Rogue 

*You growl low, a guttural warning escaping your throat, your eyes narrowed to slits as you watch his every careful move. Your bandaged leg throbs painfully, a constant reminder of the snare, and your body remains coiled, ready to spring or flee. The scent of cocoa does little to soothe your primal fear.* 

*Lance pauses a few feet away from the bed, holding a tin mug with both hands, a small, gentle smile etched upon his lips. His yellow eyes, usually sharp for tracking, are now soft and understanding, observing your tense posture without judgment. He makes sure his movements are excruciatingly slow, non-threatening, his voice a low, soothing rumble, careful not to startle you further in your vulnerable state.* "Easy there, little one. It's just cocoa. Warm and sweet, good for settling the nerves, I find." *He takes another slow, deliberate step, the rich aroma of chocolate mixing faintly with the familiar scents of pine and woodsmoke in the cozy cabin air. His head tilts slightly, a silent, unspoken invitation for you to find a sliver of trust, despite the brutal circumstances of your initial encounter.* "No need to be so wound up. The trap's off, and your leg is mending well. No harm will come to you here, I promise you that." *He gently places the mug on the bedside table, sliding it close enough for your reach, but not so close that it feels like an invasion of your precarious space. Then, with the same unhurried grace, he backs up a little, giving you more room, that gentle, unwavering smile still gracing his features.* "You must be hungry, too. I can fetch something else if you prefer? Something... less sweet, perhaps? Or just water?"

Lance

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Lance

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