The Letter (and Other Inconvenient Feelings)
A tale of targets, distractions, and one extremely smug pigeon
Somewhere deep in the woods, where sunlight dappled through ancient trees and everything smelled inconveniently romantic, Onorfin loosed an arrow and immediately regretted it.
Thwip—Thunk. Off-center.
He frowned at the target, as if it had personally betrayed him.
He drew again, jaw tight. Not that he was angry. Or bothered. Or distracted by that unreasonably broad werewolf who had sauntered into his life like a flirtatious disaster wrapped in scar tissue and sarcasm.
No. He was focused. Disciplined. Unmoved.
Thunk.… Slightly better.He adjusted his stance.
He definitely wasn’t thinking about the way DP’s voice had dropped when he said “I was hoping to make you break.” Or the cocky little smirk that had come right after. Or the fact that he could still smell the bastard, smoke, fur, and something maddeningly wild beneath it all.
He nocked another arrow. Thunk. Missed again.
He groaned and dropped the bow. “This is fine. Everything is fine.”
That was when the pigeon landed on his shoulder like it owned the forest.
He startled, half-drawing a dagger before realizing it was just… a pigeon. A very shiny pigeon. Purple and silver. With an attitude.
It squawked imperiously and held out a leg, which bore a scroll tied with twine and what looked suspiciously like ale-stained ribbon.
Onorfin untied it warily, glancing at the pigeon.
“You’re not enchanted, are you?”
The pigeon gave him the kind of side-eye only a bird with zero respect could deliver.
“…Noted.”
He unfolded the letter.
To the annoyingly graceful flower-sniffer with questionable timing and perfect cheekbones
Onorfin immediately sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
“Of course.”
He read the rest in silence. The corner of his mouth twitched once, not a smile, definitely not, when he got to the line about “drinks and drama.” By the end, his fingers lingered on the parchment a little longer than necessary.
The pigeon pecked his ear.
“I’m going,” he muttered. “No need for violence.”
The pigeon gave a triumphant flap and took off, spiraling into the trees.
Onorfin stood there a moment longer, staring at the letter like it might combust.
“Idiotic wolf,” he said softly.
He folded the letter neatly and tucked it into his belt, then turned toward the path that would lead him to Kellen’s tavern. His face was neutral. His posture, composed.
His ears, however, were absolutely pink.
Thwip—Thunk. Off-center.
He frowned at the target, as if it had personally betrayed him.
He drew again, jaw tight. Not that he was angry. Or bothered. Or distracted by that unreasonably broad werewolf who had sauntered into his life like a flirtatious disaster wrapped in scar tissue and sarcasm.
No. He was focused. Disciplined. Unmoved.
Thunk.… Slightly better.He adjusted his stance.
He definitely wasn’t thinking about the way DP’s voice had dropped when he said “I was hoping to make you break.” Or the cocky little smirk that had come right after. Or the fact that he could still smell the bastard, smoke, fur, and something maddeningly wild beneath it all.
He nocked another arrow. Thunk. Missed again.
He groaned and dropped the bow. “This is fine. Everything is fine.”
That was when the pigeon landed on his shoulder like it owned the forest.
He startled, half-drawing a dagger before realizing it was just… a pigeon. A very shiny pigeon. Purple and silver. With an attitude.
It squawked imperiously and held out a leg, which bore a scroll tied with twine and what looked suspiciously like ale-stained ribbon.
Onorfin untied it warily, glancing at the pigeon.
“You’re not enchanted, are you?”
The pigeon gave him the kind of side-eye only a bird with zero respect could deliver.
“…Noted.”
He unfolded the letter.
To the annoyingly graceful flower-sniffer with questionable timing and perfect cheekbones
Onorfin immediately sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
“Of course.”
He read the rest in silence. The corner of his mouth twitched once, not a smile, definitely not, when he got to the line about “drinks and drama.” By the end, his fingers lingered on the parchment a little longer than necessary.
The pigeon pecked his ear.
“I’m going,” he muttered. “No need for violence.”
The pigeon gave a triumphant flap and took off, spiraling into the trees.
Onorfin stood there a moment longer, staring at the letter like it might combust.
“Idiotic wolf,” he said softly.
He folded the letter neatly and tucked it into his belt, then turned toward the path that would lead him to Kellen’s tavern. His face was neutral. His posture, composed.
His ears, however, were absolutely pink.
