Bearclaw Valley saw death on a sunny snow

he understands selfishness. he’s carried it himself, in the long nights where thoughts of rala consumed him, in the quiet moments where her scent lingered on the snow and his heart clenched tighter than it should. he knows what it is to want, to yearn for something that may never be yours. and yet, to hear her voice it so openly—to admit to wanting him and dolce both—stirs something deeper within him. not anger, not even jealousy. just… ache.

you want us both, he says softly, the words rolling off his tongue with a solemn weight. his voice is steady, but there’s a quiet edge to it, a faint tremor of something unsaid. rala, he murmurs, her name slipping from his lips like a prayer.

he pauses, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. his voice drops lower, rougher. but i won’t share your heart with another. i can’t. it’s not in me. maybe that makes me selfish too. i don’t know. but i’ll tell you this: if you choose me, i’ll stand by your side, through whatever comes. i’ll give you all of me, if you’ll have it. but only if you’re sure.

he steps back then, just enough to give her space, though his gaze never leaves hers. he can see the weight of the decision tearing at her, can feel the tension crackling like frost between them. he knows this isn’t easy. it isn’t easy for him, either. but he cannot bear the thought of being half a man in her eyes. not when he knows what it is to want her wholly, and to be wanted wholly in return.

you don’t have to choose right now, he says, his voice quieter, though no less firm. but when you do, know that i’ll respect it. whatever it is. even if it’s not me. with that, he turns. black paws thudding against the snow, leading him elsewhere. where, he does not know. but away from rala.

exit tvar