Porcupine Ridge ◊◊;

geirmundr ate without urgency, without words, hunched over the fish like a creature carved from stone and habit. he noticed the way she traded portions without asking, her eyes glancing sidelong but her paws sure. he did not stop her. they were equal in the meal, if not in words.
when his share was gone, the big man rose, joints creaking faintly beneath the weight of his own silence. the girl scratched out her hollow, fidgeting with roots and hiding want behind work—but he said nothing to disturb her. instead, he stepped away, paws heavy against the moss and soil, following the quiet trail that led again to the stream.
the water greeted him cold and clear, and he entered without ceremony, ducking until his shoulders vanished beneath the rippling glass. the grime of travel, the crust of old blood, sweat and dirt clung to him like ghosts. he washed them now—slow, methodical, letting the current carry them away. claws combed through his thick coat. the breath he let out was deep, controlled. a ritual, not a luxury.
he did not glance back toward the juniper bush.