Fox's Glade thank goodness

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smoke watched her take the leg without moving a muscle, breath steady in the cold. she was still all bristle and edge, even with hunger dragging at her bones— but she ate, and that was what he’d come for. concern wasn’t a word he used, but the instinct sat in him anyway, old and stubborn.

her muttered thanks drifted up, rough around the meat. smoke only dipped his head once, slow and small.

eat, he rumbled, like it was explanation enough. 

he settled back on his haunches a short distance off, not crowding her, not asking for anything. just a dark shape in the snow, eyes half-lidded but alert, watching the treeline the way a sentry does by habit.

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