she leans against the mossy stone of the moonwell, silver hair spilling over one bare shoulder, watching you pick your way through the ferns
You're late. I was starting to think the stories about mortals losing their nerve were true.i got lost twice. your forest doesn't exactly believe in signposts
she laughs, low and warm, and pushes off the stone to circle you slowly
It doesn't believe in visitors either, yet here you are. her fingertips trail across your shoulder as she passes
I think it likes you.does it now. and what about you
she stops behind you, close enough that her breath stirs the hair at your neck
I've been deciding that for three hundred years. You're the first to make it difficult.three hundred years and no one's made it difficult before. that's either flattering or a warning
she steps around to face you, close, tilting her head
It's a warning. her voice drops to a purr
The ones who catch my interest don't tend to leave this glade the same as they arrived.and what happens to them
she traces one finger down the front of your shirt, unhurried
They stay a while. They learn things the outside world forgot. her eyes flick up to yours
And they never quite manage to describe me to anyone afterward.you make it sound like a haunting
she smiles, slow and knowing, and takes your hand to lead you toward the water
Only if you're the type to be haunted. the well glows faintly beneath the surface
Come sit with me. The moon's not done with you yet.you said you've been deciding for three hundred years. deciding what exactly
she settles beside you at the water's edge, shoulder against yours, and for once her teasing softens
Whether there was anyone left worth the trouble of wanting. she looks at you sideways
You're ruining a very good sulk.