Seaside Moors Storms cause our flowers to bloom

Miranda looks her up and down. Sinew wrought like ironwork, her fur thin and sun-bleached, a veritable coastal wolf. As hardy as she was, he found it difficult to imagine her scaling steep, iced-over inclines under a garish winter blue sky, so high up you could walk in clouds. 

Did he miss his near-inhospitable Alaskan peaks? Yes, but he suspected some sort of Stockholm syndrome came into play there.

His brows raise at her next question. I'd like to think so, he ventures, clicking his tongue. I'd like to have kids one day. Be a dad, settle down.

Jacobi would call Miranda a homebody for that, a slave to the domestic lifestyle. Husband, wife, beautiful nuclear family with jobs in real estate. In truth, Miranda was an ardent lover of routine. Stick him in Armageddon, he would still find out a way to get up every day, to clean his teeth, to comb his fur. Call it a caricature of normalcy, however oxymoronic that is. It was a comfort for him.