Wapun Meadow in the way you're walking,

tvar watches her closely, his sharp blue eyes catching the faint curl of a smile on her lips. her words, light and teasing, brush past his ears, and though he doesn’t return the grin outright, there’s a flicker of amusement in his gaze. “is that so?” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “quicker than me, aye?” the corner of his mouth twitches, though his tone doesn’t betray whether he takes the challenge seriously or not.

it’s just as well.

taaqtuq qaqqaq. the words roll from her tongue and though he doesn’t know their meaning, he doesn’t care. she could call him anything, and he’d let her. the corners of his mouth tug upward, but he doesn’t let it show—not fully. instead, he huffs faintly, dismissing the question he might have asked. it doesn’t matter what she calls him, not really. what matters is that she calls him at all. that she turns to him, looks at him, shares her words with him. corny, perhaps, but it’s the truth he doesn’t dare voice aloud.

call me whatever you like, he says finally. his eyes flick to hers, catching the playful light in her gaze, and he feels the faintest pull in his chest, an ache he doesn’t quite know how to name. perhaps it’s the season. perhaps it’s her. he’s never been one to dwell too much on what drives him, only that he moves forward, that he doesn’t falter. but rala—she’s different. she’s more than the playful smiles and clever words she offers him. he can sense it, though he hasn’t yet seen it all. and he wants to. he wants to see her, all of her, to know what lies beneath the beauty and confidence that cloak her. it’s a desire he doesn’t entirely understand, but it’s there, strong and insistent, growing with every step they take together. he hums, as if debating whether or not to reveal to her the meaning of his nickname. he finds he cannot resist her and he leans close to nudge her by the ear, letting his warm breath and speech wash over her. it means... snowbird. he smiles.

he leans his head back then, only to find himself looking into her eyes for a brief moment. daring her to meet his gaze back. you are pale as the winter mountains i was born upon. and whimsical as the birds we loved. he explains. for a moment, it makes him think of his own companion. wherever bran was, he hoped the crow was safe. happy. warm. and he hoped, that perhaps one day, they should meet again.

as they press on, the scent of the deer grows stronger, and he forces himself to refocus, to fall into the rhythm of the hunt. but even as his ears swivel to catch the faintest sound of movement, as his nose works to pinpoint their prey, he can’t fully shake the weight of her there, at his side. it clings to him. she is many things he is not: light where he is heavy, open where he is guarded. rala, he says her name firmly, drawing her attention as his tone turns serious for a moment. we’ll get the deer. and he glances at her briefly before adding, but you are not satisfied easily. a hunt’s just a start, isn’t it? — he knows she will realize he is not just speaking of the hunt.