She knows what it means when he fusses so softly at her, knows those little mumbles and the way he nestles in close to the blue of her skin. He had been up watching the night again, soaked in the patch of starlight that often pooled in the mouth of their den. She breathes in deeply, sighs and shifts so slightly to press her lips to the soft place just behind his little ear. At least he had not left this time, not followed the siren song of the night he seemed to love so deeply. There was nothing worse than waking up to find him gone, to find only cold shadows where he had been tucked against her.
Her mouth wanders so slowly down his neck, nuzzly lips moving along the crest of his neck and just beneath his mane. She moves over his withers and side, the curve of his hip and his soft little belly, grooming all the loose dirt and damp earth from the gleaming black of his skin. It is so easy to fuss over him while he sleeps, to tug loose the tangles in his downy soft mane while the morning creeps closer and closer through the mouth of their home. But when it is nearly at their legs, soft sunshine pooling bright and yellow, she pushes it back again with the shadows that live in her veins.
Morning can wait.
When she is finished with her quiet grooming, she settles her head back over him to draw him close, to let his night stretch on until he has had his fill and the sleep can be chased from those soft blue eyes. She keeps the light at bay, hides the morning with deep cozy shadows and throws faint galaxies up along their walls and across the dome of their ceiling.
