Whitebark Stream Lumiere, darling.

the corners of her muzzle curve upward in a grin, her leathered nose poking at his shoulder playfully. despite it all, the deaths, the disappearances, he has remained, steady and unchanging. sometimes, she almost expects to wake up form this, alone again, for surely something, someone as good as him had not come into her life to stay. everything else had been taken or left, but Artyom; even in her moments of fear, of worry, something told her he was the exception. 

"you have," she murmured, "with you, our family — I'm happy. more happy than I've been in months, years. you — I love you, Artyom." it was something she did not think her voice could ever fully express, even as she pressed near to him, chest full not with grief, or guilt, or loss as it had been so often, but bright and brimming with warmth.