Heron Lake Plateau Troy, this is Midsomer

I'll take "stuff I am bad at writing and thus takes forever" for $800, Alex.

Or.  The answer was 'or.'  He'd honestly expected her to keep going or swat him back another time first.  But she'd stopped, steadfast and statuesque, just a breath away.  So it was in his court, apparently.  Uhhhh.  So on the one hand, she was enticing and as an inky black moth drawn to an equally dark flame, was this not what he wanted?  On the other, he had like maybe three seconds to try to figure out what was the best approach here.  On the gripping hand, holy hell he was terrified of doing the wrong thing.  Was that why it felt like his heart was trying to claw its way out of his chest?

He wasn't going to think too deeply about it and pushed the rest of the world away.  Quixote took a cautious step forward, slowly leaning in as his as his eyes drank in the finer details of Raven's face, the way what little light there was lit each plane created by the combination of bone, muscle, and fur that perfectly sculpted her.  Though the anatomical details escaped him, the result was certainly pleasing.  She still seemed somewhat ethereal to him, like how time, conflict, and everything else had dared not leave a permanent mark.  How different this world was from the one he left in the fall.

His movements were careful, possibly experimental, like he wanted to give the right answer but had been dozing off when asked the question. That uncertainty was a scary thing, but thrilling just the same.  For all he knew, he'd end up with a second big gouge on the side of his face from this.  Quixote's nose glanced off Raven's mud-specked cheek, then veered onward as he nipped at the corner of her jaw.  Another step followed as he swung his head along to trace her neck, partially open maw gently raking through the thicker fur as he briefly paused at the apex of her scapula, nibbling there a moment as he gauged her reactions and was happy to drown himself in her scent in the meantime.

The closeness in itself was a prize to one as reclusive as Quixote often was, so it was probably unsurprising he was reserved about it all -- too worried about going to far too fast without approval, even if he wanted more.  It was all about Raven, after all, and so she was his guide.  If she was a creature of refined artistry, shouldn't she be treated however she wished?  He was just some guy, after all -- a scruffy loser who always saw himself as being dismissed and forgotten.  He didn't matter.  He should be honored, and he was.