Page 42 of Roaring Spell

I tell myself I’m checking the Warding Line. Verifying siphon locations. Doing my duty as a Protection Network member.

I’m lying.

My feet carry me to Moonthread Square without conscious decision. To the converted greenhouse on the eastern edge, where light still glows through the glass walls despite the late hour.

She’s still there. Working.

I push through the door before I can talk myself out of it. The bell chimes. Sakura startles, spinning toward the entrance with power crackling at her fingertips⁠—

Then recognition. Relief. The electricity fades.

“You scared me.”

“Sorry.” I’m not sorry at all. “You’re working late.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” She’s wearing soft clothes—a loose sweater that slips off one shoulder.

“I was practicing breathing exercises.” She gestures at the cushion on the floor, the candles arranged in a circle. “Trying to find the calm underneath the chaos.”

“Making progress?”

“Some nights. Not tonight.” She moves toward her desk, creating distance. “Why are you here?”

“Update on the investigation.” The lie comes easily. “Elio’s tracking materials. Anouk’s digging into Valesh’s history.”

“Any breakthroughs?”

“Some. Not enough.”

I take a step closer without intending to. “It takes time.”

“Everything takes time.” She sinks onto her couch, pulling her knees to her chest. “I’m not good at patience.”

“Neither am I.” The admission surprises us both. “Despite what everyone says about bear temperament.”

She tilts her head, studying me. “You seem patient.”

“Seem being the operative word.”

“What are you impatient for?”

Answers. Her. Both, if I’m honest.

I don’t say that. Instead: “Answers. Resolution. Knowing the town is safe.”

“That’s very responsible.” She sounds almost disappointed.

“I’m a very responsible man.”

“It’s a character trait. I’ve heard.” She manages a small smile and shifts, making room on the couch. An invitation. Maybe. “Sit. You’re making the room feel small.”

I shouldn’t. I sit anyway.

The couch is too small for someone my size. Our shoulders brush. She doesn’t move away.

The studio is quiet around us—the hum of charged crystals, the soft flicker of candles, the distant sounds of Mistvale settling into night. Through the glass walls, the mist moves in slow currents, pale and unhurried.

“The mist likes when we’re near each other.” She follows my gaze. “It turns gold. I’ve noticed.”