Bearclaw Valley and was buried in a tomb

;;o;;

tvar stills, her touch melting the tension wound tight in his chest. for a breath, two, he does not respond. only leans into her, grounding himself in her warmth.
then he exhales—a low, steadying sound. not relief, not quite. but something close. something anchoring.
his eyes meet hers again, softer now, glassy with a feeling he doesn’t often name. gratitude. loyalty returned.
thank you, he signs simply.
he presses a kiss to her brow. then we will go. when the time is right.