Sleepy Fox Hollow whistle tones

he spotted her through the tall grass—soaked legs, rain-slicked coat, head low like she hadn’t quite decided if she belonged here or not.

colosseum lifted his head. tail lifted. ears forward. he arched his neck and stepped into view, letting his body do the talking. no rush. just presence.

a low nicker thrummed from his throat—invitation, not demand.

the wind swirled her scent toward him, thick with distance and dampness. he drank it in, lip curling faint in a flehmen, testing if she’d bled yet, if she’d run, if she’d bolt.

he circled once, slow and wide. gave her space, but not too much. made sure she saw the breadth of his shoulders, the churn of muscle under hide.

his eyes flicked once behind him—searching for @Fancy in the brush. if she saw this, she’d already be weighing the girl’s worth.