Swiftcurrent Creek [m] you know i'll be seeking if you run and hide

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Mi amante.
What was she thinking? How was she feeling?
Maybe no questions needed to be asked. Maybe this was not the time; maybe there never would be one. Or maybe Wren was simply afraid of the answer.
Her muzzle finds a space between rounded ears and for a time she allows herself to forget her own name, who she is, where they have been and where they would be come tomorrow. There is only now, only now. Silvertongue is given a soft squeeze, the fur of her nape smoothed in one soft motion; Wren's head moves back to count the flecks of ocean green in her irises; the trill of crickets while summer comes to an end around them.
Cara mia. Hers. Theirs.
Wren wonders if there would ever be another, and she silently hopes that there never will be.
Maybe they'll finish that walk in the morning.