Page 12 of Roaring Spell

No clients.

The mist outside my windows shifts from gold to silver to pale gray, reflecting my mood with embarrassing accuracy. I’ve learned that Mistvale’s mist responds to strong emotions—mine more than most, apparently. Right now, it’s the color of disappointment.

I’m contemplating reorganizing the salt room for a fifth time when the bell chimes again.

Please be a client. Please be someone who wants their chakras balanced and doesn’t care about minor weather incidents.

The door opens.

A massive shape fills the doorframe.

Bear.

Threat.

It’s him. Torin.

He’s wearing flannel and boots and an expression that might be neutral if his gaze wasn’t so direct.

His eyes find mine. A jolt runs through me—recognition, awareness, heat that has no business being there.

No. Absolutely not. I am not doing this.

“Hey, Torin.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. Two months of him hovering at the edges of my life and I still wasn’t ready for him standing in my doorway.

He steps inside, and suddenly my studio feels much smaller. The crystals in my windows seem to lean toward him. The plants perk up. Even the air shifts, warming slightly, and I don’t think it’s my doing.

He holds out a cup without a word—smaller than the one in his other hand, still warm. I take it before I can stop myself.

He inclines his head—that same gesture from across the square, contained and oddly formal. “Thought I’d stop pretending I’m not here for you specifically. Officially, I’m still your monitor.”

Monitor.

You. They sent someone to monitor you. Because you’re a disturbance.

The familiar shame floods through me, and with it, the wind picks up outside. My chimes begin their frantic jingle.

“Monitor.” I cross my arms over my chest. “You mean babysit.”

“No.”

“Spy on?”

“No.”

“Then what, exactly, does ‘monitor’ mean?”

He considers the question with more seriousness than it deserves. Takes his time answering, like he’s actually thinking about it rather than just deflecting.

“Observe. Report back if there’s a genuine threat.” The rumble in his voice settles somewhere in my chest. “There isn’t.”

“You’ve known me for thirty seconds.”

“I’ve been observing for a while.”

The admission hits differently than it should. He’s been watching me. The man who made my magic spark just by meeting my gaze has been watching me reorganize crystals and argue with my rose quartz and create minor indoor precipitation events.

Color rises in my cheeks. Embarrassment or anger or attraction I refuse to name.