Page 56 of Roaring Spell

“‘Weather storms alone.’ Weather. Storms.” Her lips twitch, the tension breaking into warmth. “You made a weather joke.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“You absolutely did. That’s at least four now.”

“There is no count because there are no jokes.”

“The count is real.” She’s grinning, bright and unexpected. “And growing. I’m keeping a tally. For future reference. For blackmail purposes.”

“You can’t blackmail me with pun counts.”

“Watch me.”

We’re both smiling. The intensity breaking into warmth, into the kind of ease that feels more meaningful than gravity.

This is what I want. The serious and the silly. The intensity and the laughter.

This is home.

The evening deepens into comfortable silence.

We’ve exhausted most topics—families and histories and favorite foods and worst fears. She’s learned about my disastrous attempt to cook for the sleuth potluck (the stew was fine until I accidentally shifted mid-stir and dropped a paw in). I’ve learned about her brief and catastrophic attempt at ice skating (she froze the entire rink and three spectators had to be thawed out by emergency responders).

Now we’re just... sitting. Together. Her head on my shoulder, my arm around her, the fire crackling low.

“The mist is doing that thing again.” She points at the window, where the mist has taken on a distinctly golden glow. “The romantic thing.”

“It approves.”

“Of what?”

“Of us. Of this.” I tighten my arm around her slightly. “The mist has opinions.”

She considers. “It should bug me.”

“But?”

“But this feels different.” She tilts her head up to look at me.

“The mist and the town are invested in your happiness.”

“Our happiness.” She corrects quietly. “They’re invested in both of us. The whole town wants the bear to stop pining and the weather witch to stop spiraling.”

Something cracks open in my chest. The good kind of breaking.

She falls asleep against my shoulder.

Her head rests against me, breathing slow, warmth a constant presence at my side.

I don’t move.

Can’t move. Won’t move. Would stay frozen in this position forever if it meant she’d stay.

The fire has burned to embers. The cabin is dark except for dying coals. Outside, the night is quiet—no wind, no rain, just the soft sounds of a forest at peace.

Her magic is completely calm. Not a single spark. Just steady energy, resting easy.

Eventually, I have to move. Have to get her somewhere comfortable.