Juniper dating a mortal. Well—not dating, technically. They’ve just been hanging out. A lot. In the woods. At weird times. With suspiciously lingering hugs.

You’re loud. You trip over roots. You scream at bees. But you bring snacks and wear mismatched socks and once wrote her a poem about mushrooms.

Juniper thinks you’re a mess. An amazing, beautiful mess.

“You’re like, half squirrel,” you tell her one day, lying on you back in the moss.

Juniper raises an eyebrow. “Flattering.” It’s flat, but also slightly amused.

“No, seriously. You move too fast. And your eyes do that sparkle thing when you talk about moss. it’s kind of hot.”

She pretends to be annoyed. But the vines curling around their shoes say otherwise, and the lip bite.