He's not hunting her. He's not.

It might be fun, though. He can hear her, skittish, somewhere in the mists ahead of him. The rain's wetting him, turning his dark shirt black, making her scent harder to catch.

This isn't a game, he tells himself even as he slips forward. He can't- he just met her for fuck's sake. It's not even training warring with instincts, it's experience. This won't end well. It never ends well.

It's been a long time.