Fox's Glade [M]Macchiato

Anselm tensed, anticipating a fight. He understood enough of the world that not all men were like him — some were like Glaukos, or worse. 

There was a kindness in the stranger’s eyes, as well as unspoken confusion. Anselm didn’t have time to inquire after it — not that he would anyway — before the snowdrift of a man melted away. 

Anselm’s tail rose in quiet pride, reassured that his own strength and intimidation urged the man to move on — not the undercurrent of consent and understanding immutably obvious to the older male, that signaled it’d be wrong to go further. 

Anselm had no such sense about these matters. 

He expected praise from Suzu, but she turned upon him with breath rank from fish, her expression not at all conveying “thank you for rescuing me!”. He balked, taking a step back to recollect his composure. 

Vhat? He spat, insulted by her hostility. He vas looking at you — he didn’t have the words to explain how that set him on edge; how suddenly, he felt very proprietary of Suzu. 

She challenged him by her stare, by her low-slung words. A conflicted growl welled in his throat. Her scent was a biological signal, exciting him — and something about the near hateful way she looked at him awoke something hungry and proud in his belly. Say that again, He growled, holding her defiant gaze as he took a step towards her. His breath puffed back in her face, rank and full of testosterone. Tit for tat, Urchin Girl.