing serious. I may have left a small tea tin here, that’s all.”[/b][/color] Marth said, glancing toward the upper shelf and then toward Joanie with a warm, soft smile of the eyes.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“Lavender. Blue lid. Blackcurrants on the side. My mother is convinced it improves difficult mornings.”[/b][/color]

He paused for a moment, then said, almost absently, [color=DEE5F7][b]“Mrs. Qadir keeps the tea somewhere high, doesn’t she? I always forget which self.”[/b][/color]

Her eyebrows raised themselves in recognition as he described it. She dragged the stool she’d been previously perched in across the floor with her foot and stepped up onto it, reaching up towards one of the taller cabinets that she’d long since claimed as her territory for storing treats and snacks that needed to be kept safe from prying hands. Her fingers skimmed along the back of the shelf until they closed around a similar tin.

[color=plum][b]“Oh, this one?”[/b][/color] She asked, easing it out carefully before presenting it to Marth. [color=plum][b]“Yeah sorry we had to move things about a few weeks back.”[/b][/color]

She thought back to it; one of the newer residents, who whilst nice, was just absolutely ravenous. He’d eat anything he’d get his hands on. And as they soon discovered after finding the remains of one of the locks they’d tried on the cupboard doors, it wasn’t just food he would eat. Poor kid.

She stepped off the stool and offered it to him.

[color=plum][b]“Had no idea it was yours.”[/b][/color] She said apologetically. [color=plum][b]“Might have to give it a try, then.”[/b][/color]

Marth accepted the tin from her with both hands, as if it were something more fragile and breakable than tea.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“Yes, that’s the one. Thank you.”[/b][/color]

His thumb moved lightly over the painted blackcurrants on the side, and for a moment his expression warmed with a fondness that had clearly come from somewhere old and domestic. His gaze seemed a bit starry as he gazed down at it. And then he came back to himself and looked up at her.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“And don’t apologize. I leave things everywhere. My family has made a small mythology of it.”[/b][/color] he said, his tone tinted with a soft humor.

A pause.

Then, gently, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, [color=DEE5F7][b]“Actually, I could make us some now. Let’s do that. I get the feeling we could [i]both[/i] use a little decompressing, though it’s not quite as miraculous as my mother claims.”[/b][/color] he said, chuckling lightly. Marth set the tin on the counter and reached for the kettle, moving with the same unhurried care he had given the groceries. No pressure or bright, direct concern. Only water, tea, lavender honey, and the quiet permission for the room to become something softer.

After a few minutes of preparation, he handed Joanie a mug and then cupped his own as he sat at the dining table, beckoning her to join him. The room filled with the scent of dark berries and lavender. He let the steam rise into his pores, blowing gently into the mug to cool it off before shifting his gaze up to her. On the table in front of him was a small handful of creamy sugar violets wrapped in gilded foil. He’d brought them from Old Prue Gables, nicked from one of the empty guest rooms on his way out.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“How strange things have become. Haven’t they?”[/b][/color]

She brought the mug to her nose, apprehensively, as she took in the scent herself, before bring it down to her lips for a sip. She almost winced from the temperature, but god, was it good.

She nodded to herself slightly in satisfaction, gave the steaming liquid a quick blow, before bringing it back to her lips.

[color=plum][b]“Your mother is a smart woman”[/b][/color] She breathed after another sip, before turning to listen to what Marth was saying.

Strange was definitely one word for it. Although there were certainly other words Joanie would probably have used to describe how life had changed for her recently.

She simply nodded.

[color=plum][b]“Guessing you heard about Row?”[/b][/color]

Marth nodded softly, [color=DEE5F7][b]“Mhm. He hasn’t been in class for a few days, so I had hoped you might have an inkling of his whereabouts. Mrs. Qadir, nor I, have the faintest clue.”[/b][/color]

She certainly had some ideas, but none she wanted to share just yet. She was still secretly hoping it wasn’t true.

[color=plum][b]“We’ve checked some of the homeless camps.”[/b][/color] She explained, gesturing her head in the general direction of the overpass. [color=plum][b]“No luck sadly.”[/b][/color]

She leant back against the counter, cradling her drink. It was frustrating. Finding a lone kid in a city like this was impossible. Maybe they would’ve had more luck if that damned detective would’ve picked up the phone, but it seems they were by themselves here.

Marth’s gaze had lowered to his mug while she spoke, following the slow turn of lavender steam as it curled upward and disappeared. The kitchen was quiet around them in that worn, morning way, with the radiator ticking beneath the window and the soft clink of his spoon settling against the ceramic.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“No luck,”[/b][/color] he repeated gently, mostly to himself.

He believed her frustration before he had time to think about it. It lived in the room with them, sharp at the edges, threaded through the warm scent of berries and flower. And then, because he was tired, because Bruno had frayed him more than he wanted to admit, because the city had been too loud lately and his careful inner doors had not latched quite right…

[i][color=plum]Maybe they would’ve had more luck if that damned detective would’ve picked up the phone.[/color][/i]

Marth looked up, faintly puzzled. [color=DEE5F7][b]“The detective?”[/b][/color] he asked.

It came out naturally, too naturally, as if she had said it aloud. Only she hadn’t. And only after the words had left him did he realize the silence had shifted. His hand stilled around the mug. The tea steamed between them, sweet and dark and suddenly fragile. A small, delicate horror moved through his face. Not dramatic. Only enough to dim the starry softness that often resided in his eyes.

Joanie blinked, the words landing wrong in her ears. Her fingers tightened around the mug, just enough to show the hitch in her chest before she smoothed it over.

[color=plum][b]“The… detective?”[/b][/color] she echoed, brow pulling in. A small, puzzled frown. [color=plum][b]“I didn’t say anything about that?”[/b][/color]

Marth blinked, softening the mistake into something quieter. For a moment, he only looked at her.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“No,”[/b][/color] he said, with a faint little sip of his tea. [color=DEE5F7][b]“You didn’t.”[/b][/color]

His gaze slipped down to the mug in his hands, to the steam uncurling itself into nothing from the dark tea. He gave a small, almost rueful hum, gentle enough to pass for self-correction.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“With Rowan missing, I suppose I got ahead of myself.”[/b][/color]

Marth let the words rest there, simple and almost unremarkable, then took another careful sip of tea as if that were the end of it. His thumb moved once along the curve of the mug. A pause. Not too long. He let that be all the explanation he offered. Just enough to make the strange little stumble seem like a teacher’s tired, worried assumption rather than anything more. He reached for one of the sugared violets, unwrapped it with quiet fingers and set it beside his mug. He grabbed another one and held it out for her to take, soft-eyed, natural, and careful.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“Has someone tried to reach one yet?”[/b][/color]

Her eyebrows raised slightly in confusion as he explained himself. Sure what he said was reasonable, but it was also odd. She gave him an inquisitive look as she took the violet, but couldn’t read from his face what he was thinking.

Marth let his gaze drift down to his tea, as though there were some answer waiting in the steam. He had learned, over the years, that if one looked too eager to be understood, people often became suspicious of the understanding.

[color=plum][b]“No clue, honestly.”[/b][/color] She admitted, unwrapping it and putting it into her mouth. [color=plum][b]“Guess that’s for child services to decide whether it’s worth their time.”[/b][/color]

The way Mrs. Qadir had spoken about it didn’t make her hopeful.

[color=plum][b]“I tried calling someone. We have a P.I. who rocks up here from time to time”[/b][/color] She let out another sigh, leaning back once more in frustration. [color=plum][b]“Not gotten back to me yet though. Typical.”[/b][/color]

[color=DEE5F7][b]“Mmm, I see…”[/b][/color] Marth breathed softly. He did not ask for the detective’s name. Not yet. His mind funneled with unsettling thoughts about an 18-year old calling an unknown private investigator about a very serious matter and it brought a pang of deep concern. Certainly Mrs. Qadir didn’t know about this, he assumed. He hid the concern well beneath his steam-misted gaze. For now, he made a mental note to himself to look into this Detective further once he found a moment of respite.

She centered herself as she held her mug close, letting the warmth soak into her hands.

[color=plum][b]“This whole week has just… worn me down,”[/b][/color] she said quietly. [color=plum][b]“It really makes you think about what it means to be a Gray. How people look at you. How quick they are to decide what you are, what you’re worth. Sometimes it feels like no matter what we do, there’s always someone out there who wants to see us hurt, or scared, or pushed into corners just so they can feel better about themselves.”[/b][/color]

She shifted her weight against the counter, thumb brushing the rim of her mug.

[color=plum][b]“And it’s not even like my gifts are obvious. I’m not like Franklin or Mina. Half the time people don’t even realize I’m a Gray until something goes wrong. But it still sticks to you. That feeling that you’re being watched differently. Judged differently. Expected to fail in ways other people never have to think about.”[/b][/color]

Her gaze drifted toward the window, unfocused.

[color=plum][b]“And with Rowan still missing… it’s hard not to think the worst. And people don’t look as hard. They don’t worry the same way. If he were normal, there would be posters everywhere. There would be people out searching. Instead it feels like the world just shrugs and moves on.”[/b][/color]

She took a slow sip, shoulders curling in slightly.

[color=plum][b]“I think that’s what’s getting to me. That feeling that we’re always one bad moment away from being treated like we’re not even people. And I’m so tired of it. Tired of being different. Tired of pretending it doesn’t get under my skin.”[/b][/color]

Her voice softened, almost a whisper.

[color=plum][b]“And without school, I don’t even have a place to breathe anymore. I hated it, but at least it got me out of the house. Now it’s just chaos here, all day, every day, and I love everyone but… I need space. I need quiet. I need one minute where I’m not bracing for the next thing to go wrong.”[/b][/color]

She looked down into her mug, eyes heavy.

[color=plum][b]“Just one minute where being a Gray isn’t the first thing anyone sees.”[/b][/color]

Something in Marth’s chest went very still. Not surprise. It was a feeling closer to recognition, though recognition kept behind glass. He looked at Joanie with the same mild gentleness he always carried, but guilt had begun its small work inside him. He was sitting across from her with his secret folded neatly behind his teeth. A Gray listening to another Gray speak as if he were only a kind volunteer with tea and soft hands. It was not a lie, exactly. But it had the shape of one.

He had his reasons for hiding his status as a Gray from most people, including Joanie. Safety. Privacy. His family. The city with its appetite for names and categories and things to fear. Still, the reasons did not make the guilt lighter.

So for a moment, Marth said nothing. He only sat with her in the quiet she had made. Then he set his mug down gently, careful not to let the ceramic strike too hard against the table.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“Take a breath for me,”[/b][/color] he said softly.

Not like a command or a correction. More like an invitation to set one burden down before picking up the next.

She nodded, taking in a deep breath with a nod.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“One thing at a time.”[/b][/color] His voice stayed low, almost domestic and maternal, as if they were discussing the groceries again. Almost as if, the world could be made smaller by speaking gently enough.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“You’ve got a lot going on, Joanie, and it all matters. It really does. But you can’t hold every piece at once without eventually cutting your hands on it.”[/b][/color]

His mouth softened a little, not quite into a smile.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“So for now, let’s focus on something closer and more in your control.”[/b][/color]

He let the thought settle before continuing.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“I can’t necessarily guarantee you quiet, but you said you need somewhere to breathe, right?”[/b][/color]

A pause.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“Well, the Old Prue Gables could use some help.”[/b][/color]

He said it plainly, with no grand announcement attached. No bright, eager rescue or charity dressed up in ribbons. Only an opening placed simply on the table between them. And truthfully, his family’s bed and breakfast could use a lot of help. It had been understaffed for several months now after his eldest twin sisters, Penelope and Piper, had moved overseas for a long-stay humanitarian aid assignment. And with Bone, the youngest Oldfox sibling and his only brother, having just started university and a new job as a Barista, the only one who could consistently help around the place was his perpetually unemployed older sister and middle child, Sybil. And at 28, she was still as much of a handful for their parents as she was for them when she was 8.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“It’s mostly guest work, which I suppose is many of the things you already help out with around here.”[/b][/color]

He lazily gestured to the space around them with a loose flick of the wrist.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“You know, breakfast things, laundry, changing rooms, setting tables, helping guests. Hell, helping my grandmother pretend she isn’t at war with our online reservation system.”[/b][/color] His expression warmed faintly at that, fond despite himself. [color=DEE5F7][b]“It can be busy, but sometimes quiet too. It’s not chaos in the same way…”[/b][/color] he paused, thoughtfully, [color=DEE5F7][b]“...you might be accustomed to. But the house has rules. Old ones, mostly. And a great many stairs.”[/b][/color]

[color=DEE5F7][b]“And there’s the Faraway Tree too…”[/b][/color] his voice trailed off when he said that. He wasn’t sure why he brought that up. Perhaps an etched memory, no matter how unrelated, had subconsciously crawled itself to the surface as he thought about home. He continued.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“I can speak to my family. Properly, I mean. See if we can make something steady of it.”[/b][/color] Then more softly, he added, [color=DEE5F7][b]“You would be paid. And you would be allowed to close a door when you needed to.”[/b][/color] Meaning, she could have her own room there when she needed to [i]escape[/i] from it all.

That, he suspected, mattered more than the rest. Marth reached for his mug again but did not drink.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“But no need to decide this second,”[/b][/color] he said. [color=DEE5F7][b]“Just breathe first. Then we can take the next thing after that.”[/b][/color]

Joanie’s eyes widened as he spoke, her heart fluttering. Appreciation shone across her face as she placed down her mug on the counter. The Gables had an air of familiarity too it. It was like the home in a way. It sounded like just what she needed.

[color=plum][b]“Nah, I don’t need a second”[/b][/color] She beamed. [color=plum][b]“That sounds perfect!”[/b][/color]

She had a job!

Marth let out a soft chuckle as he looked at her with a warm, dazzling gaze. There it was again. The witchlight in his eyes.

[color=DEE5F7][b]“Perfect.”[/b][/color]

[/color][/quote][/cell][/row][/table]