Page 55 of Roaring Spell

I should lie. Should claim it’s old and meaningless.

“Yes.”

“About me?”

“Some of them.”

She reads aloud: “‘The storm wants to be held. I have hands big enough. She doesn’t know yet. But she will.’“ Her voice catches. “When did you write this?”

“The night after your first episode. The one at the studio.”

“The one where you held me through the lightning.”

“Yes.”

Silence. The fire pops. My heart hammers.

“There’s another one.” She flips forward. “‘She entered like summer weather—unpredictable, warm, impossible to prepare for. I have stopped trying to prepare. I just stand in the sun she makes and let it change me.’”

“That one’s from last week.”

“After the almost-kiss.”

“Yes.”

She closes the journal. Holds it against her chest like a precious thing.

“You’ve been writing about me for weeks.”

“Since the beginning.”

“And you never told me.”

“The poems are... not my best work.” An understatement. They’re overwrought and earnest and full of metaphors that don’t quite land. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.”

“I want to know everything.” Her hand finds mine. “The feelings. All of it.”

My bear surges with hope.

“Sakura—”

“My magic is calmer when you’re near.” The words tumble out like she’s been holding them back for too long. “I don’t understand it. I’ve never felt this—this steadiness when you’re close. Like my storms finally recognize somewhere safe. Like they finally know when to be still.”

“I know what that means.”

“Tell me.”

“It means you’re not meant to weather storms alone.” I watch her face. “It means your power recognizes safety. Recognizes home.”

“You’re my home?”

“I could be. If you’d let me.”

The air between us thickens. Warm. Heavy. Charged with possibility and the weight of weeks of careful circling.

She leans closer. “That was almost a pun.”

“What?”