Qeya River weeping willow

blackfell moves closer, shifting alongside her till their pelts meld. lowering his head, resting it lightly upon hers. breath warm as he tucks her into the curve of his neck; offering quiet comfort in the touch.

he doesn’t speak; there is no need for words. instead, he matches her breathing—steady, controlled. the tension in the den easing as their sides rise and fall in rhythm.

his eyes lift to the stars where cold light flickers above, endless and distant. whatever storms rage within her, he stays.