Qeya River weeping willow

he’s insufferable. a hound wrapped in warmth, devoted in a way she doesn’t know how to refuse. it comes to him easily, and he wears it with pride, as if love has never been something to be questioned—only given. “you do not think at all. you are lucky you are pretty.”

her ear flicks at his words, at the gentle push of his nose through her fur, at the quiet insistence of stop thinking. if only it were so simple. but she exhales anyway, falling back into him.

“i don’t think you understand how my mind works.” she murmurs into the slope of his nose, presses a small kiss to the space between his brows.

she settles into the shape of them, runs her snout down the side of his neck. she inhales him and leaves her own scent to mask it.