Swiftcurrent Creek that gun is loaded, but it's not in my hand

A shake of her tension, it seemed, and then she was forward, nose against him in the air, trying to pull forth the answers to the questions she did not speak to him—a crooning growl and a nudge to him—another nudge.

Another.

The corner of his lips tilted upward—his own muzzle grazing forward to bump against her own in camaraderie. A press of his forehead to hers for only a stolen moment should she allow it before he lifted himself up—giving his own pelt a shake, though nothing as simple could allow this grief to flee him.

Momentum, that was all he had right now.

And he turned, crooning an invitation—a round of the borders. Perhaps a hunt. A spar.

Anything physical to help ease his mind to a comfortable numbness.