Hushed Willows Take me back to the night we met.

it was not often that boone could escape from reverie in the early mornings. even less common were the days where he woke before, or even with, the sun.
he had risen with a jolt and a pounding heart for reasons even he did not understand. before he shuffled away from reverie's grasp, he had taken the time to cloak her in an extra bedfur and kiss her delicate face with a soft whisper of love you.
as he lumbers from the high ridge where their den was nestled, he took note of the fresh layer of snowfall. winter would not be kind to them, he felt. perhaps now would be a good time to strengthen hearthwood's claim.
while on his route nearing the edge of the opal, his gaze caught the russet-dappled form of wayfarer. hey, kid, he shouts, gesturing toward her with a tilt of his muzzle as he approaches. fixin' to go for a walk? could find some breakfast too, while we're at it.