Page 29 of Roaring Spell

“Actually, it kind of is.” Anouk’s voice is dry as autumn leaves. “Bears court through practical assistance. Building, repairing, providing. It’s their love language. If he’s fixing your furniture, he’s announcing intentions.”

“He’s not announcing anything. He’s assigned to monitor me.”

Silence. The women exchange that look again.

Anouk steeples her fingers like she’s delivering a legal briefing. “You’re special.”

“What? How?”

“He volunteered to monitor you within minutes of hearing about your situation.” Leire counts on her fingers with theatrical precision. “He brings coffee every morning. He held you through a storm that could have killed him. He built you furniture.”

Zeph refills everyone’s glasses. “I’ve seen the way he watches you. Like a bear with a honeycomb. Focused. Patient. Waiting for the right moment to strike.”

“That’s... not a comforting metaphor.”

“Bears aren’t comfortable. They’re persistent.” Zeph grins. “Also large. And furry. And really good at cuddling, apparently. Leire, does Aslan cuddle?”

“He’s a tiger, not a bear.”

“Tigers are cats. Cats are excellent cuddlers. It’s basically the same thing.”

“It’s absolutely not the same thing.” But Leire is laughing, her claiming mark catching the firelight. “Tigers are... intense. About everything. Cuddling included.”

“See? Same energy.” Zeph turns back to me. “The bear is pursuing you. Accept it. Embrace it. Let him fix your furniture and bring you coffee and eventually pin you against a wall and⁠—”

“Zeph.”

“What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.”

“No one is thinking that.”

“Everyone is thinking that.” Zeph gestures at the brewery around us. “Why do you think the mist keeps turning gold near your studio? We haven’t had a good claiming in months. Leire and Aslan were excellent, but we need more.”

I bury my face in my hands. “I’m going to die of embarrassment.”

“You’re not going to die.” Leire pats my shoulder sympathetically. “You’re just going to accept that an enormous, poetry-writing, furniture-building bear shifter is courting you with the patience of a saint and the determination of a predator.”

“Does he really write poetry?” I ask.

Leire’s expression softens. “He hides notebooks all over his cabin. It’s an open secret among the shifters.”

“How is it an open secret?”

“Elio found one once. Read it aloud at The Den. Torin didn’t speak to him for a month.” Leire sips her wine. “The poems were about mountains and patience and waiting for someone who’d see past the steady exterior.”

“Aslan says he’s been writing more lately.” Zeph waggles her eyebrows. “About storms and lightning and a certain silver-streaked witch.”

“He barely knows me.”

“He knows enough.” Anouk’s voice cuts through the teasing with unexpected gravity. “He knows you’re powerful. He knows you’re struggling. He knows that when most people would have run from your chaos, he walked toward it. That tells you everything you need to know about his intentions.”

“He’s not chasing me.” My voice sounds weak. “There’s a difference between monitoring and chasing.”

“Is there?” Zeph raises her glass. “Because from where I’m sitting, the only difference is how loudly you’re willing to admit what’s happening.”

I don’t have an answer.

“He’s not terrible.” The admission slips out before I can stop it. “Torin. He’s... not terrible.”