Bearclaw Valley pickin' me a bouquet of dogwood flowers

That which troubled her was not something he could pick up on, not entirely. He assumed her apprehension to be because of what had happened, what the man had done to her; that he played a role in it all, aside from having not been around to protect her, had yet to dawn on him, and it was unlikely that it might ever.

Eventually, his onslaught of kisses ceased and he did little more than tilt his head, tail flipping back and forth with content as she nibbled. He wanted so desperately to lay against and protect her, easily willing to give his own body if it meant shielding hers, but he refused to move. No matter how forceful his thoughts were, encouraging him to get up and move closer, he remained where he was, accepting what attention she had to offer—he’d tried to, anyways.

Before long, he rose slowly to his feet and simply stood there, staring down at her. “Come with me,” he encouraged, swinging his head to the side as he spoke. He wanted to take her a bit deeper into the valley, away from the view of the entrance and towards a place he once believed was his only home, so long ago.