Barrow Fields castles in the sand, cradles in the trees

Coelacanth was shaking her head before he even denied her fully, because she tasted his refusal in the way he weighed the word “home” like it was some foreign currency he didn’t know how to convert — the way the pause drew on for what seemed like a string of forevers — the way he didn’t say no aloud but breathed it into being with the heaviness of his one-eyed gaze.

“Mou,” she pressed in a timorous whisper, leaning forward to nose at his cheek, the quickened whisking of her tail betraying her fear that she might have scared him away. “Wan’ you. Friend,” she told him plainly. She wanted him around and she always would, but she had a but of her own: “no keep you,” she breathed, trying to be reassuring, “show. Show home. My home.” If being on his own was what he wanted, the sheepdog would support him wholeheartedly — but she also wanted to show him the island in case he ever found himself in need of sanctuary.

“Peas?” she begged unabashedly in a silken susurrus.