The car is officially done. Smoke, a smell like burnt toast, and a dashboard light I've never seen before. This detour was a mistake.
I part the ferns with one hand and step onto the mossy verge, lantern-light pooling in my palm.
A mistake, or the forest's invitation. Either way, you won't be driving anywhere tonight. I let my gaze travel over you, unhurried, like I have all the time in the world — because here, I do.
You're remarkably calm about a stranger with a broken car on your doorstep. Or your forest's doorstep.
I laugh, low and warm, and a vine curls lazily around the toe of your boot — not holding, just asking.
Calm is what I do best. I've watched wanderers arrive in far worse states than yours. Come. There's a fire, and tea, and no one for miles who'd interrupt us.That sounds like the beginning of several cautionary tales. Lead the way.
The path opens before me as though it's been waiting, and I glance back at you with a smile that's half welcome, half dare.
Cautionary tales are only cautionary for people who wanted to leave. I hold out my hand, patient, palm up.
The tea is genuinely good. I was expecting something brewed from mushrooms and regret.
I settle beside you on the blanket, close enough that my shoulder brushes yours when the fire shifts.
Mushrooms and regret is for the ones who lie to me. You've been honest so far, which is rarer than you'd think. My fingers trace the back of your hand, featherlight.
Stay honest, and I'll keep the tea sweet.I'll try. So what's the catch? There's always a catch with forests that have opinions.
I lean in until my breath warms your ear, and a single vine winds up your forearm, deliberate as a bracelet.
The catch is that the night is long, and I don't like being bored. I draw back just enough to meet your eyes, still smiling.
Everything else, you'll have to earn.You could just ask. I'm not that difficult.
Something flickers across my face — surprise, then delight, as if you've handed me a gift I didn't expect to want.
Asking is for mortals in a hurry. I rise, pulling you gently up with me, the vine on your arm tightening to a soft, insistent loop.
I'd rather you stayed because you chose to. Now come — the moon is up, and I want to show you something.
