Clove is the kind of woman who built a fortress out of competence.
Doors locked. Bridge up. Everything handled. Everything fine.

Hyper-independence wasn’t a personality trait—it was armor polished to a mirror shine. People admired her for it. Men adored her for it. Friends relied on it. No one questioned the weight of it, because she carried it so gracefully they forgot to ask whether it was heavy.

Then he showed up.

Not a lover, not a threat—something far more destabilizing:
a muse.

A person whose presence didn’t demand anything from her, but whose energy tugged at the threads she’d wrapped so tightly around herself. He made her creative impulse flare in new colors. He made her body remember it was allowed to want things. He made her nervous system hum in a way that felt both ancient and brand-new.

He didn’t break her walls.
He just walked past them like he had a map she didn’t know she’d drawn.

Suddenly Clove—Ms. Untouchable, Ms. I’ve-Got-This—began writing poems on napkins. Humming melodies in grocery store aisles. Catching herself thinking about the slope of his smile at red lights.

And the scariest part?

She didn’t feel weak.
She felt alive.

Like meeting him didn’t compromise her independence—it illuminated the parts of her she’d abandoned while surviving.

And that’s where her story really begins:
It’s the moment a muse doesn’t save her or fix her.
It awakens the version of her that was always trying to return.