or expect me stressing for days on the translation

Hurricane heart

It’s the small things that speak of love.

And some days are just worse than others.

Magnus’ sunlit Friday makes his heart feel like a hurricane. It begins early with a call tearing him out of sleep about a warlock child falling unexplainably ill and a rushed home visit, a mother’s grief and fiery assurances that it’s going to be okay, don’t cry please, he’s still here for you to love.

A slew of clients next – the next one more late and even more fussy and demanding than the last one, all Magnus do this and that and dance as I tell unless I won’t pay. Not that Magnus necessarily needs the money, he’d be fine without it, but it’s about something more than that, payment for services rendered, an act of assistance, two people respecting each other; all because he wants to do something to help the world. The smile surrounded by his goatee is a fake one, all business-like, stretched thin like a guitar string waiting to snap, a dare and a warning all at once, a do not push me too far.

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