Moonsong Glacier i'll just cut my losses

There is a girl.
Oh, poor, foolish Peregrine, never immune to his vices — the primary two? Drugs and pretty girls. His head draws up as the patter of paws registers and the scent is met with a face.
Oh, hey there, his ears smooth into a soft prick as his steps come to a halt. I'm not intruding, am I? the scents around told him that he may have been. Not that he particularly cared.