Page 11

CLARA

I used to like mornings best.

That hour of crisp air, when the sun’s still yawning and the world hasn’t decided what kind of day it’s gonna be. That used to be my moment—quiet and clean and mine.

But lately?

Lately I find myself waiting for dusk.

I clock-watch during the day. Pretend I’m totally engrossed in soil temperature charts and companion planting plans. But by four-thirty, I’m twitchy. By five, I’m slipping on my hiking boots. And by five-fifteen, I’m back in the Grove with a sketchbook tucked under my arm like it’s armor.

I don’t always see Thorn right away.

Sometimes he waits.

Sometimes he watches.

But I feel him there—like a shift in gravity. Like when the hairs on your arm rise and you know someone’s behind you, but you don’t flinch.

You just breathe .

That’s what it’s like being around him now.

Today, I spread out my field blanket under the willow arch and crack open the sketchbook.

The pages are crinkled and smudged, full of clumsy lines and shaded corners of the Grove—the curve of a vine that hadn’t bloomed last week, the hollow in the sacred tree’s bark, the delicate twist of roots that now pulse faintly beneath my feet.

“Your hands are steadier,” Thorn says from behind me.

I jump a little. “You can tell?”

He steps into view, silent as fog. “Your lines used to tremble.”

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 he breathes, 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.

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?

It glows .

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 I feel shatters 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.

He is the Grove.

And somehow, without realizing it, I’ve stopped being afraid of that.

Maybe I’ve even started to belong here too.

That night, I lie awake.

The cabin is quiet—just the occasional chirp of insects and the soft whirr of the fan by my bed. But inside me? Nothing’s still.

I should be asleep. I want to be asleep. But every time I close my eyes, I see him—those dark, knowing eyes, the moss on his shoulders, the way his laugh curled through the trees like it had been waiting years to be let out.

Thorn.

Thorn, who is made of roots and stone and old things I don’t understand.

Thorn, who listens like silence is sacred and looks at me like I’ve done something impossible just by staying.

I pull my blanket up to my chin and whisper into the dark, “What the hell are we doing?”

He’s not even human.

But he’s real .

More real than most people I’ve met.

And when I’m with him, the ache in my chest quiets. The anxious buzz fades. I feel like I’m standing still in a world that won’t stop spinning.

I sigh, rolling over.

This is ridiculous.

He’s a forest sentinel.

I’m a glorified gardener with a love of mulch and boundary issues.

But still…

I can’t stop thinking about him.

And I’m not sure I want to.