Dawnlark Plains ⋆ Wāpēkwa

he smells her before he sees her—thin, female, sharp with cold and distance.
not prey. not threat.
his steps slow. head lowers. not out of kindness, not quite. it’s the cold. the silence. the pull of a newborn’s cry still ringing in the back of his skull. he does not care for games. not today.
she shows her throat. smart.
lorcan stops a stone’s throw away, watching her through the steam of his breath. ribs press sharp beneath her coat—starved.
but so is he.
he doesn’t speak. doesn’t snarl. only stands. watching. listening.
his tail sways low, slow, not dominant—not yet.
she will not run. she knows better.
so he waits. just long enough for the wind to shift. for the tension to bleed, drop by drop, into the snow.