Wapun Meadow leave a light on

"tssst," she gasped in a serpent-soft whisper, a glance downward revealing small beads of crimson clash against the snowy white like two tides meeting. a broken nail. she let out an exhausted sigh, giving a slow, mindful roll of her sore shoulder before pressing on again.

she was brought about to a familiar meadow, changed now from when she'd last seen it. a careful swipe of her injured paw smeared blood against the ground, but revealed the withered, preserved stem of a wildflower.

she missed their smell.

she slipped low, belly now resting against the cool frost-held earth. there she tended to her paw, gnawing away at the injured nail until the bleeding subsided.

he is obsessed with her he can't help it

the blood pulls him off his line without hesitation.
nose to the snow, breath low and even, he follows the scattered drops where they break the white—fresh, warm, real. far from his valley, yes, but the land does not refuse him. neither does instinct. he moves with purpose, heavy steps measured as he closes the distance.
he finds her low in the meadow, pressed to the frost, tending herself. the smell of iron and old flowers hangs between them.
a single bark cuts the quiet—short, controlled. not a threat. a call.
he steps into view, broad frame unapologetic, tail carried high but still. eyes on her first, then the bloodied paw.
uktark, he says, voice rough with cold and distance, formal as stone. of grey fangs.
a pause. his head dips, slight.
you’re bleeding.

and we love him for it

a familiar silhouette was forged at the edge of the meadow. she knew this scent. that figure. a shadow. her shadow?

there was a certain restlessness about having a man follow her, especially one so imposing. but she was not as wary of him as when they'd first encountered each other. if he'd meant her harm, he'd already had his chance at it.

so when he approached she did not elude him as her instincts so valiantly tried to direct. rather she bit down on her nail — hard and unwavering — until she felt a stinging pinch and tore free the claw from her flesh.

she spit the broken piece off a distance just as he spoke, her eyes dragging upward toward the crown of his towering frame. he spoke about as bluntly as he looked, and she quickly redirected her attention back to her paw at the mention of her bleeding.

"it will heal." a broken nail was an inconvenience at most.

he studies her in silence—eyes lifting to her face, dropping to the paw, then back again. the scent tells him enough, but he waits all the same.
when she doesn’t pull away, he steps closer. careful. his muzzle brushes the air first, a test, before he noses the injured paw proper. warm breath ghosts over torn skin as he inhales, committing the damage to memory. blood. pain. not fatal. not yet wrong.
a low sound leaves him.
mm, he gruffs at last, lifting his head to look at her again. it will.
he lingers a moment longer, tongue daring to ghost upon her bleeding flesh, but then withdraws just enough to give her space, tail settling low behind him.
still, he adds quietly, don’t run on it.

her ears pivotted backward at his audacious step closer, but only for a moment before they surged forward with unabashed surprised at the gentle touch to her paw. she is taken aback, confused, wary, skeptical of touch, and flustered all at once. that had been unexpected, and nephele was unsure if she savored the contact or not.

she pulled away just as he did, readjusting to a sitting position where she could put the majority of her weight on her good forepaw. "you are gentler than you look." it wasn't meant as a compliment, nor a jab. merely an observation.

her eyes drifted to the finer details of him as she took a moment to truly drink in the scents he carried. caribou, elk, crusted blood, a mirage of unfamiliar aromas.

she turned from him after a moment, eyes wandering to the distant burdened ridge line of bearclaw in the background. "you've been following me," she breathed. a statement masked as an unspoken question; why?

her words land deeper than claws ever could.
his ears cant back, not in threat, but something closer to discomfort. he huffs through his nose and turns his head away, gaze fixing on nothing in particular. the line of his jaw tightens, then eases.
hm, he answers, rough and low. not denial.
women had always undone him. not with force, not with challenge—but with softness, with the way they noticed things he tried to bury. it had been his failing. his pull.
he shifts his weight, tail giving a single, subdued sweep behind him.
i look, he admits at last. sparse. honest. because i noticed you.
a pause. then, quieter—almost reluctant.
and because i wanted to.

she drew an airy, whispered breath at his words. she'd expected him to want something from her, not this — whatever this was.

bearclaw faded into a haze as her vision snapped back to his steely features. she knew men like him. words like that. they'd been her ruin before. and with a beat she was remembering times of past, of a time when she might have swooned at such a bold admission. and there lingering in the pitfall of her seaglass eyes was question she would never dare to ask.

would you ruin me too?

there was a quiet pause, and then a thoughtful approving hum. but any words she might have braved enough to speak fled from her tongue the moment she even considered them.

"uktark of grey fangs," she finally let slip, his name tasting grittier than most. "i'm nephele."

uktark hums low in his chest, a sound more felt than heard.
he lowers himself then, large frame settling into the snow so he is no longer towering over her. the ground creaks beneath his weight. his eyes flick, once, to her foot… then back to her face.
hurt to walk, nephele? he asks quietly.
he merely wondered it to himself, but said it aloud nonetheless to gauge the state of her pain. he did not like to see it; regardless if she knew him or not.
for a breath, he watches her the way he watches terrain—measuring what it would take, what it would cost. the bypass rises unspoken in his mind. the path. the shelter. whether she could make it.
his tail shifts once, thoughtful.

she shifted as he lowered himself to her level, eyes wandering from his face to her paw when he finally spoke again. the wound was mostly clotted now, but still raw and aching against the chill of winter. "i'll be fine," she murmured in return, yet didn't aim to stand on it just yet.

she glanced back at him, quiet, thoughtful. "so," she began, almost amused, "are you always this determined to stay close?" it was a playful bout to the overarching question on if he intended to keep following after her.

she had decided she preferred him close — or at least close enough that they could both make good use of each other.

uktark’s gaze lingers on her paw a moment longer than polite, then lifts back to her eyes. he exhales through his nose, a short huff—acknowledgment more than sympathy.
i don’t know medicine, he admits plainly. can’t fix it.
her question draws a flick of his ear. humor—soft, testing. he studies her face, then looks away, as if the answer is obvious enough not to need dressing up.
i have been told i am… protective, he says at last, voice low, almost reluctant.
a pause. snow settles. his tail shifts once behind him.
do you want me to go?

can't fix it. she hadn't expected him to. he owed her nothing. she could give nothing in return. so there was a certain level of appreciation held in him for at least wanting to try.

his next words earn a slow, approving stretch of a smile across her face. protective — yeah, she thought that fitting. "that's not a bad quality to have," she replied softly as her eyes swept over the assembly of scars he carried.

pale ears twitched, a burst of wind ruffling fur and the air between them. "no." how long had it been since she'd been so honest with herself? "your company is appreciated."

how long had it been since she had company to share?

uktark watches her a moment longer, reading the truth in her posture more than her words. the smile stays with him; he doesn’t return it, but he doesn’t turn away either.
snow shifts as he rises partway, then settles again—restless, unsure. talking has never come easy, and lately it feels like lifting stone with bare teeth.
his gaze drifts toward the ridgeline, the cut of the land where the bypass waits between peaks. home, if it can still be called that.
…come with me, he says at last, low and rough. to the bypass.
a paw came to itch at his ear, almost a nervous tick.
you can rest there. heal.
then, quieter—almost an afterthought—
would you?