Moonspear [m] the suspension of disbelief

She coughed a laugh at his retort. If it was lame, it didn’t seem to matter to him. Treepie watched as he backed up a step—she was surprised by the urge to snatch him closer again—and circled. Kindle soon dropped to the ground in a casual sprawl. Tiuttuk started to move closer when his remark hit her ears. He wasn’t looking at the view, he was looking at her.

Emboldened by this, Pie padded to stand over Kindle, then slung herself down beside him. She tucked herself in quite closely, pressing their bodies together from shoulder to hip. She swept her tail over his for good measure, then angled her face toward his. They were so close, it wasn’t possible to look one another in the eye—at least, not without leaning away, which she didn’t want to do—but that was fine, because she had an idea.

After a brief and hesitant pause, Tiuttuk thrust her head into the space beneath Kindle’s chin. She moved slowly, careful not to knock him around again. Her cheek pressed against the soft fur where his throat met his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, feel the rhythm of his breathing. His bristled chin tickled the top of her head. It was warm here in this pocket.

This is nice, she purled into that cozy space where their scents mingled. Very nice, Pie amended.