Fox's Glade ocean eyes

Cole’s paws stilled as the grave was completed, its edges rough but sufficient for the starling’s final rest. He stepped back, his large frame giving the small woman space, sensing her fragility in the way her voice barely lifted over the wind. Her question lingered between them, fragile and uncertain, like the life she mourned.

He watched her nudge the bird into place, her gentleness a stark contrast to his own calloused nature. When she murmured her prayer, he inclined his head respectfully, though he didn’t intrude on the quiet moment.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and steady, carrying the warmth of a southern drawl that softened its gruffness. Name’s Cole, he offered simply, his gaze steady but kind. He didn’t answer her other question directly—didn’t say that helping her was just what he knew to do, just a part of who he was. Instead, he rumbled lightly, Reckon everyone could use a hand now and then.

Stepping back further, he gave her the room to process her grief and compose herself. It wasn’t his place to press, but he stayed nearby, his presence a quiet assurance that she wasn’t alone. He glanced toward the lake, his posture easy but ready, should she need more from him.