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CLARA

T he sky cracks open just as I reach the Grove.

It’s that kind of summer storm that doesn’t announce itself until it’s too late—thunder rolling in like a slow drumbeat, wind rising out of nowhere. One minute, everything’s heavy with heat. The next, the forest is trembling.

And I’m soaked.

The rain hits in thick sheets, no warning, no mercy. I pull my hood up, already halfway down the trail, heart thudding.

“Okay,” I mutter to myself, squinting through the blur, “not ideal.”

The garden behind me is half-covered, but the Grove isn’t. I should go back. I should .

But I don’t.

Because even with Thorn’s silence, even with that aching gap he’s carved between us—I can’t seem to stop coming back here.

I need to be here.

The air is charged. Not just from the storm, but something underneath it. Something alive and restless.

I press forward through the curtain of water, into the trees.

“Thorn?” I call.

No answer.

Of course there isn’t.

The wind howls. Lightning cuts the sky.

And then I slip.

My foot hits a patch of slick moss, and I go down hard—knee, hip, elbow. Mud splashes up my side, cold and thick. My bag tumbles from my shoulder.

“Damn it?—”

The words stick in my throat as the thunder booms directly above me.

The Grove groans.

Branches sway violently. Leaves whip across my face. Something ancient stirs beneath the earth, like the forest itself is bracing.

He’s there.

Rising out of the rain like part of the storm.

Thorn.

Soaked to the bone, vines clinging to his limbs, eyes glowing faintly even in the downpour.

“Clara,” he says, low and urgent.

I scramble to my feet, slipping again.

He catches me.

Big hands, steady. Warm, even in the cold. His grip around my arm is firm, grounding.

“I—I didn’t mean to get stuck—” I stammer.

“We need cover. Now.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just pulls me forward, into the Grove’s heart.

I follow because there’s nothing else to do—because he’s here and he’s real and the wind can’t touch me with him in front of me.

We slip through a curtain of vines, and suddenly, we’re in a hollow I’ve never seen before—curved like a natural cathedral, with moss walls and flowering ivy that shields the entrance.

It’s quiet in here. Muffled.

Sacred.

I’m trembling. Not from fear. From everything .

He kneels and pulls my bag toward us. I sit cross-legged on the damp floor, hair clinging to my cheeks, hands shaking.

“You came back,” I whisper.

“I never stopped watching.”

The words hit low in my chest.

He sits beside me, slow and solid, and when his fingers reach for mine—hesitant, deliberate—I don’t pull away.

His hand is rough. Bark-warm. Heavy like history.

He doesn’t squeeze.

Just holds .

For the first time in days, the pain in my chest begins to bloom into something else.

His thumb brushes lightly against mine.

It’s the softest thing.

Like bark shouldn’t be able to feel this gentle. Like ancient magic shouldn’t be able to tremble .

But it does.

I look at our hands. At the way they sit between us, steady and impossible.

The silence grows warm around us, the storm pulsing just beyond the wall of vines.

I dare to break it.

“Why didn’t you come?”

His head turns slightly. “What?”

“The last few days,” I say. “You weren’t there. Not really. I thought maybe?—”

My throat tightens.

“I thought maybe I imagined all of it.”

Thorn’s gaze drops to our joined hands. His voice is rough when he finally speaks. “You didn’t.”

“Then why?” I whisper. “Why disappear?”

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.

Lightning rips the sky apart.

It strikes so close, the entire hollow shudders.

The vines convulse. A tree groans somewhere behind us. And I jerk back, heart hammering, breath caught halfway between shock and ache.

Thorn’s eyes flash wide, hand half-outstretched.

But the moment’s gone.

The storm has spoken.

We both sit there, panting, blinking, too stunned to speak.

But something passed between us.

Something real.

Something we won’t be able to walk away from.