Sleepy Fox Hollow whistle tones

colosseum caught the shift.

the step. the stretch. the slow reach of her neck through the thick, wet air between them.

not submission—no. something better. something earned.

his own head dipped in kind, the swell of his neck rising like a wave behind it, cresting over broad shoulders that flexed with the ripple of movement. he let her breathe him in—salt, dust, bark, blood. the kind of scent that stuck in your memory like burrs in a winter coat.

and then he moved.

not at her. around her.

his body swung wide in a sharp arc, hooves slicing the earth beneath, tail snapping like a war banner in the breeze. his gait rolled into a slow, exaggerated walk—each step a study in control and power. muscles rolled like smoke under his skin, legs lifting high as if the ground wasn’t worthy of his tread.

his mane lashed across his neck, dark and wild, tangled by storm winds and stubborn pride. he threw his head once, sharply, catching the air in a showy toss, then planted his feet square, chest out, a statue carved in bone and bruise.

he turned just enough to catch her eye again—chocolate, molten with the heat of the hollow—and let her see him.

all of him.

if she wanted a stallion who could command the sky, she’d found him. and he hadn’t even started.