5. Sakura #3
Actual choking—liquid down the wrong pipe, coughing, face turning red. My magic responds to the embarrassment by forming a small thundercloud directly over my head.
Rain begins to fall. Just on me.
Zeph laughs so hard she nearly falls out of the booth. Leire hides her face in her wine glass. Even Anouk’s composure cracks into actual laughter.
“At least it’s not hail.” Zeph produces a bucket from under the table, positioning it to catch my personal rainstorm. “Once, we had a witch—bad breakup—hailed for three hours. Had to replace half the glassware.”
The rain stops. Slowly, embarrassingly.
“Sorry.” I wipe water from my face. “I’m a disaster.”
“You’re not a disaster.” Leire squeezes my hand. “You’re expressive. There’s a difference.”
“A wet, dramatic difference.” Zeph is still grinning. “I like you. Anyone who makes their own weather is good people.”
The night stretches on.
More wine. More of Zeph’s questionable beer.
More stories—Leire’s chaotic courtship with Aslan (“He was so intense, I thought he was constipated for the first week. Turns out that’s just his face when he’s trying not to declare eternal devotion in public.
”), Anouk’s dry observations about coven politics (“The petition to outlaw weather-based property damage was tabled. You’re welcome.
I argued that atmospheric expression is protected under magical free speech.
”), Zeph’s increasingly unhinged brewing experiments (“The batch that made everyone temporarily telepathic was a mistake. Probably. The psychic wolves still won’t talk to me, but honestly, they’re very judgmental even when they can’t read minds. ”)
At some point, the conversation turns serious—the Warding Line, the investigation, the possibility that my episodes are symptoms rather than causes.
At some point, I realize I’m drunk. Warm and loose and more honest than usual.
“I like him.” The admission falls into a lull. “Torin. More than I should.”
No one laughs. No one teases.
“That’s not a crime.” Leire’s voice is gentle. “Liking someone isn’t a flaw.”
“It is when you’re a disaster. He deserves better than someone who might electrocute him.”
“Pretty sure he’s survived that already.” Zeph grins. “And came back for more. That’s a good sign.”
“If he’s pursuing you—and he absolutely is—it’s because he’s decided you’re worth pursuing. He wouldn’t make that decision lightly.” Anouk’s voice is thoughtful.
“He’s not—”
“Sakura.” Leire sets down her glass. “It’s normal to be scared of these feelings.”
My stomach knots. “I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never been the kind of person people pursue.”
“Then let him pursue.” Anouk’s voice is surprisingly gentle. “You don’t have to do anything except be open to the possibility.”
“Very romantic advice from someone who runs a coven with military precision.” Zeph nudges Anouk. “You’ve been reading those romance novels.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Berry says you special-ordered three Milly Taiden books last week.”
“Berry should mind her business.” But there’s a faint flush on Anouk’s cheeks. “I read for... research purposes.”
“Research.” Zeph’s grin is enormous. “Into bear-shifter mating habits, perhaps?”
“Into narrative structures involving magical communities.” Anouk’s dignity is impressive given the circumstances. “Purely academic.”
Laughter fills the booth. The fire crackles. The buckets sit ready for weather incidents.
And I realize, with a clarity that surprises me, that I’m happy. Not because things are perfect—they’re not—but because for the first time in years, I’m not facing the imperfection alone.
These women see my chaos. They’ve witnessed my weather. They know exactly how unstable I am.
And they’re still here. Still pouring wine. Still teasing me about bears.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I might have found my people.
The night winds down around midnight.
Zeph closes up early—a rarity, she informs me, but the new batch of telepathic ale requires supervision and she doesn’t trust the fermentation tanks to behave themselves.
Anouk departs with dignified efficiency, already making notes in a small leather journal about our conversation.
Leire hugs me at the door, fierce and warm.
“He’s a good one,” she murmurs against my hair. “Don’t let fear make you stupid.”
“I’m always stupid.”
“Then be stupid about this instead of against it.”
She walks toward Duskfall territory, where presumably her tiger-shifter mate is waiting with the same intensity she keeps describing. I wonder what that’s like—having someone wait for you with that kind of certainty.
I walk home through misty streets, warm from wine and friendship.
Ask your friends about bears. They know things.
They do know things. Things I wasn’t ready to hear but needed to anyway.
Torin is pursuing me. Not because he’s assigned to. Because he decided I’m worth pursuing. Because he looked at my storms and didn’t run.
My studio is dark when I arrive, the new shelving gleaming in the streetlight. Sturdy. Stable. Built by hands that held me through a storm.
He’s more than I expected.
I smile into the darkness.
Maybe I am too.