Qeya River weeping willow

she does not answer at first—mostly because she does not know.

she knows he sees it—he sees everything. it unsettles her, but there is no space for anger. he has wedged himself too deep beneath her skin for that.

it was not the kill. not the blood. that had been simple, instinctive; no hesitation, no regret. 

easy. it had been too easy. perhaps that was the problem. it had not shaken her, not rattled the foundations of who she was. she had killed before, she had bloodied her claws—and she would again—but this had been something else. this had been with a purpose, a single-minded certainty that did not waver. She had taken his head between her teeth and ripped. and she had not felt— 

she does not know how to put it into words. not even sure she wants to, really.

he is a grounding force at her side. the woman puffs a breath at his encouragement, lean on me, and she did. Her paws shuffle beneath her, inching closer to realign herself to him until her side was to his belly, cheek pressed back to his throat.

"nothing. i suppose that is the problem."