
He had told her a story.
That was how she had come to like him, how she had decided that she was okay with his quiet, brooding persona, how she had been drawn in when she had her mother's voice in her head telling her that she was not supposed to be on her own. She had tried to not to be interested in his soft, sure voice but the more that he had spoken, the more that she had forgotten her concerns. His gentleness had washed over her like a wave, accompanied by the tale he told, so that there was no separating the two.
She was hopelessly lost to it all.
And now she was here in the forest, wondering what she had done. She had not told her mother; Strawberry did not regret anything, and if anything felt a mixture of nervous excitement that she too would be a mother, but the hesitation was still there.
She decided not to say anything. Not for now, at least, as she wandered alone among the trees, looking for answers she didn't quite know if she wanted or not.