Right now, he’s trying to hold himself still, trying to contain everything going on inside him. But there’s a tension in his shoulders that whispers of energy waiting to explode.
Storm energy doesn’t want to be static, I think. And right now, he’s feeling like a storm.
I need to get him moving, talking.
“Do you want tea?”
I move past him, then slip a heat glove onto my hand and fetch the kettle from over the fire, pouring two cups without him responding. The scent of lavender and chamomile joins the scent of woodsmoke and rain filling the small room.
Severin still hasn’t moved.
I take a seat in one of the armchairs by the fire.
“Severin,” I say softly.
His dark eyes meet mine.
“It’s okay. Come sit down.”
He’s like a man made of stone, standing there like he’s ready to weather the storms of time. But finally, with a bit more coaxing from me, he crosses the room and takes a seat in the armchair across from mine.
Finally, as he takes his first sip of tea, some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
I think he’s more afraid of this than I am. And that only helps to calm me more.
Because I trust him. And I know he’s concerned for me.
I know he’s going to take care of me.
And I haven’t needed—or wanted—anybody to take care of me for years. I’ve always been independent. It’s probably the storm magic inside of me, that inherent need to be wild and free. Right now, though, I want to be cared for by him. I want to put something precious into his hands and know that he’s going to be careful.
“Talk to me,” I tell him. My legs are clad in loose cotton pants, and I pull them up beneath me, cuddling into the armchair.
He flicks a glance at the window and grumbles, “I dislike the rain.”
And immediately, it makes me laugh.
“Well, you’d better get used to it,” I say, then take another sip of tea. “When you’re around me, the storms are never far away.”
Finally, this gets him to crack a very small smile, just a flicker of movement at the edge of his mouth.
“Why do you dislike it?” I ask, trying to draw more conversation out of him, even if it’s small talk.
He softens into his armchair a bit. “Because it’s cold. And wet.”
“You don’t like cold, wet things?”
He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “No.”
“What if it’s a summer rain?” I tip my head at him. “Summer rain is warm.”
He blinks at me slowly. “I still don’t like it. Though it’s not quite so irksome.”
I laugh, then put my teacup on the table between our armchairs. “Are you always so grouchy?”
There’s that flicker of a smile again. He hides it behind his teacup as he takes a sip. “Yes.”
“We’ll work on it,” I say.
