Bearclaw Valley bluegrass

Cole listened, his heart softening with every word. The idea of hunting together—of her skinning a pelt with delicate care, making something they could share—warmed him. She wanted to give back. To stand beside him, not just beneath his protection. He admired that about her—her gentle spirit, but also the quiet strength she didn’t always see in herself.
I’d like that, he said, his voice low, steady. Hunting together.
His chin brushed over the top of her head as he held her close, breathing her in. She fit so perfectly against him—like she belonged there, like she had always belonged there. Her words made his chest ache in the best way, and his grip tightened ever so slightly, as if to hold onto this feeling, this moment.
You do, Winslet, he murmured, voice soft but sure. You make me happier than I ever thought I could be.
He shifted slightly, so he could meet her eyes, his own gaze full of quiet affection. I want this—with you. All of it. The den, the hunts, the quiet nights by the river. You and me.
There was a finality to his words—a promise. He was hers, and he wanted her to know it.