Wheeling Gull Isle sea fever

She held her breath, waiting for — well, she didn’t quite know. For a creature like Coelacanth, who had lived the entirety of her life seeking the approval of others, every action was followed by an involuntary period of intent anticipation and keen observation. This unusual pattern of constantly asking permission and seeking reassurance made befriending others clunky and uncomfortable — but fortunately for her, King and Cascada seemed to be patient with her myriad flaws. “It’s okay, Pookie,” he told her, his voice as soothing as it always was, and her tufted ears tipped forward upon her skull with unfeigned interest.

There was something almost sad about the new solemnity in King’s timbre, and the skittish little wolfdog didn’t know how to bring the mood back up. Maybe she’d known how to do that once, but now — well, things were different now. She was different now. She melted into a puddle beside the younger male and mimicked his posture, rolling onto her back despite the vulnerable position it put her in. There was a slightly bewildered expression on her face as she craned her neck to match him. It was a very strange game, but she was sure she could learn to play it if it would make him happy again. Then, although it trembled, she deliberately reached out. If King allowed it, she would press her paw to his, palm to palm.