But I just woke up cuddling him. And he made me perfect coffee. And he’s looking at me like my answer actually matters.
“I’m... I’m working on it,” I mutter into my mug.
He huffs out something that might be a relieved laugh.
“So?” he presses after a moment. “Your research...”
I sigh, but Gregory is watching me with complete focus.
“Okay.” I set down my mug and launch in. “So mycorrhizal fungi form these massive underground networks connecting trees. They’re like the Internet of the forest. Or some scientists believe they’re a type of neural network, even. A non-human intelligence. And did you know trees actually communicate through them? Share nutrients. Support each other. If one tree is sick or damaged, the healthy trees can send resources through the fungal network to help it recover.”
“Trees help each other.” He sounds fascinated. “Even different species?”
“Especially different species. That’s the beautiful part. A dying birch can be supported by a healthy fir. They don’t compete. They cooperate.” I’m gesturing now, can’t help it when I talk about this stuff. “We’ve also seen evidence that independent networks can communicate with other networks, in what could be some form of telepathy. It’s... truly incredible. How little we understand about these fungi. They could be just as intelligent as us! More, even. But... mining... mining destroys these networks. Rips them apart. Leaves the whole ecosystem vulnerable because suddenly the trees are isolated. They can’t communicate. Can’t help each other survive. On our ultrasonic sensors, we’ve detected something like grief coming from the adjacent networks that are still intact... this increased acoustic activity from the water transport systems of the trees they support. Like they’ve lost their brothers and sisters.”
His expression shifts and something painful flickers across his face.
“But they can be rebuilt,” I continue quickly. “That’s what my research is about. How to reintroduce the fungi. How to help ecosystems heal themselves after extraction. It takes months, sometimes years or even decades. But it’s possible. The connections can be restored.”
I trail off, suddenly aware I’ve been talking for who knows how long and he hasn’t interrupted once. Just listened. Like what I’m saying matters to him.
“That’s what you were doing out there,” he says quietly. “When your equipment failed.”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “Three months of data. Gone. All those samples showing how the networks were starting to recover at a post-mining site. Just gone.”
“You’ll redo it.” It’s not a question. “You’re too stubborn to give up.”
And then I see him, as if for the first time. Not the CEO. Not the environmental criminal.
Just...
Gregory.
Who washed my hair when I was sick.
Who learned to make coffee the way I like it.
Who’s looking at me like I matter.
Likemy workmatters.
Which of course it doesn’t.
Not to him.
It’s an act.
All of it.
Meant to placate me during the time we’re stuck together.
Or is it?
“The metaphor’s not lost on me,” he says after a moment. “Damaged ecosystems that canhealif they’re given support. If the connections are rebuilt.”
Metaphor? What metaphor...
Oh.
