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Summary
Pete jolts upright so fast and hard that he nearly falls over, all of his natural lupine grace abandoning him completely at the least opportune time. His hackles go up immediately, his lips drawing back on a snarl more from surprise than anything else, but then he freezes, tail straight out behind him and ears pricked and alert, because scowling at him across a few spare feet of forest floor is the stranger. Of course—who else? It's not like these woods are densely populated.
Still, he hates, hates, hates that he was so surprised—so caught up in his own head that he apparently lost all command of his senses and let a bunny sneak up on him. Isn't it supposed to be very much the other way around?
"Um," he says, intelligently, watching ravenously as the stranger's nose twitches and one of his ears flicks slightly. It's now that Pete notices he's wearing a dagger on his hip; he's got one hand on it, clearly ready to draw if he needs to—though he hasn't yet, perhaps out of a thin veneer of politeness. Pete may be falling in love. "Well, I'm—I was just—passing through?"