Phantom Hollow As fresh as a daisy,

Hunst watched her prance over, a shadow of something playful in her stride, the ghost of someone unburdened. His gaze drifted down as she dropped beside him, stretching with her familiar ease. But he could see it—that glint of weariness buried beneath the momentary brightness in her eyes, a reflection of the ever-present ache that softened her voice, even now.

He dropped the deer leg before her, a wordless offering. Coming from his own deer pelt satchel of leftovers. It thudded against the ground, faint splatters of blood marking the dirt, an echo of the hunt that had brought it down. Reverie was always one for talk, for the dance of questions. But tonight, Hunst felt little inclination to indulge her curiosity, only to offer the solid comfort of his presence, the assurance of what he could control.

He lowered himself slowly onto his haunches, silent as the gathering dusk, holding her gaze with his stony stare. What did she expect him to think of? Of the trails they'd left behind, of the cold air pressing in on them, of the restless weight of vigilance that, like her, he couldn’t shake? He grunted, but it wasn’t irritation; it was understanding.

Thinking you need to eat.

Hunst wasn’t one for brooding, but he felt the loneliness that lingered between her words, a pull as familiar as any bruise. He leaned forward, resting his broad muzzle just above her head for a moment, before drawing back.