But close.
And that’s enough.
I stay longer than usual that evening.
The air cools, but I don’t feel the chill. Thorn is quieter tonight, but not withdrawn. There’s a steadiness in him now, like he’s no longer measuring what I can take—just letting me take it.
He watches as I attempt to sketch the intricate twist of bark along his forearm, the way it weaves into something almost like armor. I squint, erase, try again. My pencil smudges, and I groan.
He leans in a little, brow raised. “Is that frustration?”
“Yes,” I mutter. “It’s your fault for being complicated.”
“I was made to be so.”
“I bet even your vines have egos.”
He exhales through his nose—sharp, dry.
It takes me a second to realize, that’s his laugh.
Low and rough and unpolished. Like branches creaking under snow. Like the wind chuckling through old cedar boughs. It’s not loud. But it’s real.
I go very still.
Because the moss around us?
Itglows.
Just faintly. Just enough to make me wonder if I imagined it. But it pulses in rhythm with his breath—soft green light blooming outward in a gentle wave.
“Did you see that?” I whisper.
Thorn nods. “The Grove responds.”
“To what?”
“To joy,” he says.
I can’t help the way my smile spreads.
It’s small and aching and startled all at once.
“I didn’t realize it could do that.”
“You don’t bring light into a place like this without it noticing.”
I look at him, my throat tight.
And in that moment, the boundary between what I know and what Ifeelshatters a little. I don’t know where the forest ends and I begin anymore. My skin smells like leaves. My heartbeat matches the rhythm of the roots. My hands are stained with dirt I never want to wash off.
He’s not just part of the Grove.
Heisthe Grove.
And somehow, without realizing it, I’ve stopped being afraid of that.
Maybe I’ve even started to belong here too.
