10. Torin #2
“I found this behind the poetry books.” Her voice is careful. “I thought it was a published collection.” She turns a page, and something shifts in her expression—a recognition she wasn’t quite prepared for. “Leire mentioned you wrote. She didn’t mention it was like this.”
“It’s not.”
“I noticed.” She turns another page. “Did you write all of these?”
I should lie. Should claim it’s old and meaningless.
“Yes.”
“About me?”
“Some of them.”
She reads aloud: “‘The storm wants to be held. I have hands big enough. She doesn’t know yet. But she will.’“ Her voice catches. “When did you write this?”
“The night after your first episode. The one at the studio.”
“The one where you held me through the lightning.”
“Yes.”
Silence. The fire pops. My heart hammers.
“There’s another one.” She flips forward. “‘She entered like summer weather—unpredictable, warm, impossible to prepare for. I have stopped trying to prepare. I just stand in the sun she makes and let it change me.’”
“That one’s from last week.”
“After the almost-kiss.”
“Yes.”
She closes the journal. Holds it against her chest like a precious thing.
“You’ve been writing about me for weeks.”
“Since the beginning.”
“And you never told me.”
“The poems are... not my best work.” An understatement. They’re overwrought and earnest and full of metaphors that don’t quite land. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.”
“I want to know everything.” Her hand finds mine. “The feelings. All of it.”
My bear surges with hope.
“Sakura—”
“My magic is calmer when you’re near.” The words tumble out like she’s been holding them back for too long. “I don’t understand it. I’ve never felt this—this steadiness when you’re close. Like my storms finally recognize somewhere safe. Like they finally know when to be still.”
“I know what that means.”
“Tell me.”
“It means you’re not meant to weather storms alone.” I watch her face. “It means your power recognizes safety. Recognizes home.”
“You’re my home?”
“I could be. If you’d let me.”
The air between us thickens. Warm. Heavy. Charged with possibility and the weight of weeks of careful circling.
She leans closer. “That was almost a pun.”
“What?”
“‘Weather storms alone.’ Weather. Storms.” Her lips twitch, the tension breaking into warmth. “You made a weather joke.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You absolutely did. That’s at least four now.”
“There is no count because there are no jokes.”
“The count is real.” She’s grinning, bright and unexpected. “And growing. I’m keeping a tally. For future reference. For blackmail purposes.”
“You can’t blackmail me with pun counts.”
“Watch me.”
We’re both smiling. The intensity breaking into warmth, into the kind of ease that feels more meaningful than gravity.
This is what I want. The serious and the silly. The intensity and the laughter.
This is home.
The evening deepens into comfortable silence.
We’ve exhausted most topics—families and histories and favorite foods and worst fears.
She’s learned about my disastrous attempt to cook for the sleuth potluck (the stew was fine until I accidentally shifted mid-stir and dropped a paw in).
I’ve learned about her brief and catastrophic attempt at ice skating (she froze the entire rink and three spectators had to be thawed out by emergency responders).
Now we’re just... sitting. Together. Her head on my shoulder, my arm around her, the fire crackling low.
“The mist is doing that thing again.” She points at the window, where the mist has taken on a distinctly golden glow. “The romantic thing.”
“It approves.”
“Of what?”
“Of us. Of this.” I tighten my arm around her slightly. “The mist has opinions.”
She considers. “It should bug me.”
“But?”
“But this feels different.” She tilts her head up to look at me.
“The mist and the town are invested in your happiness.”
“Our happiness.” She corrects quietly. “They’re invested in both of us. The whole town wants the bear to stop pining and the weather witch to stop spiraling.”
Something cracks open in my chest. The good kind of breaking.
She falls asleep against my shoulder.
Her head rests against me, breathing slow, warmth a constant presence at my side.
I don’t move.
Can’t move. Won’t move. Would stay frozen in this position forever if it meant she’d stay.
The fire has burned to embers. The cabin is dark except for dying coals. Outside, the night is quiet—no wind, no rain, just the soft sounds of a forest at peace.
Her magic is completely calm. Not a single spark. Just steady energy, resting easy.
Eventually, I have to move. Have to get her somewhere comfortable.
I gather her into my arms—so small, so light, fitting against my chest like she was designed for this—and carry her to my bedroom.
My bed is large. Built for someone my size. She looks tiny in it, curled on her side, dark hair spread across my pillow.
I pull the covers over her. Smooth hair from her face. Let myself look—just look—at the woman who’s become everything I didn’t know I was waiting for.
“I meant what I said.” Her voice is muzzy with sleep.
“Which part?”
“All of it.” She burrows into the pillow. “Stay?”
The question is raw. Vulnerable. Not the storm or the uncertainty—just her, asking plainly for what she wants.
“I’ll be on the couch.”
“That’s not staying.”
“It’s staying adjacent.”
“Mmm.” Her eyes drift closed. “You’re warm. Good for sleeping.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.” A pause. Then, barely audible: “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad the explosion didn’t... I’m glad you’re okay.”
“I’m glad too.”
Her breathing evens out.
I stand in my bedroom doorway, watching her sleep in my bed, and let myself feel everything I’ve been holding back.
I take the couch. My feet hang over the end, my back protests the lack of support.
I don’t care.
She’s in my bed. She called me her home. She read my writing and called it beautiful.
I smile in the darkness.
Progress.