Colson

Interrupted

Colson POV

The world had narrowed to warmth and breath and the kind of quiet you only got when you stopped pretending the universe had a claim on you.

Then it broke.

A door opening.

Every instinct I had snapped back into place in a heartbeat. Muscles locked. Senses flared. The wards shifted—not in alarm, not in defense, but in recognition. That alone told me this wasn’t an intrusion.

Amaris felt it too. I felt the change ripple through her before she even moved—the way her body went from relaxed to alert in the space of a breath. One moment borrowed peace, the next reality slamming back into place.

We turned together.

A young human woman stood just inside the threshold, one hand still gripping the doorframe like she’d realized a fraction too late that she’d walked into something she very much hadn’t ordered. Her eyes went wide. Her cheeks went scarlet. She pivoted awkwardly, half a step backward, as if she could reverse time by sheer embarrassment.

“Oh—! I—I’m so sorry—”

Amaris sighed.

Not annoyed. Not angry.

Resigned.

She murmured a few words under her breath, fingers tracing a clean, elegant sigil through the air. Magic brushed over us like cool water—precise and practiced. Clothes settled back into place. Rumpled hair smoothed. Skin cooled. Dignity restored in the way only a witch who had absolutely done this before could manage.

I had the brief, unhelpful thought that I should probably apologize for enjoying that far too much.

“Apologies,” Amaris said gently to the woman. “This is my fault. I told you to let yourself in.”

The girl nodded rapidly, mortified. “You said—the wards—you said they’d recognize me.”

“They do,” Amaris assured her. “And they did.”

I cleared my throat, because silence is where panic lives. “Very inclusive wards,” I added helpfully. “Five stars. Would recommend.”

The girl glanced at me, eyes flicking away instantly like I was an entirely separate emergency she did not want to deal with.

Amaris shot me a look that promised consequences if I continued speaking.

I smiled back, sweet as sin.

“She ordered a potion from me earlier,” Amaris explained, turning back to the woman. “For sleep. I told her to come by when it was ready.”

“Right,” the girl said, nodding too fast. “I can—um—I can wait outside.”

“No need,” Amaris replied. “I’ll fetch it.”

She gave me a warning glance—behave—and disappeared into her workroom.

Left alone, the room shifted.

Not magically. Emotionally.

The girl stared very hard at the floor. I stared at her—and then my stomach dropped.

I knew her.

Not from now. From later. From a future where the city had taken its pound of flesh and taught her how to keep moving anyway. I remembered her older—harder eyes, sharper instincts, a spine reinforced by survival rather than hope.

Seeing her like this—unscarred, uncertain, still believing potions were a small enough thing to worry about—hit me harder than any blade ever had.

I said nothing.

Didn’t joke. Didn’t tease. Didn’t soften the moment.

I just nodded politely, like a stranger.

Sometimes restraint was the kindest lie.

Amaris returned quickly, handing the girl a small vial wrapped in cloth.

“Be careful with the dosage,” she said. “One drop in tea. No more.”

The girl nodded, relief flooding her face. “Thank you. And—sorry again.”

“Think nothing of it,” Amaris replied.

The door closed behind her. The wards sealed with a soft hum that felt almost like a sigh.

Silence returned—but it wasn’t the same kind.

It had edges now.

I exhaled slowly and reached for my coat, rolling my shoulders as the weight of responsibility slid back into place. The night had been a gift—but gifts always came with a return address.

“That’s my cue,” I said lightly.

Amaris tilted her head. “You don’t have to leave immediately.”

“I do,” I replied, keeping my voice easy even as my mind started mapping routes. “If I’m going to make a move for the book in the afternoon, I need to be seen first.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Ezra.”

“And Kendrick,” I added. “Especially Kendrick.”

She studied me—really studied me—reading the layers beneath the words. “You’re certain?”

“As certain as I get,” I said. “If I vanish too cleanly, people get curious. If I’m visible—working, reporting, being the same old bastard I’ve always been—no one panics.”

“And the witch?” she asked quietly.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” I said. “On Kendrick’s men. On anyone who suddenly decides my schedule is fascinating.”

She nodded once. “Be careful.”

I smiled, softer than before. “I usually am.”

I paused at the door, hand resting briefly on the frame. The wards hummed beneath my palm—protective, steady. I looked back at her, taking in the calm focus, the intelligence, the danger she wore like a second skin.

“For what it’s worth,” I added, voice lower, “this was… nice.”

She didn’t look away. “It was.”

I slipped out into the street, letting the wards close behind me. The city’s weight settled onto my shoulders like an old coat—heavy, familiar, necessary.

Back to work.

Back to lies and shadows and carefully curated appearances.

I didn’t head straight for Ezra. That would’ve been too obvious. Instead, I made myself visible in all the small ways that mattered—strolling through familiar streets, exchanging nods with the right people, being seen where I was expected to be seen.

I checked the reflections in shop windows as I passed. No tails. No curious shadows lingering too long. Kendrick’s people were good, but they weren’t invisible.

Yet.

My thoughts kept circling back to the girl.

To the way Amaris’s wards recognized her. To the future version of her I remembered. To how easily fate braided lives together without asking permission.

Don’t touch it, I warned myself. Not yet.

Every instinct I had screamed that interference—real interference—came at a cost. I could nudge objects. Redirect power. Steal a book and break a plan.

People were different.

People remembered pain even when time erased the cause.

I reached Ezra’s territory and let my posture shift, letting old habits slide back into place like well-worn armor. Confidence sharpened. Humor edged darker. The mask settled.

A couple of his men spotted me and relaxed. Good. Normal. Expected.

I gave one of them a lazy salute. “Miss me?”

He snorted. “Thought you’d skipped town.”

“Tempting,” I replied. “But I’m still getting paid.”

That earned a grin.

I moved on, letting the city’s noise wash over me—sirens, laughter, the low hum of power trading hands in dark corners. Somewhere beneath it all, the watch was quiet.

For now.

I turned down an alley, checking a dead drop out of habit. Nothing new. That, too, was good. It meant Ezra hadn’t grown suspicious yet.

Kendrick, on the other hand…

I could feel him like a pressure change. Like a storm that hadn’t decided where to break yet.

I adjusted my coat and started toward the main avenue, mind already dividing the afternoon into segments—who needed to see me, who needed to think they’d seen me, and when I could disappear long enough to take the first real step toward the book.

Of course it had to be complicated.

It always was.

But as I walked, one thought anchored me—quiet, steady, dangerous.

I wasn’t doing this alone.

Not really.

And that made all the difference.