Page 50 of Roaring Spell

And Torin.

And the slow sound of his breathing.

The hours pass in a haze.

I watch him sleep. Watch the rise and fall of his chest. Watch the tension smooth from his face as exhaustion wins over pain.

He’s beautiful. I haven’t let myself think that before—haven’t acknowledged the warmth that spreads through me when he’s near, the way my magic settles in his presence.

But here, in the quiet dark, I can admit it. He’s kind. And unwavering in a way that makes me feel like I might not shatter after all.

The apothecary is quiet around us—the soft hum of preservation spells, the distant creak of the building easing toward stillness. Through the window, I see Mistvale spread below, lights twinkling in the mist like scattered stars.

But I don’t want to leave Mistvale.

I don’t want to leave him.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” I speak to his sleeping form. “You should have let me handle it. Let me take the hit. Let me be the one who⁠—”

His eyes open.

“You’re awake.”

“You’re arguing with an unconscious person.” His voice is rough. Weak. But warm with humor. “That seems counterproductive.”

“I was making a point.”

“What point?”

“That you’re an idiot.” I lean forward.

“I’m aware of my flaws.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I prefer ‘determined.’” His lips curve weakly. “How long have you been here?”

“A few hours.”

“You should rest.”

“So should you. You’re the one who absorbed a magical explosion.”

“Fair point.” His hand drops, the effort exhausting. “Will you stay?”

The question is raw. Vulnerable. Not the bear who always has a plan—just a man, hurt and tired, asking for what he wants.

“Yes.” I take his hand. “I’ll stay.”

His fingers curl around mine. Warm despite everything. Certain.

“Good.” His eyes drift closed. “I sleep better when you’re close.”

“You’ve never slept when I was close.”

“Mmm. Haven’t had the chance. This counts.”

He’s asleep before I can respond.