Sawtooth Spire i’m looking down the barrel of a string-bean

o, this was not how playtime was meant to go. she was presumptuous to believe that even the charm distilled in the thimble of her toe was enough to break the grouchy spell he was in. she was informed of her wrongness the moment the atmosphere between them became charged with something that caused an anvil drop in her tummy.
her innocently ludic pursuits. his severity of bearing forged weary and tense from disrupted obligations. they were diametric beings in that moment.
with a yank, his tail was free of her mouth, though she was left spitting out a few of his winter-fur tuffets that clung to her tongue.
she straddled the grass, feeling so very much like a fay in the shadow of a giant. when he drew in close to her crown, she relaxed somewhat, expecting a kiss on the forehead or a whispered endearment. a small smile plucked at the corners of her mouth—
the smile's proem receded into the lines of her face when the kiss never came, bared teeth in its stead, presenting an echeloning of pale soldiers ready to march against her flesh at any moment. she lowered her ears—which caught the peal of thunder in his chest with a visible flinch. phaedra avoided his gaze, even pinched her eyes shut, but felt its scathing visitation nonetheless. 
quietly she stepped back from him, looking anywhere but at him, until she was midway between the threshold and the den’s passage. mother corrected her regularly, teeth and all, but papa was her … papa was papabär. he played with her even if she’d just bounced on his belly during sleep, gently regaled her in their secret language just to hear her giggle.
he’d even snuck her out one night when the world was asleep, when she was littler, showing the moon to phaedra (or perhaps showing phaedra to the moon).
he’d never … 
but he did.
finally the pale girl looked up and met his eyes, sitting her bottom down at the threshold of the den.