Bitterroot Valley who's never left home, who's never struck out?

The soft sound of her voice carried easily between them, and though her words came in smooth, practiced rhythm, he caught only pieces—family, hunt, trade, love. His ears twitched, and he turned his head to listen more closely.
Mm, he rumbled, deep in his chest, his accent thick as ever. North, yes. Much cold. Big Sky land. Family hunt seals, caribou. Live close. Quiet life.
His eyes softened as she spoke of her own home, of the small comforts she missed. He knew that ache well—the empty space where voices used to be, the long nights when silence felt like loss.
You strong, he said simply. River take many. You still here. His tone carried quiet respect, and a kind of rough tenderness only a man who had lived through long winters could hold.
When her voice drifted to gentler things—to love, to dreams—Sega’s head tilted slightly, and one brow lifted. A faint breath of laughter escaped him, not mocking but surprised, almost fond.
Love, hm? he murmured, golden eyes glinting in the dim. You young, little one. World big. Cold. His gaze lingered on her face, softer now. But dream good thing. Keep heart warm.
He settled beside her again, letting the stillness fold around them. Rest now, Sega said, voice low and steady. Tomorrow, you heal more. Dream… maybe love come later.

fade here for a new one?