[Seasonal Event] no spring skips its turn

Amalia Still sitting on a shelf and never Never seen the sun shine brighter His hand is warm on her sensitive nose, rough from use and a life of labor. She wonders what stories the lines of them tell, what she might divine from those large palms... and steps back, abashed, looking up at him through wide, intelligent eyes. He is surprised by but not resistant to her assistance, and as Amalia begins to dig that playful energy returns in full. How long has it been since she properly gardened, hands and face streaked with dirt, fingernails stained brown and smelling of soil? Here, an opportunity to get her hands - her paws - dirty, to unsheathe the weapons she so carefully wields. Fervently she burrows into the earth, great claws making easy work of it, tearing and ripping, deadly and strong. She only looks up a moment, when Deimos speaks his thanks. With an eager nod and another "Mrrrow!" the leopardess replies, her black lips curling in an odd, toothy grin. She would like to say more - to thank him, to praise him, to ask him why, why is he doing this for her, what does he see in her, what debt does he think to repay? But to do so would be to return to human form, with all the exposures and insecurities that implies. She is not ready for that, yet. Her hole having taken on suitable depth, Amalia again approaches Deimos, long tail raised in curious greeting, large body moving in more bound than stalk. As he works she sits beside, grooming her paws with a long pink tongue before lying upon the grass, close enough to feel his warmth, the very ends of her long, luxurious fur perhaps brushing his thigh. With rapt attention the leopard watches, content, for a moment, to be like this: not the anxious baker, the fearful child, but something fearsome and winsome and equal to him, worthy of being his friend. And it feels like me on a good day