Qeya River ghosts

he hums low in his throat while he follows at her side like a loyal dog.

bad ones? he guessed. he didn’t need her confirmation; the tension in her shoulders, the way her tone clipped at the edges, told him enough.

he glanced at her again, testing the waters, the edge of his smirk tempered by something unreadable. you think too much, gjalla. you should eat. it helps. the barest flicker of humor laced his tone, but it was clear he wasn’t jesting entirely. the hare remained hers, a quiet offering he wouldn’t take back.