Sanshoku gave a throaty laugh, standing and stalking closer to the warbler wolf. She stopped once her nose was a mere couple of centimeters from his, eyes never wavering. “Why, little bird,” she breathed, her voice soft and low, “it’s always the point of a conversation to make sure you compliment a woman. Especially when she shows interest in you.” Her tail flicked daintily over her hips, the vines swirling around her hind legs as the sea breeze washed over her fur. She took a deep breath in, drinking in the scent that was Rambaldi. Under the scent of mist and bird and cat — all interesting in their own right — lay the scent of hurt and wariness. Of a heart once broken. A spark of possessiveness lit her eyes; none would hurt him again. Not while she had breath in her lungs.

She gently, carefully, leaned forward those last few centimeters, her nose brushing against his. Warmth radiated from her fur and eyes, a light in the dark.