I laugh, a little embarrassed. “That’s because I was pretty sure you were going to murder me with bark limbs.”
“I considered it.”
I blink.
He raises a brow. “I didn’t.”
I snort. “Well, I appreciate your mercy.”
He crouches beside me, eyes trailing over the open pages. He doesn’t say anything for a while. Just studies the charcoal lines like they mean more than I realize.
“You draw the Grove like it breathes,” he murmurs.
“I think it does.”
He nods once.
I glance up at him, heart flickering. “Can I… draw you?”
Thorn stiffens.
I instantly backtrack. “No, never mind—that’s dumb. Sorry.”
His head tilts. “Why?”
“Because you’re—” I gesture vaguely. “You’re ancient magic, and I’m just a girl with an HB pencil.”
A pause.
Then he sits.
Not just crouches. Sits, cross-legged, hands resting on his knees like roots settling into place.
“I will not pose,” he says.
I grin, heart pounding. “Fair enough.”
As I draw, I sneak glances at him—his jaw like carved stone, the subtle way the veins of vine move under his skin when hebreathes, the dark green shimmer that pulses faintly over his shoulder when he leans toward the old tree.
He’s stillness. Power.
But when he looks at me, something softens.
“You spend every evening here,” he says.
I nod. “I like it.”
“Why?”
I pause, pencil hovering. “Because it feels like something’s finally growing inside me that doesn’t hurt.”
The wind hushes.
He doesn’t speak.
But he reaches out and sets his hand beside mine on the blanket.
Not touching.
