Bearclaw Valley There's nothin' sweeter than my baby

Her awe-struck whisper hadn’t escaped him, nor had the way her lips parted at the sight of the blossoms thriving in the heart of winter. It made him smile—a slow, warm curve of his lips as he watched her.
He moved toward the willow’s roots, settling himself against the massive trunk like it was an old friend. The rough bark pressed against his back, grounding him as he stretched out, legs crossed and head tilted slightly to follow her movements. The sunlight dappled through the branches, catching on the silver in his fur and the lines of his face. He let out a low hum, content.
Come ’ere, he drawled, his voice a gentle rumble that carried easily to her. He lifted his chin, nodding toward the space beside him, the invitation unmistakable. His eyes were steady, soft, yet held that ever-present edge of something unspoken—something deeper.
Got plenty’a room, he added, his tone teasing but not unkind. He watched her with quiet patience, the warmth in his eyes unyielding, as if there wasn’t a place in the world he’d rather be than right there, under the willow, waiting for her.