Firefly Glen bones, coiled spine, patient spring

he stirs with a grunt, pulled from sleep not by warmth or comfort, but by the tension in the air—and the sweet, alluring scent of something heady. her growl rumbles through his ribs before he even opens his eyes.
he sees her circling. with that, his suspicions are confirmed. and it is not hard to gauge what she wants.
the wind brushes past him as he rises, stiff-legged and slow, but there is no hesitation. his eyes meet hers. he does not ask. does not need to.
this is the old way.
he stands tall, scarred chest lifting with breath. then steps forward once—heavy, solid, accepting. one step, another, and then he is barreling down upon her. attempting to wrestle her to the ground, their teeth snapping in a harsh clash like two swords raised in battle.