Qeya River weeping willow

he doesn't stir when her tongue rasps against his throat.

the warmth of it contrasts the chill biting through the den. fleeting, but it lingers.

he exhales slow, steady. are you thinking about it?

his crimson eyes flick toward her, searching. if she wanted to speak of it, she would. if not, he would not push. the man shifts closer still, brushing his nose lightly along the curve of her neck.

silent comfort in the storm.