Bearclaw Valley I'm gonna give you my love,

The sun was low over Bearclaw Valley, casting long, golden shadows through the thinning trees as Cole emerged from the western edge of the forest. His steps were heavy, steady, carrying the weight of miles traveled and silence endured. Days had passed since Winslet's heat had kept him close to their den—closer than he'd been in a long time. He hadn't minded, not really. A man like him didn’t often find peace, but she'd given it to him, even if only for a while.
Now, with the fevered haze behind them, he could finally stretch his legs again. The patrol had taken him farther than usual—he’d wanted to be sure. The outer ridges were clear, the scent lines still sharp. Nothing out of place, but Cole never trusted stillness. Not fully. Not after everything he'd seen.
His coat bore the signs of travel—dust and grit clinging to his legs, a small scratch near his shoulder from squeezing through bramble. He smelled of pine and rain, wind and old stone. The valley lay quiet as he returned, save for the rustling of young pups playing somewhere near the river. That sound always brought something unspoken to his chest. He let it linger there.
As the trees thinned and the slope dipped toward the heart of their home, Cole paused, drawing in a deep breath. It smelled of warmth here. Of hearth. Of her.
He didn't speak. Just carried on down the ridge, slow and certain, toward the den where he knew @Winslet would be waiting.