5. Sakura
FIVE
SAKURA
The shelving unit is beyond salvation.
Demolished doesn’t quite capture it. “Reduced to kindling by an elemental tantrum” is more accurate, but I’m not prepared for that level of self-criticism before my second cup of coffee.
I don’t know what I would’ve done without all the town’s help in cleaning up. I’m surveying the piles of wreckage that were swept into the corner when the bell chimes.
Torin fills the doorway. Toolbox in one hand. Paper bag in the other. The jacket had been washed since Ember, though if you knew where to look you could still see the mark.
“I said I didn’t need help.”
“You did.” He steps inside like he owns the place. “I brought scones.”
“And a toolbox.”
“For emergencies.”
“This isn’t an emergency. It’s a mess I made.”
“Same thing.” He sets the bag on my desk—next to the coffee that was already there when I arrived, still warm, still perfect. “Eat. Then argue.”
I want to protest. Want to tell him I can handle my own disasters without a six-and-a-half-foot bear showing up with power tools and breakfast pastries.
Instead, I eat a scone.
It’s excellent. Lavender and honey. Probably from Sunny, who seems to have an entire intelligence network dedicated to knowing exactly when people need baked goods.
He crouches beside the destroyed shelving, examining the damage with focused attention. He measures, making notes on a small pad he produced from nowhere. His movements are efficient, precise—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Like he’s done this a thousand times.
“You’re very good at this.” The observation slips out before I can stop it.
“At measuring?”
“At... showing up. With tools. And food. And—” I gesture vaguely at the organized chaos of his repair preparation. “This. You fix things when you’re stressed?”
“When I’m thinking. When I need to process.” He glances at me. “What do you do?”
“Create thunderstorms, apparently.”
“Besides that.”
I have to think about it. What do I do when I’m stressed, besides manifest weather? “I organize. Categorize. Make lists.” I gesture at the chaos of my studio. “Though you couldn’t tell from looking at this place.”
“I can tell.” He returns to measuring. “Your crystal inventory may be chaotic, but your client files are immaculate. Your treatment rooms are perfectly organized. Your supply closet has labels.”
“You’ve looked at my supply closet?”
“I notice things.”
He notices things. He notices my supply closet organization. Why is that attractive?
“Hand me that level?”
I hand him the level. Our fingers brush. A spark jumps between us—actual electricity, my magic responding to the contact with embarrassing enthusiasm.
He doesn’t flinch. Just accepts the tool and returns to measuring.
“You’re not going to comment on that?”
“Comment on what?”
“The—” I gesture at my still-sparking fingertips. “The literal electricity.”
“Happens all the time with elemental witches.” His voice is perfectly calm. “Especially ones whose magic is tied to their emotions.”
It takes him two hours to build new shelving. Better than the original—sturdier, with reinforced brackets that will survive my next episode.
Leire breezes in, radiating the satisfied energy of someone who’s recently been thoroughly claimed by a tiger shifter. Behind her, elegant and intimidating in equal measure, is Anouk Darkwater.
“That was some redecorating you did yesterday.” Leire deposits herself on my couch like she lives here. “Very dramatic. Very ‘romantic turmoil.’”
“There’s no romantic turmoil.”
“Your indoor thunderstorm says otherwise.” She waves a hand at the still-visible scorch marks on my ceiling. “The mist was practically doing a happy dance last night. Very ‘lovers on the precipice of discovery.’”
“We’re not lovers. We’re not even—” I sputter, face heating. “He’s my monitor.”
“Uh-huh.” Leire’s grin is insufferable. “And Aslan was my ‘professional protection escort’ until he wasn’t.”
Anouk ignores our exchange, moving to examine one of the scorch marks. “Lightning manifestation. Significant power output. And you say this started near the back door?”
“Yes. I was checking the seal—”
“Which faces the Registry.” Anouk’s gaze sharpens. “Interesting.”
“Why is that interesting?”
Leire and Anouk exchange a look. That look—the one that says they know things I don’t.
“We spoke with Councilor Valesh. She has some interesting ideas,” Leire says.
“What kind of ideas?”
“The Warding Line has been degrading in specific areas,” Anouk explains. “Faster than normal familiar losses can account for. The locations you’re describing—the square, near the Registry, here—they overlap with the weakest sections.”
“You think my episodes are connected to the Warding Line?”
“I think your magic is sensitive enough to detect things others can’t.” Anouk’s voice is careful. Measured. “Your episodes may not be instability. They may be response.”
“So I’m not crazy.”
“You were never crazy.” Torin’s voice cuts through my spiral. He’s still working on the shelving, not looking at me, but the weight of his words is unmistakable. “Your magic was trying to tell you what your mind didn’t know yet.”
Silence.
Leire’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. She mouths “wow” at me behind Torin’s back.
I shake my head frantically. She grins wider.
“So.” Leire claps her hands, breaking the tension with characteristic grace. “Girls’ night tonight. Duskfire Brewery. Eight o’clock. You’re coming.”
“I don’t think I’m up for—”
“That’s exactly why you need it.” She grabs my hand, squeezing. “Isolation makes hard things harder. Let us help.”
Anouk nods. “Bring yourself. We’ll provide the rest.”
They leave—Anouk with dignified efficiency, Leire with a whispered “We’re definitely talking about the bear, you’re not escaping that conversation”—and I’m alone with Torin again.
He continues hammering like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just say the most validating words anyone’s ever spoken to me while building furniture in my disaster zone of a studio.
“You should go tonight.” He doesn’t look up.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Aren’t you going to warn me to be careful? Not reveal sensitive information?”
His lips curve—the closest thing to a smile I’ve seen from him.
“They’re not civilians, Sakura. Leire’s mated to a Network member.
Anouk runs the coven. They are your friends, and they need you as much as you need them.
” He sets down his hammer. Meets my gaze.
“You deserve more than you let yourself believe.”
He leaves before I can respond.
And I stand in my repaired studio, surrounded by new shelves and scone crumbs, wondering when I started thinking of him as more than a monitor.
Duskfire Brewery is controlled chaos.
The renovated building sits on the edge of The Hollow—stone and timber, fairy lights tangled with hop vines, a beer garden sprawling out back where pixies chase fireflies through the early evening air.
The interior is warm amber and copper brewing equipment and strategically placed buckets that I’m trying not to think too hard about.
The chalkboard menu changes as I watch—“Liquid Courage (actual courage included)” shifting to “Memory Lane Ale (taste your happiest memory)” and then to “Dreamweaver Stout (vivid dreams, slightly prophetic, we are not liable for prophecies).”
Buckets. Why buckets?
“Weather witch!”
Zeph waves frantically from behind the bar, apron covered in fresh mysterious stains, already pouring something that’s smoking slightly. “I heard about your store! Get over here and tell me everything, I made something new to celebrate!”
I navigate through the crowd, dodging regulars and a floating tray that appears to be serving itself. A pair of vampires in the corner wave as I pass—Marcus and Thalia from the coffee shop, apparently enjoying a date night that involves blood-red wine and knowing smiles.
“What are you two doing out?” I ask as I pass.
Thalia’s centuries-old eyes sparkle. “We like to watch the young ones navigate romance. Very entertaining. Very dramatic.”
“There’s no romance to navigate.”
“Your weather says otherwise, dear.” Marcus raises his glass. “Very ‘imminent claiming.’”
I dodge away before they can elaborate.
Zeph grabs my hand the moment I reach the bar, shaking vigorously. “I heard everything. The storms, the bear, the dramatic disaster yesterday—excellent chaos. Really quality work. I respect it.”
“Thank you?”
“Back corner. Private booth. I’ll bring the beer.” She’s already pouring—four glasses that glow faintly purple. “New batch. Side effects are minimal.”
“What kind of side effects?”
“Probably temporary.” She grins. “Also probably not hallucinogenic. I fixed that batch. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Go on. They’re waiting.”
The private booth is tucked near the fireplace, partially hidden by hanging herbs that smell like rosemary and wild magic. Leire waves me over with undisguised delight. Anouk nods acknowledgment, elegant even while nursing what appears to be a pint of glowing purple beer.
And in the shadows—
“Don’t mind me, dear.” Grandmother Peach is already there, a plate of cobbler before her and an expression of profound knowing on her ancient face. “Just enjoying the ambiance.”
“How did you—”
“Best not to ask.” Leire pours me wine from a bottle that wasn’t on the table a moment ago. “She appears when she wants to. We’ve stopped questioning it.”
“Wise policy.” Grandmother Peach winks. “Though the truth is fairly simple. I walked through the door. Like everyone else.”
“You weren’t here when I came in.”
“Wasn’t I?” She takes a delicate bite of cobbler. “Memory is such a tricky thing. Ask your friends about bears. They know things. Three hundred years of matching magical creatures gives one a certain... perspective.”
Leire chokes on her wine. “Three hundred years?”
“Give or take.” Grandmother Peach waves a dismissive hand. “The exact count becomes less relevant after the first century. Now. About the bear.”
“There’s nothing about the bear.”