Page 17 of Roaring Spell

Anouk: “I’ve heard the same.”

Me: “Torin?”

Leire: “Don’t tell him I told you. He’s very private about it. But I thought you should know. In case you were wondering what’s underneath all that stoic silence.”

I look up from my phone. I see his scorched jacket he left behind and will probably pick up tomorrow with another perfectly prepared coffee.

The man who asked everyone in town what I drink. Who told me he volunteered so no one else could manage me. Who sits in my studio for hours without demanding anything except my presence.

A crack forms in the wall I’ve been building since I got here. Since before I got here. Since I learned that being too much meant being alone.

The door opens behind me.

I spin, heart lurching, and there he is.

“Forgot my jacket.” His eyes find the scorched flannel draped over his chair. “Ember’s flames are more persistent than they look.”

“Right. Yes. Your jacket.”

He crosses to retrieve it, and I watch him move—graceful despite his size, controlled, every motion deliberate. He picks up the jacket. Examines the scorch marks. Looks at me.

“You all right?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head. “Long day. Lost in thought.”

He studies me for a moment longer. Those observant eyes seeing more than I want them to.

“Get some rest.” He pulls on the scorched jacket, and I do not notice the way his shoulders strain the seams. “I’ll bring coffee tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“Then let me.”

He leaves. Again. And again, the studio feels emptier.

I stand in the middle of my shop, surrounded by crystals and candles and romance novels I’m not going to read, and try to process what I’m feeling.

He smothered a phoenix with his jacket and barely reacted.

He brings me coffee every morning and he asked everyone in town what I drink.

Next morning, Torin arrives with coffee and a paper bag from Moonpetal Bakery.

“Sunny insisted.” He sets the bag on my desk. “Apparently there’s a new stress-reducing scone recipe and she needs feedback.”

I peer inside. Lavender-chamomile scones, still warm, the scent alone making my shoulders drop.

He’s not looking at me. He’s examining the door hinge—the one that’s been squeaking for days. He pulls a small tool kit from his jacket pocket and starts adjusting the mechanism.

“What are you doing?”

“Your hinge squeaks.”

“I know it squeaks. Why are you fixing it?”