Bearclaw Valley [m] burning skies

tvar stirs from sleep, the warmth of her presence beside him a quiet reassurance even before his eyes fully open. hazel eyes crack open, settling on her for a beat longer than intended, his thoughts clouded with fragments of old expectations and new realities. he moves, then, albeit slowly; the bulk of his form shifting into a lounging position. as he leans closer to her, his muzzle brushes hers, a kiss pressed to the bridge of her nose.

his tail stirs, wagging faintly behind him, though his thoughts are heavier than his actions might suggest. if this had been home—if he were still vahaelarr crownore, prince of winterhelm—this would’ve been forbidden, a reckless mistake that his honor would demand he rectify. but here, there is only freedom. still, there’s a pang of guilt buried deep in his chest. it rises like bile in his throat. yet, as his gaze sweeps over her and the peace that lingers in the lines of her face, he forces it down.

this is not home.

this is not the life he left behind.

he isn’t that man anymore.

how’re you feeling? the question is simple. tvar has no illusions about what this was—or wasn’t—but he can’t help the way his mind lingers on her.