Arrow Lake [m] cool about it

wren made her own moves, at first leaning toward the grizzled man and then extending herself to the boy. it was strange, getting so close to another. primal. nothing at all like what existed between she and silvertongue.
she notices the glimmer in her wife's eye that lingers on the boy, the one smelling of cedarwood and salt. but he is nervous. unwilling, it seemed, almost. was he only going to waste their time?
the elder one reminded her, strangely, of akavir. he smells of freshwater and pinesap, and when a pang of recognition should have hit her, she chose to bite it down. he offers an eager rumble and wren follows with a press of her nose to his cheek.
one arm slinks over the shoulder of her wife, and a longing, hungry gaze flicks between both men. do not make me wait. do not make me regret this.