Qeya River weeping willow

she smells him before she sees him. ash and cedarwood, heavy on her nose but hardly unwelcome.

she does not answer him immediately. silence stretches between them, but it is not rejection. if she wished to be alone, he would know. instead, she pushes out low hum that ends on an exhale—does not bother with words. her body uncoils to create space at her side.

a wordless invitation. he does not hesitate, but he is slow to join her. she shifts, just enough that her shoulder barely brushes his. it is not much, but it is enough.

"tired," she mutters.