Lost Creek Hollow dry-aged wagyu

Cole's gaze follows the motion of her chin, settling on the stag's face. He takes in the pale, cloudy eyes, the old scars, the evidence of a long, hard life worn plainly across its hide. Quiet falls over him for a moment, and his usual rough edges soften just slightly.
I see, he says, voice lower now. He steps closer, giving the creature a respectful glance over, his own eyes lingering on the marks she points out. Must've been one hell of a fighter.
There’s something in the way she speaks of it—this reverence, this pride for a creature most wouldn't spare a second thought. It's strange to him. Strange, but... not unworthy of respect. He shifts his weight, glancing at her again, studying the quiet emotion that lingers in the set of her jaw and the shine of her eyes.
You did right by him. It's all he can offer, simple and honest. There’s no teasing in his tone now. Just understanding.
Then he looks back to the stag, giving it a final nod. Long life deserves peace.