Bramblepoint i take my whiskey neat

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his jaw ticks once, slow and sharp, like a blade grinding back into its sheath. her voice slides against his ears like silk dragged over a wound—too soft, too smooth for a place like this. her question hangs there, smug and coiled, and he doesn't smile, but something in his posture loosens—just a touch. thank the boredom, he mutters, voice worn and guttural, tinged with something that might've been humor if it wasn’t so tired. his eyes stay on her, heavy-lidded and wolfish, dragging over the curl of the berry against her mouth, then up to the ice in her stare. wasn’t chivalry. wasn’t curiosity. was a moment i didn’t feel like sayin’ no. his paw lingers at the branch a second longer before letting it go, slowly, like he wants her to feel the weight of it snap back into place. don’t read too deep, sweetheart. this orchard’s full of rot.