Herbalists' Cache hoof trap

her ears tilt back, narrowing at the stiffness in his voice, the way his gaze refuses to linger on her for long, instead drifting restlessly over the den, over her belly, over the snow itself. always moving. always away.
she watches him for a beat, then another. the tension coils, tight and obvious, until finally, softly, her voice cuts through it.
what is it? she asks, brow creasing. she shifts where she lays, turning to face him fully. something weighs you down. tell me.
there is no demand in her tone, only quiet insistence, a gentleness reserved only for him. her gaze softens as she studies him—the flicker of his ear, the taut line of his jaw, the way he lingers at the threshold like a man chased from comfort.