Page 39 of Roaring Spell

He walks away.

I stand outside my studio, watching his broad back disappear around the corner. The evening air settles around me, cool and still, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke.

I want you to stop assuming you’re too much trouble to be worth pursuing.

I unlock my door. Step inside. The studio smells like sawdust and lavender—his work and my craft, mingled in the air.

The crystals are still mixed—clear quartz and rose quartz, chaos and order intertwined on his sturdy new shelves. I reach toward the display, intending to finally sort them properly.

Then I stop.

I leave the crystals exactly as they are.

EIGHT

TORIN

My cabin is quiet.

Too quiet. The kind of quiet that leaves room for thinking, and right now, thinking is dangerous.

I’m supposed to be reviewing siphon reports. The documents are spread across my desk. I haven’t looked at a single one.

I’m staring at a blank page in my journal and thinking about the way she touched my arm.

Brief. Unconscious. Her fingers grazing my wrist when she reached for the coffee I brought her this morning. A nothing gesture. A meaningless moment that lasted maybe half a second.

I’ve replayed it forty-seven times.

The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

It’s a good cabin. A solid life.

It feels emptier than it used to.

I pick up my pen. Set it down. Pick it up again.

Three crumpled pages litter the floor already. Failed attempts. Half-formed thoughts that sounded profound in my head and looked ridiculous on paper.

I crumple this one harder.

Just write, my bear grumbles. Now.

Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have to find words for what we’re feeling. His vocabulary is simple. Mine, unfortunately, has to be more than that.

The pen touches paper. Words flow before I can stop them.

I stare at the lines. Crumple the page. Smooth it out again.

It’s overwrought. Earnest to the point of embarrassment. The kind of writing that would make Elio laugh until he couldn’t breathe and Rhodes question my mental stability.

I grab my jacket and head for The Den. Time for another meeting.

Bruno leans both forearms on the bar and looks me up and down. “You look like the poetry isn’t going well.”

“I’m not doing that right now.”

“They’re in the back.” Bruno straightens, long-suffering. “That lion documents his own bathroom breaks. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a filing system for his feelings.”