Fox's Glade someone only you could want

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All right.
C'mere, Wren peels herself away to rest her head on the ground, and in her place, her arms are opened in invitation. The grass is cold, prodding, unbefitting of a bed, but this was where Silvertongue was. And as such, it was good enough for her.
She sniffles, audibly, a harsh sound amidst the hard swallow of ambient summersong. The trembling has not ceased. While she has laid with a handful in this fashion, it has never felt so different, so connected. Never before was it with a woman, a woman who now held a softened heart in her hands.
It's okay, she says, wearily, quietly — and it was.
She would remain there until the morning rolls into mid-noon, and whispered into round-tipped ears are promises to return if she did too.