Qeya River weeping willow

gjalla exhales sharply—something just shy of a scoff. debatable statement, perhaps true, but this was different.

her gaze flickers upward, meeting his crimson eyes in the dim light. soft, always soft for her. they were a contradiction wrapped in fur and fire, and yet, she does not recoil from it. she should, but she doesn't. she leans into it instead, just as she leans into him.

"i think you are underthinking," she concedes, voice low, nearly lost beneath the hush of wind through the trees. "it is common for most people to have some sort of reaction."