Hoshor Plains [m] the tortured poets department

The quirk at the corner of his lip was given—his eyes tracing down to where her paw touched his. Dead parents—it was a club that sucked, but given the years he had with his mom, he was grateful for that, in the very least.

He had no memories of his father.

“I wanted it to work,” he admitted—disliking how it felt like even he realized it was not.

At least, not for him. He held no doubt the wolves of Moonspear were quite comfortable in their ways, and he wondered, idly, if he hadn’t saw his mother… would her words have broken him to this point?

He sighed, turning from her and rolling his shoulders back, trying to ease the tension that crept upward toward him then. “If I try to stay there, I don’t think I’ll ever fit in. If I leave, I won’t see my kids.” A frown, then—wistful, even as he recalled the day watching Acrux try to sneak up on a weasel.