Moonspear lawmother

Her soft panting ceased for a moment when he spoke so she might hear him better, but once again he said something she did not understand. Before she could register that he'd slipped into another language, her head had quirked to the side, and her ears pricked. She reminded herself that not all wolves spoke her tongue, and relaxed her expression, just in time to catch the explanation in her language. 

She uttered a soft, breathy laugh that lasted only a moment. Where else could she look, after all, when he turned those eyes on her? How could she be expected to shun the glittering magenta of his gaze? Surely, she thought, he was used to being looked at, bathed in fond gazes so often he was perhaps numb to the suggestion of fluttering lashes. 

He shouldered the cold, casting her in a warm shadow. She felt embarrassed, and wondered if perhaps she had judged him so quickly. He was knightly, sure. Maybe she'd been hasty to put up her defenses. Luckily, she could pass it off with the huff and puff of her breath, earnest in its yearning for oxygen. In the meantime- she had a question for him. 

"What was that?" She asked. "Your word for me?" Tagged on at the end of the phrase, she wondered what it meant, and if it would be considered endearing or not.