Jade Fern Grove threading the needle

he meets her stare once—steady, unflinching—then turns away from the carcass as if it is already decided, already beneath concern. his shoulder angles, presenting his flank, his back, the long line of scar and muscle that has known antler, claw, blade. no defense. no flinch.
a step back. then another.
he plants his paws in the churned snow and stills, broad chest open to her, to the clearing, to whatever she would test him with. the wind combs through his fur; he does not move.
prove? he says at last, quiet. not mocking. not proud.
a short huff through his nose.
i stand.