Snowstorm clouds swelled across the sky — soft grey, patient, full.
Inside, the hearth glowed warm gold.
Yuna sat on the floor cushion brushing her hair, lost in thought.
I watched the fire, then looked at her — the light dancing in her eyes like she carried sunrise.
"I made something," I said softly.
I held out a small ribbon — deep red with tiny embroidered fox and wolf threads intertwined, a little charm bead tied at the end.
Hand-stitched, careful, trembling with meaning.
Yuna blinked.
"You made this… for me?"
"Yes."
Her fingers brushed the fabric like it was holy scripture.
"It's… precious," she whispered.
Then, voice barely breath:
"I feel like my heart is going to spill everywhere."
She let me tie it gently into her hair, near her ear.
Her tail wagged. Slowly. Reverently.
Brushing Hair as Devotion
She set her comb down and offered it to me silently.
I knelt behind her.
Slow strokes.
Soft hair.
Steam from tea.
Fire crackling like memory.
She hummed — a low comfort sound, like wolves do when they feel safe.
"You are gentle," she murmured.
"You deserve gentle things."
She swallowed, eyes closing.
Gentle Healing Touch
Later, Hana visited and asked me to try healing touch on a scraped-knee village girl.
Warm fox-light gathered around my hands, soft as first breath after crying.
I pressed lightly near the bruise.
Healing magic pulsed like warm tea in winter chest.
The girl sniffed.
"It doesn't hurt anymore."
Yuna watched, hand over her heart.
"You heal like you love," she whispered to me later.
"Soft. Slow. True."
Her voice shook.
"Do you know how rare that is?"
Spring Festival Conversation
Travelers in town were decorating lantern strings for the upcoming spring festival.
One woman waved at us.
"Will you two attend as a pair?"
Yuna froze.
I blinked.
Our hands were accidentally already touching.
The woman winked and walked off.
Yuna quietly died for the seventh time this month.
I held her sleeve so she wouldn't collapse into snow.
"If we attend," I said quietly, "I would like to go with you."
She stared.
Trembled.
Flushed to her ears.
"I— I would like that too," she whispered.
Storm-Night Blanket Nest
The snowstorm arrived at dusk, soft and thick, the world muffled.
We built a blanket nest near the hearth — pillows, tea, the gentle crackle of logs.
Yuna curled against me, both of us under one wool blanket.
Her head rested on my shoulder; my tails draped around us like furred wings.
Wind sang softly against the windows.
"This feels like the world disappeared," she murmured.
"Everything except here."
"This is enough world for me," I whispered.
Future Without Saying Love
We talked in quiet voices, half-dreaming.
Yuna toyed with the hair ribbon.
"Sometimes," she murmured, "when I think about the future… I see you in all of it."
She didn't realize what she said until silence answered her.
Her eyes widened in horror.
"I— wait— I didn't— I mean—"
"You see me," I repeated softly.
"In your future."
She nodded, cheeks pink.
"Always."
I tucked a blanket corner around her.
"You are in mine, too."
The storm outside softened.
Her heartbeat steadied against me.
"Get Married Like Storybooks?"
The little boy from before knocked, red-cheeked from snow play.
"Miss Akira, Miss Yuna — when you grow up, will you get married like storybook heroes?"
Yuna choked on air.
I blinked slowly.
The boy continued, utterly sincere,
"You already sit together like married people."
"Married?" Yuna squeaked.
"Yes," I said calmly. "Perhaps."
The boy nodded triumphantly and ran off.
Yuna stared at me like I had shattered the moon.
"P-perhaps?" she squealed.
"It is not forbidden," I said softly.
"And I do not think I would dislike a future where we belong like that."
Yuna made a noise like a kettle about to explode.
I wrapped tails around her instinctively to soothe her.
She melted into me, flustered puddle.
Almost the Words Again
We lay down among cushions, fireplace warming our faces, hands meeting under the blanket.
Her head tucked beneath my chin.
Her breath brushed my throat.
"I—" she whispered.
I swallowed.
"I—"
Neither of us forced it.
Instead our fingers intertwined tighter, like two hearts holding hands.
We fell asleep like that — wrapped in snow-quiet, tails and blankets tangled, warmth shared, future breathing softly between us.
Not yet spoken.
Already known.