Otter Creek I never thought coyotes essential

There was his answer, Sunspot thought — or maybe it was more of that foolishly-undying hope he'd always held to, that one day Wildflower would wake up and realize he didn't need to be afraid. Not of him. Not of this. He could leave a hundred times, put a thousand miles between them, and still it would never change if only because it never could.

That was the thing about love: in time it drowned out the little hurts and the petty resentment, things that always seem so big when they happen but so small when set next to the reality of losing someone forever, or seeing them hurt, or seeing them lost and in need. In time it swept away the insecurities and the doubts, the what-ifs, the worst case scenarios. Love, in the end, left room only for itself.

He reached out to touch Wildflower's cheek, his nose brushing through the pale fur there softly as if the coywolf were made of glass. I didn't think you would, Sunspot confessed. He let out a small breath. I'm glad you did.

I missed you.

I love you.

His throat felt filled with thorns and saltwater.