Hushed Willows as spring opens (touching, skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

It was funny, because Kincaid had been thinking, recently, about how nice it was to have Easthollow to go back to, or this place to visit if his paws grew weary. It hadn't kept him from getting antsy and roving out once more, but it was still nice. Either way, he had no trouble admitting,

"I missed you, too," when she made her own confession. It was silly of both of them, he thought, to be so attached after one fluke meeting, but that was a worry for another day. "I don't think I've ever been good at bein' alone," he went on, still trailing after her, his sloe eyes now sweeping with great interest over the towering brambles. "It's been me an' Nine almost since I left home. Easthollow's been good t'me, but I'm glad t'be with you again."

It felt a little more like companionship than just being among the scents of the others at Easthollow. He'd see about fixing that when he got back, and perhaps he could save himself from this wild temptress, yet.

For now, he was hers to command, and came obediently to poke his nose into the flower she'd indicated. He sneezed, and gave a cheerful wag of his tail. "Smells like a rose," he told her, not quite deadpan, but clearly questioning if there were some greater purpose to the game. Did some of them smell different? He'd never paid much attention.

"What about this one?" he asked, turning to snuffle over one of the lighter blooms that he'd been eyeing earlier. He drew back and seemed thoughtful for a moment, and made a spectacle of checking between the two as if comparing them with great prejudice. "S'what I thought," he concluded. "This one's a rose, too."