That’s what I tell myself as I slide in next to her. Let me have this one indulgence.
The first few nights, I lie rigid as a board beside her, hyperaware of every breath, every small movement. Gray seemsunbothered by my tension, occasionally shifting to ensure I'm warm enough, her tail sometimes brushing against my leg in what I hope is sleep rather than deliberate torment of my already frayed nerves.
By the fourth night, exhaustion wins over propriety, and I find myself relaxing into the surprising comfort of her presence. She radiates warmth like a living fire, and despite everything the elders taught me about the dangers of monsters, I've never felt safer. When I wake on the fifth morning with my hand buried in the soft fur of her chest, her arm curved protectively around me, I don't immediately pull away.
"Good?" she asks, those ever watchful mismatched eyes studying my face with an intensity that makes my stomach flutter.
"Good," I manage, though my voice comes out smaller than intended.
It becomes a routine after that. We share meals, she listens to my rambling stories about village life with rapt attention, and when darkness falls, we curl together in her nest. I tell myself it's practical, necessary for survival, but I'm a terrible liar even to myself.
The shift happens gradually, then all at once. Gray begins offering me small gifts – interesting stones, wildflowers that somehow still bloom despite the approaching winter, a particularly soft piece of fabric she's found somewhere. When I thank her, she makes a rumbling sound deep in her chest that I realize is purring. The first time she deliberately nuzzled into my palm when I pet her fur, my heart nearly stops.
"Maris," she says one evening, and hearing my name in her deep, careful voice sends warmth pooling in places I try very hard not to think about. "Beautiful."
I laugh, a sound somewhere between hysteria and genuine mirth. "I'm covered in dirt and wearing the same dress I've had on for weeks. I'm many things, but beautiful isn't one of them."
She tilts her massive head, studying me with that unnerving intensity again. "Beautiful," she repeats firmly, as if my protests are irrelevant to the truth she sees.
That night, when she pulls me closer in sleep, I don't pretend it's just for warmth. When I wake with my face pressed against her neck, breathing in her scent of pine and something wilder, I don't immediately move away. And when her claws very gently stroke through my hair, I let myself lean into the touch.
"Gray?" I whisper into the darkness.
"Yes?"
The question I want to ask gets stuck in my throat. Instead, I press my lips to the soft fur at her throat – barely a kiss, more like a breath against her skin. She goes very still beneath me.
"Maris," she says, and there's something different in her voice, rougher. "Want?"
Do I want? The question should terrify me. By all rights, I should be planning my escape, not considering... this. Whateverthisis. But her claws are tracing gentle patterns on my back, and she's looking at me like I'm something precious, something worth protecting rather than conquering.
"I don't know," I admit. "I've never... you know, with anyone. And certainly never with..." I gesture vaguely at her form.
"Slow," she promises, and the careful way she says it makes me think she understands more than she usually lets on. "Only what you want."
When she very slowly, very carefully cups my face in one massive paw, I don't pull away. When she leans down to press her forehead against mine, I close my eyes and try to steady my racing heart. And when she starts trailing gentle kisses down mythroat, her tongue warm and surprisingly soft against my skin, I finally admit to myself what I've been trying to ignore.
I want this.
I want her.
"Gray," I breathe, and her ears prick forward at the change in my tone. "I... yes. But slowly. Please."
Her rumbling purr vibrates through her chest and into mine as she continues her careful exploration, moving lower with infinite patience. When her claws catch the hem of my skirt, she pauses, looking up at me with those colorful eyes.
She doesn’t pull on my skirts, although I know she could. She could do anything she likes, but she’s asking, begging, to taste me.
And gods help me, I want to let her.
Is it loneliness? Or is this simply the first time that I’ve ever felt love from another person, seen the adoration in their eyes, and felt safe enough to be vulnerable. I squeeze my thighs together with a gulp, then nod slowly.
Gray’s ears prick, and I feel her tail slap my leg as it wags, her massive body sinking down my legs as she lowers herself.
“Carefully,” she rumbles out.
She slows as her claws grip my skirts, pulling them up, but there’s no pain, just the warmth of her tongue working its way oh so slowly up my thighs.
Each slow swipe of her tongue across my skin sends shivers up my spine and goose bumps racing across my skin. I shudder out a breath as she inches closer, the anticipation building within me.
