Page 94 of Roaring Spell

I shut her up with a kiss.

It’s meant to be brief—a punctuation mark, an affectionate end to the teasing. But her mouth opens under mine, and her hands slide up my chest, and suddenly we’re tangled in the sheets again, morning light spilling over us as⁠—

A knock at the door.

Sakura freezes. “Who—”

“Peach cobbler, dears.” Grandmother Peach’s voice drifts through the wood, cheerful and completely unrepentant. “I know you’re awake. The mist told me. Very specific about timing.”

“The mist needs to mind its own damn business,” Sakura mutters, but she’s already pulling back, reaching for my discarded shirt.

I’m less graceful about it—hauling on pants while trying not to trip over the bed frame, aware that keeping Grandmother Peach waiting is both futile and unwise. She’ll just appear inside if we take too long. I’m not entirely convinced doors actually stop her.

When I open the door, she’s standing on my porch with a covered dish in her hands and a smile that manages to be both warm and knowing.

“Good morning.” Her eyes sweep over us—Sakura in my shirt, me shirtless and rumpled, both of us wearing matching claiming marks. “I see the magic sorted itself out. Took longer than expected. Very stubborn, both of you.”

“Did you know?” Sakura comes up beside me, her hand finding my arm in a casual touch that sends warmth through my chest. “About the mate potential? About what would happen?”

“Knew? Perhaps.” Grandmother Peach sweeps past us into the cabin, depositing her cobbler on the kitchen counter.

She reaches into the folds of her shawl and sets a bundle of yellowed papers on my table—old parchment, faded ink, some of it in languages I don’t recognize.

“These are from Valesh’s personal collection.” Her hand rests briefly on the stack. “Hidden in a compartment behind a compartment. Very paranoid woman. Very thorough about documenting the things she was trying to hide.” She steps back. “Don’t ask how I came by them, dear. Some questions are less interesting than their answers. They’ll keep until you’ve had time to celebrate. The world’s problems can wait a few more hours.”

She moves toward the door. Then she pauses, turning back, and fixes Sakura with the particular attention she’s reserved for her since the beginning.

“One more thing.” Her voice is quieter, something deliberate in it. “You don’t have a familiar yet. I know you’ve noticed.” A small, certain smile. “Your familiar will find you now that you’ve settled. These things take time.”

Sakura blinks. “How do you⁠—”

“How do you always know things?” I ask. “The timing, the information, the way you appear exactly when you’re needed⁠—”

“I’m old, dear.” Her smile is enigmatic. “Old people know things.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.” She pats my hand with surprising gentleness. “Have some cobbler. It’s my best batch yet. Celebratory peaches, picked at the perfect moment of ripeness.”

We eat cobbler for breakfast.

It’s not the most balanced meal—peaches and cream and flaky crust, consumed standing at my counter because sitting at the table feels too formal and we can’t seem to stop touching each other. Every few bites, one of us reaches for the other. A hand on a hip. Fingers brushing hair back. Soft kisses that taste like sugar and contentment.

“This is ridiculous.” Sakura licks cream off her thumb in a way that’s probably not intentionally provocative but is doing things to me all the same. “We’re acting like teenagers.”

“You’re complaining?”

“Absolutely not.” She grins. “Just observing.”

“The cobbler is excellent.”

“The cobbler is magical. Literally. I can feel the enchantment.” She takes another bite. “Comfort. Warmth. The certainty that everything is going to be okay.”

“Maybe that’s not the cobbler.”

Her expression softens. “Maybe not.”

We finish the dish. Wash our plates. Get dressed in actual clothing—a process that takes longer than it should because every button fastened seems to require a kiss, and every kiss seems to require another.