Like a nod.
And then I leave, walking faster than I mean to, not because I’m scared—but because I’m afraid if I stay, I’ll start talking again.
And if I talk too long, I’ll never want to stop.
I don’t sleep much that night.
Not because of bad dreams.
Because of a voice.
Hisvoice.
Low and warm and made of old stone and soft dirt. It wasn’t just sound—it was weight. It settled somewhere behind my ribs and hasn’t left since.
I keep hearing it, looping in my head like the echo of wind through pine.You tend the Grove.
I wish I’d said more. Askedhisname. Askedwhyhe’s watching. Asked if he’s the one who made the vine curl like it knew my hands before I ever touched it.
But I didn’t.
I ran.
Now, everything else feels… smaller.
The basil I’m supposed to trim? Blurry. The schedule for the new compost delivery? Half-remembered.
“You okay?” Mags asks the next morning as I spill a whole tray of seed packets on the kitchen floor.
“Yeah, sorry,” I say, dropping to my knees to collect the scattered envelopes. “Didn’t sleep great.”
She gives me a side-eye but doesn’t push. “You get that kind of hollow look when you’re overthinking things. You know that?”
I shrug. “It’s probably just the weather.”
“Uh huh.” She leans against the counter. “Not a boy thing, is it?”
I snort, louder than I mean to. “Definitely not.”
Mags grins. “Damn. Was hoping for a little scandal. Camp could use it. Everyone’s too well-adjusted lately.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
She heads out, still chuckling, and I gather the rest of the seeds with shaky fingers.
Icouldtell her.
I could tell Julie. Or even Ryder, though I doubt he’d be thrilled.
But every time I think about describing what happened, the words dry up in my throat.
This feels… private.
Too sacred for coffee-break gossip or wide-eyed curiosity.
He spoke to me. Me. Not the camp. Not the staff. Justme.
And something deep inside me—something small and soft and long-forgotten—wants to protect that.
