Page 18 of Roaring Spell

“Because it squeaks.”

He doesn’t look up. Just keeps working, hands steady, movements precise. The hinge stops squeaking within minutes.

He moves to the window that doesn’t close properly. Fixes that too. Then the shelf that’s slightly crooked. Then the cabinet door that sticks.

By the time he’s done, half my studio’s minor irritations have been resolved, and I’m standing there with a scone in my hand and absolutely no idea what to say.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“Why did you?”

He finally looks at me. That gaze. That almost-smile that’s becoming familiar.

“Because I noticed.”

Because I noticed. Not because I asked. Not because it was his job. Because he noticed things that bothered me and decided to fix them.

My weather produces a small, involuntary burst of sunshine.

He glances at the window. At the golden light now streaming through.

“Better day?”

“Better day.”

He eases into his chair. Pulls out his phone. Becomes part of my studio’s furniture the way he has every day this week.

And I stand there, eating my stress-reducing scone, watching a poetry-writing bear shifter scroll through his phone in my waiting area, and think:

I’m in so much trouble.

The romance novels on my desk seem to agree.

I pick up “Bearfoot and Pregnant” and flip to the first page.

Just to see what it’s about. Research. Purely research.

Torin doesn’t comment. Doesn’t even look up.

But I could swear his mouth twitches.

Damn him.

FOUR

TORIN

Two weeks of sitting in a chair that protests my existence every time I shift my weight. Watching her glare at me, then slowly—grudgingly—accepting my presence like I’m furniture that happens to bring caffeine.

Yesterday, she laughed at one of my observations. A real laugh, surprised out of her, bright and sudden. It lasted maybe two seconds before she caught herself and scowled.

Those two seconds take up three pages in my journal.

The morning mist curls around my boots as I walk toward Moonthread Square. The air tastes of pine and coming rain, familiar as my own heartbeat. I pass the Childers twins—bear cubs, maybe seven years old—who are currently attempting to climb each other in half-shifted form. Their mother watches from the porch with the exhausted patience of someone who’s given up preventing chaos and is now simply managing the aftermath.

“Morning, Elder Torin!”