Wheeling Gull Isle a place called kokomo

Neptune eyes widened at Komodo’s incredulous inquiry, and Coelacanth poked the wet of her nose rather insistently into the convex swell of his thickly-furred ear to fight the rush of heat that crept invisible into the hollows of her cheeks. She remained there for a heartbeat or two, then drew back and drew breath. “See,” she uttered solemnly, trying to remember the way his mouth moved when he talked. The little Groenendael had spent most of her youth not talking, and as she could hear perfectly she had no reason to pay special attention to the way a wolf’s mouth might shape certain syllables. “Big ears,” she knew, started off with the lips tightly pressed together; and her expression was quite possibly comical as she tried to look down the tapered bridge of her own nose — crossing her lovely cerulean eyes in the process. “Seebee,” she whispered, shaking her head at the wrongness of it.

Her expression was sweetly bashful, and if she’d been human, Coelacanth would have ducked her head and twisted her fingers together in a fit of nervousness — but she could see it now, the word produced with infinite care. Without looking at Komodo, she buried her face in his ruff and her mouth against the base of his ear. Then, very softly, so softly he might not have heard it if she’d not said it directly into his ear, “Sleepy,” she whispered slowly, the first consonant blend falling with odd hesitation from her virginal lips. “Sleepy — sleepyhet.”