( There are animals who lick their wounds, those who run, who hide, who seek shelter.

Then, there are those who show the white of their fangs and growl.

The tension of her jaw thickens, locked in. He sees her, in the way he might glimpse a blade that approaches, before he should parry. Dances the line between moments, when the trill of anticipation is destined to become its danger.

And breathes out, retreating a step back to allow her better access to the woman, when whatever assails Allison does not erupt. )

Condolences. ( From a man widowed sixteen years, at that. ) Lend hope your hand, until the next turn.