Swiftcurrent Creek when the moon sang,

Gjalla felt the weight of Morwenna’s words settle over her like a soft cloak. She was accustomed to solitude, to standing apart from others, keeping herself a few steps removed from the tenderness that often accompanied the closeness of kinship. But for once, she didn’t recoil or cringe at the notion. Instead, she allowed it to sit in her chest, allowed herself to feel the warmth of it.

She met Morwenna’s eyes, her own gaze softening, and a subtle but genuine smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Of course,” Gjalla replied quietly. Her tail swayed once, as she approached, stepping closer to Morwenna’s side, letting her gaze drift toward the den. Her body curled around Morwenna's, happy to be the warmth at her back.

It was an unfamiliar comfort, the kind that settled into her bones and coaxed out the weariness she hadn’t noticed until it had been acknowledged. “I’ve seen some new plants along the creek—ones with properties that could ease exhaustion, or perhaps—” She hesitated, thinking of the aches in Morwenna’s bones, “—perhaps ones that might help with your discomfort. I’ll show you in the morning.”

She glanced back at the woman, then, as Morwenna’s tail swayed, her own posture softened in turn. The warmth in the other female’s expression was a rare thing, and Gjalla recognized it for what it was: a fragile moment of connection. Something neither of them had been used to, but both of them quietly needed.

“It does me good, too,” Gjalla murmured, her words low and sincere.