Porcupine Ridge ◊◊;

carved from the mountain itself—water trailing down his coat in silver rivulets, muscles shifting beneath thick, soot-dark fur as he climbed the bank. he did not look to her. not directly. but he saw her—saw the way she curled, the way her breath softened as if sleep had come, though not fully. not yet.
he shook once, slow and heavy, sending droplets scattering like rain across stone.
then he walked a short distance—not far, not close—and settled beneath a leaning spruce. the earth there was damp, cold, but he did not mind. he had slept in worse, though he would not sleep now.
his head rested on crossed paws, but one eye remained slivered open, fixed on the edges of the clearing where shadow gathered.
he did not watch her, not outright.
but he was aware. of her breaths. of her stillness.
and if she chose to rise and bathe, once she believed he slept, he would not stir.
he was not made for softness, but he could offer space.
he would keep the watch.

barks