Bearclaw Valley bluegrass

Cole huffed, stepping back to admire their work, his sharp gaze sweeping over the den they had carved beneath the willow. It was sturdy, well-placed, safe from the elements—everything it needed to be. He wasn’t much of a dreamer, didn’t let his mind wander to far-off hopes and maybes, but damn if he didn’t feel a sense of pride at what they had built together.
His gaze flickered to Winslet as she spoke, her voice filled with a warmth that settled something deep in his chest. Soft pelts for bedding. The thought was nice. The idea of making this place comfortable for her, for them, was something he could get behind.
Furs would be nice, he murmured, voice low and sure.
And then, without much thought, he reached for her, drawing her into the broad plane of his chest. His hold was firm, steady, his chin resting atop her head for a fleeting moment. She was smaller than him, but she fit—perfectly.
His lips quirked in the barest ghost of a smirk, a rare thing, as he murmured, Though there is enough warmth for us both.
There was a finality to it, a promise in the way he held her, the way he let himself lean into her presence. Cole had never been much for words, but this? This he could offer her.