Bitterroot Valley drag me under

rain gathered on his shoulders, tracing down the ridges of old scars. golden eyes found her first—thin, sharp thing that she was—half-swallowed by the lake’s reflection. for a moment, he only watched her, chest rising slow, as though afraid she might vanish again if he spoke too soon.

then, low and rough through the rain, his voice came.

twitch, he said, the name a breath more than a word. you gone long.

he came closer, not close enough to crowd her, but close enough that his scent—river and stone and pine—folded into hers. his brow furrowed, though relief softened the hard set of his face.

where go? he asked simply, the weight of a month in the question.

or rather,

why did she go?