Dawnlark Plains First dance

his smirk was quiet. crooked. something low in his throat rumbled with amusement, eyes crinkling at the edges—not with mirth, but something warmer, older.
let's hope, he said, voice low, worn smooth by the glacier winds. can't have cold women on my mount.
he let the words settle like snow.
the closeness didn’t shake her, and that told him enough. she didn’t spook easy. didn’t run when faced with sharp edges. it suited him. in her eyes he saw something restless but grounded, a contrast that pulled at him like the hunt. and faust was a man who chased what he could not easily name.
if you come, he added, softer now, stay long enough to see spring on the ice.
a glimpse of hope in the stillness.