The next morning, sunlight shines soft and low over the fox-kin village, the long communal table set up outside for breakfast already crowded with early risers and the smell of something baked and cinnamon-sweet drifting out from the kitchens.
Serenith floats a lazy circle above the far end of it, watching Lucien and Brina deep in conversation, and finds herself, entirely against her better judgment, practically swooning at the sight.
Lucien sits with his chin propped on one hand, elbow braced against the table, leaning in and listening with genuine, undivided attention as Brina walks him through some finer point of wolf-tribe custom, her paws sketching shapes in the air to illustrate whatever she's describing, her whole face shifting rapidly through a dozen small expressions as she talks.
