Hushed Willows tomorrow never comes until it's too late

While he knew Reverie reigned in this pack, he had assumed, almost, that she would steer clear of him—particularly after their last interlude. So when she swept forward, the man steeled himself—that careful mask of his sliding to place, indirectly and without thought.

As she came closer, he noticed how harrowed she seemed. Eyes red—exuding exhaustion in a way he felt particularly sympathetic with. But he spoke nothing for now. Both had made it sure the other understood they wanted nothing to do with one another—but Mae’s invitation had lead to the inevitable.

She spoke, the reason for her sorrow clear and he found himself deflating within at this—Mae had lost yet someone else. Inwardly, he cursed.

Outwardly, he placed the herbs at his fore paws—gaze sweeping over the slim woman. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he offered, sincerely, and yet with the knowledge that the words would fix nothing that was wrong in this moment—particularly, bringing their loved one back or giving them any semblance of peace. Words for such a heartache were empty.

Any other time, he would have offered to come back at another time. To give the grieving pack space—but he couldn’t. Not if it came with a chance of Mae feeling as if he did not care. Instead, he nudged the skin of herbs toward her, inclining his muzzle slightly. “This is from our pack’s garden.” The garden his ex-wife had begun—had also had him work on for endless hours.

“I can stay nearby if Mae needs some time before she sees me…”  He didn't dare ask who had passed and who the man was to his daughter—likely a far better man than him.