Duskfire Glacier deep down, you hide a reason for shame

his scent is grounding, it fills her nose—gloriously overwhelming, a splendid contrast to the scent of iron blood. it makes her ache in ways that had nothing to do with wounds. when the pelt touches her shoulders, she startles slightly—then stills. it’s soft. warm. it smells like snow and fire. like him.

gjalla doesn't speak, not yet. she leans into the press of his tongue, his kiss, lids fluttering shut as her cheek slips along the underside of his jaw. it is tenderness without demand, without pride. a kind of quiet offered only to those you bleed for.

she should tell him thank you. she should ask him what he’s done. what’s to come. instead, her paw finds his, resting lightly over it—seeking, not holding. a question. a tether.