Shadowwyn Moor beauty was your armor

dude is no help in the situation—a brick wall of muscle instead of sweeping alamar off his dainty feet like a knight should, or at least dodging out of the petite canine’s warpath. alas, he manages to halt, leaned awkwardly back and nearly sitting on his ass with bright blue eyes staring up at the dude’s chin. face flush with embarrassment, and radar ears pushed back. they are a nose’s length away from each other.
fuck.
heart pounding and head spinning, alamar hates that the bastard decides to laugh at him—it makes him a smidgen more attractive, not that he needs the extra brownie points. you could have at least moved. he counters in a hushed voice, cheeks puffing as he shifts his gaze off to the side. alamar frozen in the awkward lean.