Bearclaw Valley bluegrass

He led her toward the river, the distant sound of rushing water a steady pulse in the background, soothing in its own right.
When they reached the banks, he stopped, giving Winslet a moment to take in the land before them. The river was strong but not reckless, winding through the valley like a lifeline. The trees bent toward it as if listening to its whispers, and the crisp air carried the scent of fresh water and damp earth.
Cole turned his head slightly, casting a sidelong glance at her, his expression unreadable save for the quiet intensity in his gaze. Pick a place, he rumbled, his voice low, steady. It was her choice, after all. Whatever made her happy—that was what mattered.
pindent]Her excitement, the dreamy lilt to her voice, it was contagious in a way he didn’t know how to name. He watched her with quiet admiration as she spoke of soft bedding, flowers, and their nights spent wrapped up in each other. The way she saw the world—how it softened beneath her gaze—made something tighten in his chest. It was a feeling he wasn’t used to.
When she teased about teaching him how to fish, he huffed, shaking his head with the ghost of a smirk. Guess we'll have t'see, he muttered, but there was no real bite to it.
As she sighed, marveling at the thought of something being theirs, he finally turned to face her fully, his eyes dark and steady. It is ours, he said, firm, certain. Ain’t gotta believe it. It just is.
And then, as if to seal the thought, he reached out and nudged his nose against the crown of her head, a gesture both possessive and grounding. They would build their home here, carve it into the land with their own hands. And it would be theirs.