Bearclaw Valley Cat Eyes

aurelian’s belly is warm and full, stretched tight from nursing, and he lies sprawled in a heap of limbs and soft fur. one paw rests possessively over arlen’s back, though there’s no true thought behind the motion—only instinct, only closeness.
something feels different. it isn’t loud or sudden, but it draws him.
his head lifts, slow and clumsy. eyelids flutter. the light stings at first, blinding and strange, and yet he doesn’t look away. his eyes, wide and impossibly blue, blink hard against the haze of shapes and glow that fill the den.
he stares. mama!
her face, though still blurred by newborn vision, feels known. he does not know why, but the sight of her fills his chest with something warm and heavy. a sound escapes him, small and unsure, something like a hum or a whimper as he wiggles closer, pushing over arlen and nudging at the bearcub without hesitation.