Bearclaw Valley A war in my name

tvar watches ameline with a faint flicker of amusement, catching the playful light in her eyes as she responds to his teasing. her coy grin earns a soft huff from him, something close to a chuckle but held back, tempered by his respect for the boundaries he knows must remain unspoken.

when she brushes her muzzle against his shoulder, mingling her scent with his, he stiffens for the briefest of moments—not out of discomfort, but from a quiet awareness of the gesture's familiarity. still, he allows it, lowering his head slightly in acknowledgment. there’s no misstep in his response, only a silent understanding of what it means to exist within a pack, to share space, to reaffirm bonds.

“you’ve got a knack for making orders sound like invitations,” he says, deflecting the moment with ease as she moves ahead. her command to find food is met with a quick nod, and tvar follows at her side, his steps measured, his focus already shifting toward the meadow and the scents that drift on the breeze.

would love 4 these two to interact again soon!