Plogg hated the rain.

It wasn't the cold. Or the wet. Or even the way it soaked into your bones if you stood too long. No, it was the quiet. The empty. The way it pushed people inside and stole all the good noise, the clatter, the carts, the laughter. No music. No smells of hot food on the air. Just gray sky bleeding into gray stone.

He sat heavy on the stump chair just outside his door, the fire inside offering little comfort against the damp chill. His blanket clung to one shoulder while rain slapped rhythmically against the roof like fingers drumming wrong notes.

His own fingers tapped a matching rhythm on his thick thigh as he thought about her - the café owner with the soft smile and warm laugh who gave him sweets and made him feel like he mattered. The one with softness in all the right places, who smelled like cake and sunshine even on gray days.

The rain intensified suddenly, slapping the ground like an angry tantrum. Plogg frowned deeply, imagining her still at the café, perhaps shivering despite her coat or slipping on the wet cobblestones. Without a second thought, he grabbed his thick spell-thread tarp and charged into the storm, driven by a primal need to protect the woman who had unknowingly captured his heart.