Sleepy Fox Hollow pumice

Her gentle tug at his forelock, the brush of her round side against his frame—it was a quiet language he understood deeply, a trust rarely given and even more rarely earned.

In response, he lowered his great head, touching softly beneath her chin, a gesture both tender and unbecoming of a mustang. His breath, warm and steady, mingled with hers for a moment, a silent acknowledgment of their shared space and unspoken understanding.

Then, with a soft huff, he stepped aside, motioning with his muzzle toward the shade of a towering oak nearby. Beneath its sprawling canopy, vibrant flowers bloomed, their colors a striking contrast against the earthy tones of the forest floor.

These, he murmured, his voice low but gentle, are for you.

It was a simple offering, but one he hoped would speak to her in the way her quiet gestures had spoken to him.

up to you what kind of flower!