The fog clung heavier than usual that morning, curling like smoke around the Y's brick facade. Luxe didn't like it. Fog blurred the edges of things—made shadows stretch longer, footsteps sound closer. But Aurora, notebook clutched to her chest, walked with a lightness that made Luxe's stomach twist between pride and dread.
"They asked me to bring something new tonight," Aurora said, her voice bright as the fog dulled the streetlamps overhead. "Margaret says I should try a longer piece. Ruth says it should have a refrain, like a song."
"You don't have to prove anything," Luxe said, tugging her cardigan tighter.
Aurora shook her head. "It's not proving. It's… building. Like laying bricks. Every word, another piece of a wall."
Luxe didn't correct her. She just quickened her pace toward Ellis Cleaners.
The bell above the door gave a half-hearted jingle as they entered. Steam already hung in the air, damp and warm against their faces. The hiss of irons, the slap of wet fabric against tables, the clipped voices of customers arguing about missing buttons—Ellis Cleaners was alive in its own quiet, punishing way.
Mrs. Devine, hair scraped back so tight it looked painful, glanced up from the counter. Her gray eyes flicked over them, taking in their punctuality like tally marks in a ledger.
"Coats on the rack. Sleeves up. Stains won't scrub themselves," she barked.
"Yes, ma'am," Luxe answered instantly.
Aurora smiled faintly, though she winced as the steam fogged her glasses. Luxe pressed her sister's hand briefly before they split—Aurora to the drying racks, Luxe to the endless basin of collars stiff with sweat and starch.
Hours blurred into routine. Luxe's arms burned, fingers raw, but she kept the rhythm steady. Aurora hummed softly at the drying line, pinning linens with small, careful movements.
It could have been just another day.
Until the bell jingled again.
Luxe didn't look up right away. But the shift in the room's air told her everything. Mrs. Devine's spine stiffened. The chatter of the two customers died like a radio turned off. Even Aurora's humming faltered into silence.
"Morning, Mrs. Devine." Daniels's voice rolled through the steam, too casual, too smooth.
Luxe's grip tightened on the collar she was scrubbing.
Mrs. Devine's tone was flint. "You've no laundry here, Officer. State your business or leave."
"Business?" Daniels chuckled. His shoes clicked against the floor as he wandered closer. "My business is keeping this neighborhood safe. And I hear you've taken on a pair of… strays."
Aurora froze at the drying line. Luxe stepped into her path, deliberately placing herself between Daniels and her sister.
"They work hard," Mrs. Devine said flatly. "That's all that matters in this shop."
Daniels leaned against the counter, cigarette already dangling between his fingers. "Work's one thing. But girls with no papers? No family? No one to vouch for them?" He flicked ash onto the freshly mopped floor. "That's another."
Luxe's blood throbbed hot in her temples.
Mrs. Devine's jaw tightened. "They earn their keep. That's all my concern."
Daniels's smirk widened. "I'm just saying, ma'am. Strays have a way of attracting wolves. And I'd hate to see this fine establishment get caught in the mess."
His eyes slid deliberately to Luxe, then Aurora. "You understand."
Aurora's fingers twisted in the damp linen she held. Luxe wanted to lunge across the counter, to wipe that smirk from his face, but she forced her body still.
Mrs. Devine slammed her ledger shut. "You've made your point, Officer. Now leave. I've work to do."
For a moment, Luxe thought he'd press further. Instead, he tipped his hat, all false courtesy.
"As you wish. But I'll be keeping an eye out. For all our safety."
The bell jingled as he left, the sound brittle in the thick steam.
Aurora set the linens down with shaking hands. "Luce…"
"Keep working," Luxe snapped, more harshly than she intended.
Her sister flinched, but obeyed. Luxe swallowed the guilt and plunged her arms back into the basin. The collar she scrubbed tore under her grip, fabric splitting.
The steam in the shop lingered long after Daniels left. It clung to Luxe's skin, slick and heavy, but it couldn't cover the taste of his cigarette smoke still hanging in the air.
Aurora bent over the drying line, pinning linens with trembling fingers. The clothespins clicked sharp against the wire, each one betraying her nerves.
"Steady," Luxe murmured, her own hands plunged back into the basin. She kept her movements slow, deliberate, though her muscles burned from holding back the urge to break something.
Aurora nodded quickly, blinking fast, and returned to her work.
The silence stretched until Mrs. Devine's voice cut it like shears through cloth. "You girls don't answer him," she said flatly. "You hear me?"
Luxe looked up, startled. Mrs. Devine's eyes were on the ledger, but her tone carried weight.
"Yes, ma'am," Luxe said.
Aurora swallowed. "We hear you."
"Good." Mrs. Devine snapped the ledger shut again. "Wolves only bite harder if you show them teeth. Keep your heads down."
It wasn't comfort, not exactly. But it was the closest thing to protection Luxe had heard in weeks.
Aurora's Fire
By the time they reached the Y, Aurora's fear had shifted into something else. Luxe saw it in the way her sister clutched the notebook tighter than usual, pencil stabbing furious lines across the page during supper.
"You don't have to write about him," Luxe whispered, watching her.
Aurora shook her head, hair falling into her face. "I do. If I don't, he wins."
Luxe wanted to argue, to tell her silence was safer, but Aurora's jaw was set in a way that reminded Luxe of herself. She let her be.
When Aurora read that night, her voice shook only on the first line.
The wolves knock loud, but the door holds still.
The fire burns steady, even through fog.
We are not strays. We are our own.
The circle erupted into soft applause. Margaret clapped until her palms went red. Ruth's glasses slid down her nose, but her smile was wide.
Aurora's cheeks flushed with pride, her eyes glittering in the dim light. Luxe's chest tightened—equal parts joy and terror.
The Watchers
After curfew, silence fell heavy across the Y. Aurora slipped easily into sleep, notebook tucked beneath her pillow like scripture. Luxe sat awake at the desk, her body wired with tension.
When the noise came—a car door shutting softly, too soft for anything but intention—her body moved before her mind caught up. She crossed to the curtain and pulled it back just enough.
Daniels leaned against the hood of his patrol car, cigarette ember glowing faint. His face was half-shadowed, but his smirk still burned clear across the fog.
Beside him stood another man. Broader, older, his shoulders filling the lamplight. He didn't smoke. He didn't lean. He just watched.
Luxe couldn't see his eyes, but she felt them. The weight of that stare pressed through the glass, through the curtain, through her chest.
Daniels said something to him, chuckled low. The man didn't laugh. He simply nodded once, slow and deliberate, before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car idled. Then the lights flared to life, slicing through the fog, before the engine rumbled into the distance.
Luxe's Vow
When the glow faded, Luxe let the curtain fall. Her hand trembled against the fabric, though she clenched her jaw until the muscles ached.
She turned, looking at Aurora asleep—her face soft, lips curved faintly as if she were smiling in her dreams.
Luxe sat on the edge of her bed, lowering her voice to a whisper only the dark could hear.
"You can knock, you can watch, you can circle all you want. But you don't touch her. Not while I breathe."
The words tasted like iron. A vow. A curse. A promise all at once.
Aurora shifted in her sleep, murmuring something faint—fire… door… names. Luxe brushed her hair back from her forehead and stayed awake until the first light of dawn touched the curtains.