Bearclaw Valley pickin' me a bouquet of dogwood flowers

Whilst his friend was just making her way into the valley, he had started trekking towards the entrance. The lack of presence—the sight of her, her scent—within the valley walls kept him from being able to ease away from his concern; he didn’t like her being so close to the outside world, so far from protection, especially after everything. But his disliking of the situation alone did not allow him to force her to remain at his side. It was, in part, due to everything that he couldn’t do that, worried about pushing things too far and making her leave again. So he kept his desires to himself, resisting the urge to drag her deep into the valley each time he saw her.

The pathway was within his line of sight when he noticed a mass between him and it, moving towards the territory’s heart. At first, he bristled and his pace increased, unable to see her features from where he was. Yet the moment he realised who it was, his fur smoothed down and he gave a few slow sweeps of his tail, the corners of his lips twitching with the threat of a smile as he proceeded towards her. And, for a moment, he forgot about everything and did not slow as he made his approach, attempting to greet her by rubbing his muzzle along her cheek, the flowers offered little attention—they could not compare to seeing her there, away from the entrance and back in their home.