Morningside Cuesta isn't hope an animal?

He ducked his head when she turned toward him, his ears flying back against his head. The gesture was instinctive, submissive - meant to fly a white flag rather than conceal him further into the grasses. A moment passed, during which he contemplated the probable implcations of such a gesture coming so naturally in this situation. He would always fear her, he supposed. Not for her strength, but for his own weaknesses.

As long as she would have him, this would be his life: Push and pull. Joy and sadness. Fast and slow.

Fear.

Grayday belly-crawled a few steps before he found the strength to stand, and even then, he moved forward with a slowness that was almost painful to his aching limbs. The urge to rush toward her was equal with the urge to run away, and the male could do little but take on step at a time and keep his eyes on her familiar form, something between a plead and a command written all over his face.