Phantom Hollow Made of gold, I'll never love a

Except that Dusty Rose did not fend for himself. Or, well, he did. For a moment or two. It was hard to fight the instinct to head-butt her back (hard!) and for a while, he didn't even try. But then, he found himself flat on his back and fully smothered with love, and — bruising as it was — he couldn't think of anyplace better to be.

"Love you," he coughed, his voice muffled beneath her fluff and lungs crushed beneath her weight.

From this vantage, he did his best to return her affections, his tail whisking wildly through the dirt all the while. He gnawed on what was near enough to be gnawed and held on tight with his still-spindly forelegs. He was bleeding again — not from his scabbing wounds, but from his gums where his wife's hard skull had knocked against his muzzle with just a little too much affection. Dusty Rose loved every second of it, likewise feeling as though he'd come home after a long, long time on the road.