Whitebark Stream That's the role of poetry: to say what others cannot utter.

He felt her shift beside him, and for a second he felt panic rise that she might move to depart his company, tired of his plagued thoughts. Artyom tried to be subtle and eyed her sideways, enough to see her instead settle close enough to press her shoulder firm to his in support.

He could've melted at her touch, but managed to remain upright. Leaning into the gesture, and relieved that Dawn hadn't tired of his constant worries, Artyom confessed the answer her question: "I would have you as my mate, Dawn."

It was a moment later that he sought her face, his gaze tentative. It'd been barely a week since they first met, and already they'd dived headfirst into some form of lifelong commitment. How could she be so certain, when he harboured such anxieties? "I know this is sudden. I know you may not even want or be ready for... for that sort of step. It's huge. It's terrifying. But here we are." His ears tilted back, and his brow softened. 

She was beautiful. Ambitious, independent, a free spirit. And he could learn to love her, wholly and with everything he could muster... but now it was his turn to be fearful of her rejection. "I would like for this litter to be born to stability. To a structure they can learn from, and we can learn too," he continued, clearly thinking too far ahead but too afraid to let the topic fester in his mind for much longer. "Forgive me," the ranger told her with an awkward hint of laughter, "I am too forward."