He doesn’t answer right away.
Just the quiet sound of his breath. Just the way the vines outside sway like they’re listening.
He says, “Because I didn’t know how to stay without wanting more.”
My chest goes still.
“What more?”
He looks at me.
Really looks.
And there’s something in his eyes—something raw and unspoken and centuries old.
“I don’t know,” he says. “That’s what scares me.”
The wind shrieks past the entrance, but I don’t flinch.
I’m too busy memorizing the way he’s watching me. Like I’m a fire he doesn’t dare get close to, but also can’t walk away from.
We sit there, the storm raging just outside, our hands wrapped around something we don’t have words for yet.
And I think, maybe this is how roots begin.
Not loud or sudden.
But soft and deep.
The silence swells again.
Not empty.
Full.
His hand is still in mine. And I swear, I can feel a pulse there—slow and steady like roots finding water.
He says, so softly I almost miss it, “I missed you.”
My breath catches.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.
“I tried not to,” he says. “But I did.”
My heart folds in on itself. Like it’s blooming and breaking at the same time. Like it knows something I’m too afraid to say out loud.
I shift closer, knees brushing his. “You could’ve just told me.”
“I’m telling you now.”
That’s all it takes.
Something cracks wide open between us. Not loud. Just… inevitable.
My face tips toward his without thinking. His hand lifts, slow as the sunrise. We hover there, close—so close the air between us hums.
I swear I hear the Grove lean in.
