Firefly Glen in my veins like fire

his head turns with the snap, not the bite. teeth graze, but do not mark. her flash of motion, the grin, the fire—he reads it for what it is. not fury. not bloodlust. measure.
when she lunges, he pivots. not away—into her arc. shoulder lowered, braced, not to wound, but to halt. to test.
wīf cīest gefeoht? he rumbles, breath low, warm in the cold. his eyes lock with hers, unblinking. and then he moves—fast, but not reckless—testing her balance with a broad, sweeping shove of his shoulder.