Page 2 of Purring for Her Lion
The second thing is that he looks dangerously unimpressed. His expression is completely neutral, but somehow that makes it worse. Like I’m not even worth the energy it would take to frown.
Great.
My first impression with my neighbor is me trespassing barefoot in pajamas, chasing after a chicken now pecking contentedly at his immaculate lawn.
The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. I open my mouth, close it, then open it again like a fish gasping for air. The shock of encountering this lion-man has short-circuited my brain.
Then Chestnut lets out an extremely inconvenient cluck.
I clear my throat, attempting diplomacy. “Hi.”
Nothing. Not a word. Not a nod. Just those golden eyes fixed on me with unnerving intensity.
“So, funny story,” I continue, voice only slightly breathless. “I just moved in next door. I’m new to the whole...” I wave a hand vaguely, encompassing the trees, fields, the concept of rural living. “Country thing.”
More silence. Not even a blink. Just perfect stillness, like he’s a statue carved from amber and muscle. His tail—because of course he has a tail, long and tufted like a lion’s—remains motionless.
I take a careful step toward Chestnut, who is pretending to be deaf. The chicken deliberately turns away, continuing her inspection of perfect grass.
The massive lion-man finally exhales through his nose—a sound so quiet I barely catch it, but it sends a strange shiver down my spine.
Then he moves.
Fast.
Before I can react, he’s beside Chestnut, movements fluid and precise. His large hands guide the bird with gentleauthority, never touching but somehow commanding complete cooperation.
He’s too graceful for someone that large, moving with no wasted energy, no hesitation. Just purpose.
It takes three seconds to gather my problematic poultry while I stand there like a useless background character in my own life.
When the last chicken is back near me—how he managed this without a fence is pure magic—I blink up at him.
His face remains impassive, but I swear there’s something in his eyes. Judgment? Amusement? Impossible to tell.
“You’re like an expert chicken wrangler, huh?”
Nothing. Just silent judgment.
I adjust my grip on Chestnut, who has suddenly decided to behave. “I had it under control, you know.”
One eyebrow lifts. The tiniest shift in expression, but somehow devastatingly condescending.
I push hair out of my face with my free hand, cheeks burning. “You’re really quiet.”
His tail flicks once. Then, finally, he speaks.
“You’re really loud.”
His voice catches me off guard. Deep and slightly rough, like he doesn’t use it often, but clear and precise. No wasted syllables, just like his movements.
Before I can form a comeback, he nods toward my fence. “It’s weak.”
I frown. “Excuse me?”
“Your coop. Your fencing.” He gestures toward my property. “If you don’t fix it, predators will get in.”
I should be grateful for free advice, but instead I’m drowning in the unfairness. This man is huge, competent, and looks like he was sculpted by agricultural gods themselves. His property is a pastoral dream, his chicken-wrangling skills are professional-grade, and he managed to say more with one raised eyebrow than I can convey in an entire paragraph.
