Page 81 of She Touched His Vine

Not yet.

So I don’t.

I just wait.

For the moment I’ll have to.

I don’t sleep.

Just listen to the Grove breathe and feel the hours stretch like vines across the night.

By the time dawn kisses the treetops, I know what I have to do.

She’s already at the seedling beds when I find her—kneeling in the morning light, sleeves rolled, hands sunk into rich soil. She hums under her breath, soft and absentminded.

The moment I speak, she startles.

“Clara.”

She looks up, curls catching the light, eyes wary in that way that says she already knows.

“I heard,” I say, steady as I can. “About the grant.”

Her face stills.

Then she nods, slow. “I was going to tell you.”

“I know.”

Silence stretches.

I step forward, kneel across from her, careful not to crowd.

“It’s a good opportunity,” I say.

She watches me closely. “It’s… a lot. Big city labs. Teams. Travel. Real influence.”

I nod.

“You’d be great.”

My voice holds.

Barely.

She swallows, searching my face. “Are you okay?”

I force a small smile. “I’m proud of you.”

I don’t say: I’m breaking.

I don’t say: Please don’t go.

Because I’m not that selfish.

And she’s not mine to keep.

She studies me like she’s trying to read something carved under bark.