Page 2 of She Touched His Vine

“Hey.” A gruff voice behind me makes me yelp and clutch my spade like a weapon.

Spinning again, I see a man—no, amerman—standing a few feet away with arms crossed. His torso’s bare except for a loose linen shirt, soaked from the chest down. Long dark hair pulledback, silver eyes glaring like I’ve personally offended him by existing.

“You Clara?” he asks.

I nod, hand still on my chest. “Y-yes.”

“I’m Ryder. Lifeguard. Julie asked me to tell you—don’t touch any trees that have names carved in the bark. Especially near the Grove.”

“Okay…” I blink. “Is there a reason?”

He stares for a beat too long. “They’re not trees anymore.”

My mouth opens. Closes.

“Right. Got it.”

He grunts and turns, disappearing back toward the lake like some kind of grumpy water ghost.

I sit back on my heels, spade forgotten.

Not trees anymore? What doesthatmean?

I glance over at the line of trees that mark the edge of the Grove. From this angle, they seem… bigger. A little too still. Like they’re holding their breath.

“Not touching anything,” I mutter. “Not evenlooking.”

The wind picks up, rustling the leaves in what might be laughter.

Later, just before sunset, I light the bug-repellent candle on my cabin’s windowsill and sip tea from a chipped mug I found in the cupboard. It’s lemon balm, and it tastes like memory.

I open my dad’s seed journal—the only thing I grabbed from his house before I locked the door for good. His handwriting curls across the pages like vines. “No such thing as lazy growth,” he used to say. “Only unobserved.”

I stare out the window at the Grove. Just beyond the ferns, the trees sway, slow and solemn.

I don’t know what I’ve stepped into here. But something tells me this place isn’t just old—it’s alive in ways I can’t explain.

And for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel alone.

CHAPTER 2

THORN

The Grove stirs before I see her.

Roots twitch. Vines furl tighter around the southern stones. There’s a shift in the hum beneath the moss—subtle, but wrong. Foreign.

I rise from the soil in silence, the bark of my back groaning where it unfastens from the old oak’s hollow. Leaves rustle against my arms as I stretch, letting the green light pour over my skin. My feet never break a twig. They remember the weight of war.

She’s crouched by the herb bed.

Human.

Curvy and soft, with hair like loam in moonlight. She doesn’t move like a hunter or a mage. No sigils. No iron. Just a spade in one hand and a clipboard tucked under her arm. She hums.

I watch from behind a moss wall, veiled by the oldest ferns. My pulse is the slow, steady beat of root-thought—deep and cold.

She is not supposed to be this close.

---