Wapun Meadow iii. [m] sunglow and wildflower petals

He gave her neither yes nor no. Only a bending of the head, the snapping of a stem. Power. Flower.

He rested the petals on her paws.

Oh.

Wind flower?

Jasmine still had no idea what he meant by that, or if he knew he was just stringing random words together. Did she have the heart to tell him? How could she? Her friend seemed so proud of the words he'd come up with for her, and they seemed important to him, in some incomprehensible way. She really couldn't --

It was in that span of a second’s thoughts that his nose grazed her, and she felt what must be lightning zap through her, from the place his muzzle brushed her, all the way up and through her sternum, until the electricity exploded in her chest and reached back down, all around.

Her breath caught in the pulse of his fire. That gentle hearth that wrapped about her, far sweeter than the flames of any other man she’d met.

Wind Flower, she breathed. Her. He had given her a name? And had he left to find words for the words in his head? He had given her whispers, but now, Wind Flower, she said again, hushed and urgent as she stared at him, with his wildfire fur and evergreen eyes, say it again. With words, and not whispers.

She had to know what his voice looked like.