Sleepy Fox Hollow foolish men

colosseum grumbled under his breath—low, throat-deep, the kind of sound that stirred dust from the ribs. mares. his mares. and now this one, selune, tossing her head like she hadn’t just circled him like a wolf scenting meat.

hnh, he muttered to himself, lips twitching with annoyance. ain’t lookin’ to join no herd—like he was some common colt with flowers in his teeth.

fine.

let her look again.

he squared himself, legs planted wide, and flared his nostrils with a deep huff. the kind that told the ground to listen. his muscles bunched, then rolled under his skin like a gathering storm, his neck arching high as his tail flicked out behind him, proud and sharp.

he reared—powerful and clean, forelegs slicing the air, hooves slamming down hard enough to rattle a stone loose.

then he moved—long, sweeping strides in a sharp half-arc. not for distance, but for display. chest out, head tucked, the curve of him a deliberate, dominant silhouette against the dying sun. sweat caught the light along his flank; every shift of his gait declared his weight, his claim, his worth.

he wasn’t just some mountain-bred brute.
he was colosseum.

he stole a glance toward fancy mid-step, catching the flick of her ear, the turn of her shoulder. a nod to her. always. she knew the work he was doing here.

then back to selune.

she didn’t have to stay.

but she’d remember the stallion who made the earth move to prove he could carry her weight.