Page 30 of Roaring Spell

“Progress!” Zeph slaps the table. “She admits he’s not terrible. Next step: admitting he’s actually quite wonderful. Final step: letting him pin her against a wall and⁠—”

“Zeph.”

“I’m just being efficient with the progression!”

Leire is laughing so hard she can’t breathe. Even Anouk’s lips twitch with suppressed amusement. And I’m sitting here, face burning, while my new friends cheerfully dissect my nonexistent love life.

“That’s not sturdiness.” Zeph’s eyes gleam as she recalls yesterday’s events. “He held you through an elemental surge. That’s commitment. Also foreplay.”

I choke on my beer.

Actual choking—liquid down the wrong pipe, coughing, face turning red. My magic responds to the embarrassment by forming a small thundercloud directly over my head.

Rain begins to fall. Just on me.

Zeph laughs so hard she nearly falls out of the booth. Leire hides her face in her wine glass. Even Anouk’s composure cracks into actual laughter.

“At least it’s not hail.” Zeph produces a bucket from under the table, positioning it to catch my personal rainstorm. “Once, we had a witch—bad breakup—hailed for three hours. Had to replace half the glassware.”

The rain stops. Slowly, embarrassingly.

“Sorry.” I wipe water from my face. “I’m a disaster.”

“You’re not a disaster.” Leire squeezes my hand. “You’re expressive. There’s a difference.”

“A wet, dramatic difference.” Zeph is still grinning. “I like you. Anyone who makes their own weather is good people.”

The night stretches on.

More wine. More of Zeph’s questionable beer. More stories—Leire’s chaotic courtship with Aslan (“He was so intense, I thought he was constipated for the first week. Turns out that’s just his face when he’s trying not to declare eternal devotion in public.”), Anouk’s dry observations about coven politics (“The petition to outlaw weather-based property damage was tabled. You’re welcome. I argued that atmospheric expression is protected under magical free speech.”), Zeph’s increasingly unhinged brewing experiments (“The batch that made everyone temporarily telepathic was a mistake. Probably. The psychic wolves still won’t talk to me, but honestly, they’re very judgmental even when they can’t read minds.”)

At some point, the conversation turns serious—the Warding Line, the investigation, the possibility that my episodes are symptoms rather than causes.

At some point, I realize I’m drunk. Warm and loose and more honest than usual.

“I like him.” The admission falls into a lull. “Torin. More than I should.”

No one laughs. No one teases.

“That’s not a crime.” Leire’s voice is gentle. “Liking someone isn’t a flaw.”

“It is when you’re a disaster. He deserves better than someone who might electrocute him.”

“Pretty sure he’s survived that already.” Zeph grins. “And came back for more. That’s a good sign.”

“If he’s pursuing you—and he absolutely is—it’s because he’s decided you’re worth pursuing. He wouldn’t make that decision lightly.” Anouk’s voice is thoughtful.

“He’s not⁠—”

“Sakura.” Leire sets down her glass. “It’s normal to be scared of these feelings.”

My stomach knots. “I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never been the kind of person people pursue.”

“Then let him pursue.” Anouk’s voice is surprisingly gentle. “You don’t have to do anything except be open to the possibility.”

“Very romantic advice from someone who runs a coven with military precision.” Zeph nudges Anouk. “You’ve been reading those romance novels.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”