Bearclaw Valley bluegrass

Cole felt the weight of her plea settle into his bones like something inevitable, something right. His lips quirked slightly before he bent down, pressing his muzzle against hers, returning her kiss with quiet intent. She spoke of beauty, of a future beneath the willow, of the sound of the river lulling them to sleep, and for a moment, he allowed himself to see it through her eyes.
It would be theirs.
Without a word, he stepped past her, his broad frame casting a shadow over the frozen ground. He studied the base of the willow, the way its roots curled deep into the earth, anchoring it firm against time and tide. A good place. Strong. Sheltered. He let out a low hum of approval, then pressed a heavy paw into the cold soil, testing it.
Yeah, he finally murmured, voice gruff but certain. It’ll be beautiful.
And with that, he began to dig. Slow, methodical movements, his strength cutting through the earth with ease. It wasn’t the first den he’d made, but it was the first one that mattered. Pebbles scattered, dirt churned beneath his paws, and every motion carried the quiet weight of devotion.
For her. For them.
His heart.