Sleepy Fox Hollow lächeln

It was all the opposite for Wylla, who had never felt any emotion even close to love in her life besides that for her blood. It would take a lot of time before she would feel it strongly enough to think it, let alone say such a thing—now it was a mere glimmer, and that alone was enough to push aside her thorns and bare the heart within. For now, anyway, the door was open and she was unable to close it. Half of her wanted to, pulled forever by the need to flee these things and keep herself protected, but half of her wanted nothing more than to remain here, and it was that part she heeded.

How on earth, she thought, absurdly, abruptly, are we gonna make it through the coming months unscathed? For she maintained that his wishes for the season to come were selfish and did not want to be just a cog in the machine of it, but knew now he would draw her in like a helpless moth. If a mere dream could unwind her fettered soul then how would she ever escape the pull of nature's imperative when it came time? Especially now that she'd indulged in touch, despite all her misgivings, and found it enjoyable?

She chose to push it from her mind. One day at a time, like she'd told him before. Only those days were fast approaching and she was caught up in the whirlwind of it already, so much so that when his muzzle touched hers, a quiet whistle of a whine was her response. She butted her head against his cheek and pressed her nose to his collarbone, tail wagging slowly behind her, only to quietly reveal, the dream was about you.

He didn't need to know the details—she would not share the details out of humiliation—but something compelled Wylla to say it, in the absence of any other words she could form. She feared it would shatter the moment, but also craved its shattering so things might return to normal, yet she didn't want normalcy now; she was a mess of uncertainties now, whirling about her conflicted brain, anchored only by Mahler's warmth with the certainty that she would stumble if he moved away.