Stavanger Bay losing feeling's getting old

velen was used to being needed, but in a much different way than he was now. his presence was necessary; he was a pillar of stormrift, a carrier of their great lineage. he was integral in a removed fashion. now, as dalia pressed herself toward him, arching her muzzle beneath his chin, the feeling of being needed was a warm coal that collected a glow in his belly.
gingerly first, then with a growing confidence, velen ducked his head to preen her ears gently, a low rumble sounding low in his chest.  he had never touched anyone like this before; the fine-boned girl at his side had done much to usher out the boy's softer side, and for that he was grateful. eyelids fell to half-mast as he feathered his lips along the velveteen curves of first one aud, then another.
more than her usual grooming of him, or he of her; it was a sharing. and for the first time, velen allowed himself the luxury of feeling what he had already kept reined in his heart for so long. dalia belonged to ford, or so he had believed. he had seen his skeletal-marked brother look upon her; he sensed in his soul that the massive warsaw creature saw the seabloom as something worthwhile.
and so velen had forced himself to regard her only as a friend, a companion — now he knew it had only been a lie, one he told himself to keep from hurt or resentment. and not a strong one. had he always loved her? he wasn't sure, and right now, it didn't matter to the ceto.
only dalia mattered, only the sensation of her silken forehead beneath his muzzle, the scent of crushed flowers that followed her always now filling his senses, and the words he did not recognize reverberating in his skull like a hymn. velen was wholly content, to be at her side, to touch her; the night would not be long enough for him to experience this feeling fully.