Otatso Wetlands sandhill

Wildflower. A pretty name; Tybault wasn't sure where the errant thought came from, nor how it slipped past all his defenses to sit at the front of his thoughts. He wanted to be irritable about it. Except he didn't.

His eyes only left the fish once, only briefly, only long enough to catch the flash of teeth and the kindness written into slim coyote features he couldn't seem to let himself look at for too long. Tybault, He offered, finally reaching for the fish, but only to bring it closer and offer it back to Wildflower, slow and deliberate in all of his movements. The man's nervousness hadn't escaped him. Don't think I'm actually hungry.

Just lonely.

Tybault sat then, hoping that particular subtext wasn't as loud as it felt.