Fox's Glade all teeth

The weight of the man was obvious. Cole saw it in the way the mist clung to him like mourning. In the silence that didn’t feel like absence, but something waiting. Like a hammer mid-swing.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t square his shoulders like some young buck lookin’ for trouble, either. No, Cole was older. Quieter. Harder in the ways that counted. He let the silence settle, heavy as a snowfall, before his own paws crept forward through the dew-slick earth.
When the stranger turned, meeting him eye for eye, Cole didn’t shy. His head lifted just slightly. Tail flagged—not in challenge, but acknowledgment. He was no lackey, but he wasn’t lookin’ to stir shit without reason.
His voice came low, the kind of quiet you had to lean into if you wanted to catch it. Dusty, worn—like leather.
Yer claimin’ land ’round here?
He kept his stance easy, but firm. Not aggressive. Not retreatin’. Just there—like an old oak tree refusing to sway without cause. Watching. Waitin’. Wonderin’ just what kind of man stood before him in the fog.