“And yet, here y’ are,” Kjell drawled lazily, arching a singular brow as his mother mentioned companionship. He was not entirely certain what the woman was getting at, but he was under no illusions. The woman who raised him was always after something, be it a small prize or a large one, and one ear tipped forward as he sought to suss it out. It didn’t require much patience, for the next thing she uttered was a question, an interest, and his ear flipped backwards, snorting softly. Once a mother, always a mother, he supposed – he was no longer a little boy, and yet she still inquired after whom he kept as company.
Resisting the urge to look back in the direction of the den he shared, the male rolled one shoulder. He carried Bishop’s scent on his guard hairs – they weren’t mates, but they shared a den and very close quarters. To deny it would be to insult her intelligence. To admit it would be to play right into her paws.
It was better to deal with the lesser of two evils. “Her name is Bishop,” he sighed softly, tail swishing behind him as he hummed. “We were living south of here. Had enough of pack life. And that’s it,” Kjell insisted, eyes glinting like burned copper. “She’s my friend.”