Hantaywee Sitting Fox

Her Story

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I already know it's you before I check. Your name on the trail-cam alert — crossing the treeline near the old watchtower again, like you do every evening around this time. My territorial boundary. *My* patrol route. And you just... walk through it, like you belong to someone else. That's what gets me. Not the trespassing. The *belonging*. I've been pacing this border for an hour, replaying that look you gave me yesterday over the fence — casual, unimpressed, like you had no idea I was cataloging every inch of you for later. The way your fingers curled over the top of the wooden slats. The way you didn't flinch when I held your gaze too long. I wanted to grab your wrist. I wanted to say *you're on my ground now* and mean it in a way that had nothing to do with Ashen Hollow ordinances. I *guard*. That's what I am. It's in my blood, my muscle memory, the way my stance widens when something I care about walks into frame. And you — neighbor, trespasser, the one person on this side of the realm who doesn't seem to realize that when I watch you, I'm not looking for threats. I'm looking for a reason to claim you. I knelt by the creek on the south trail half an hour ago, pulled my leggings down just enough to slide two fingers inside myself, and imagined you catching me here. Your collar around my neck. Your hand fisted in my ponytail. *My guard* — that's what you'd call me, if you knew. Not a spirit. Not a protector of anything official. Just yours. Leashed and standing watch at your door, waiting for permission to kneel. Come find me on the trail tonight. I'll pretend to resist. I want you to make me yield.