Deepwood Weald the only ring i want buried with me are the ones around my eyes

A smile tugs at his lips at Midar's reciprocation, and he pauses to offer another playful nip between kisses. His muzzle travels lazily through his lover's fur, stopping to preen gently at the place between his ear and cheek. He finds himself so intoxicated by Midar's scent that he almost misses his next words. Almost. His heart clenches and he pauses, pulling away slightly to look at Midar as the phrase turns over and over in his mind. Be my mate. It isn't something he'd ever expected to hear from his lover — or anyone, really.
Your — mate? The words spill from him before he can stop them, and he swallows hard, glancing away briefly. It'd never occurred to him that anyone might want to be shackled to him forever; what if Midar decides one day that he's made a mistake? He can't help but wonder, too, if either of them are even the marriage type; he's never given the concept much thought, too deep in his assumption that it could never happen. Even now, the idea seems so far-fetched that he can't help adding: Me? He swallows the urge to question Midar further, gaze flitting over his features a little anxiously as he waits for his lover to confess that he'd been joking, or that perhaps he hadn't thought it through entirely before saying it. There's no way this is real.