Page 25 of Roaring Spell

“That’s...” She swallows. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything with it.” I step back toward the door. “I’ll bring coffee in the morning.”

“Torin.”

I stop.

“You’re not what I expected.” A small smile. Fragile but real. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

“What did you expect?”

“Something worse.”

“I’ll work on it.”

I leave before I can say more. Before I confess the rest—the poetry, the certainty, the fact that I would stand in every storm she makes and call it sunshine.

FIVE

SAKURA

The shelving unit is beyond salvation.

Demolished doesn’t quite capture it. “Reduced to kindling by an elemental tantrum” is more accurate, but I’m not prepared for that level of self-criticism before my second cup of coffee.

I don’t know what I would’ve done without all the town’s help in cleaning up. I’m surveying the piles of wreckage that were swept into the corner when the bell chimes.

Torin fills the doorway. Toolbox in one hand. Paper bag in the other. The jacket had been washed since Ember, though if you knew where to look you could still see the mark.

“I said I didn’t need help.”

“You did.” He steps inside like he owns the place. “I brought scones.”

“And a toolbox.”

“For emergencies.”

“This isn’t an emergency. It’s a mess I made.”

“Same thing.” He sets the bag on my desk—next to the coffee that was already there when I arrived, still warm, still perfect. “Eat. Then argue.”

I want to protest. Want to tell him I can handle my own disasters without a six-and-a-half-foot bear showing up with power tools and breakfast pastries.

Instead, I eat a scone.

It’s excellent. Lavender and honey. Probably from Sunny, who seems to have an entire intelligence network dedicated to knowing exactly when people need baked goods.

He crouches beside the destroyed shelving, examining the damage with focused attention. He measures, making notes on a small pad he produced from nowhere. His movements are efficient, precise—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Like he’s done this a thousand times.

“You’re very good at this.” The observation slips out before I can stop it.

“At measuring?”

“At... showing up. With tools. And food. And—” I gesture vaguely at the organized chaos of his repair preparation. “This. You fix things when you’re stressed?”

“When I’m thinking. When I need to process.” He glances at me. “What do you do?”

“Create thunderstorms, apparently.”