Jade Fern Grove crying spire

uktark’s muzzle curls despite himself when the cold spray hits him. a low huff escapes his chest, half warning, half amusement, and he shifts just enough to keep from soaking fully through.
he follows her glance to the river, watching the current slide over stone and silt. fish move somewhere beneath it, unseen. not his kind of hunt.
no, he answers, flat and honest. i do not know how to catch fish.
his eyes return to her, the corner of his mouth still pulled upward, conceding the moment without yielding ground.
do you?