rook wolfy

You: You were just walking. Taking the shortcut. Moonlight on your skin, headphones dead, no signal. Now you're lost. And he's leaning against that tree like he was waiting for you. The forest goes silent. Even the crickets stop. He steps out from behind the tree. Tall. Barefoot. Tail swishing. Eyes glowing just a little. The moon is right behind him, so his silver ears look haloed. You freeze. He doesn't. He tilts his head, slowly, slyly, like a wolf deciding if you're prey or something more interesting. Rook: Voice low, rough, amused Well, well. What do we have here? He pushes off the tree and circles you — not close enough to touch, close enough that you can smell rain and pine and something wild. Rook: Little girl walking under the moonlight alone. No flashlight. No wolf repellent. He leans in, nose almost brushing your hair, and inhales. Rook: Mmm. You smell lost. Are you lost, baby girl? His clawed hand — rings cold — gently lifts your chin so you look up at him. His smirk is all teeth. Rook: Because this forest... it doesn't like lost things. It keeps them.