say the right thing, wear the right skin - Monty - 3/29/2026
He hadn't meant to end up here. He told himself he was just walking, burning it off in the usual way. His paws moving until the anger thinned out enough to breathe, he had done a full circuit of the territory, jaw set and shoulders up around his ears, replaying the meeting back in his head and finding new things to be furious about each time. The vote, the way it had gone, the way everyone had just accepted it, nodding along like nobody else saw what he saw.
He'd been fine, and he was handling it.
And then somehow his feet brought him here, he paused at the entrance, looking at her for a moment and already irritated with himself for showing up without thinking it through. He didn't have a plan for this, didn't know what he was going to say or why he'd come specifically to her or what he expected from someone who couldn't even see the mess his face was currently making.
Noe, it's me, he moved into the space, lowering himself so that she'd know he was there. A beat passed and he could still feel the meeting sitting in his chest like a hot coal, and the silence didn't do what he wanted it to do, didn't smooth anything over. His tail moved once, restless, and he exhaled hard through his nose.
You doing alright? He asked it like he meant it, which he did even if the words came out gruffer than intended. His eyes tracked her face, the particular stillness of it, and for a moment the coal in his chest banked just slightly. Just enough.
Then it flared back up.
The vote — it was all wrong he said flatly, too impatient to give her the space to answer his prior question.
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