He took the rejection lightly, letting the Tom stride off and talk about bugs. He huffed out, tail flicking. Mild annoyance dancing in the air.
“Bugs?” He asked, tone poorly suppressing his confusion and disgust. Flint’Strike was a clean cat, well groomed, careful. He liked to keep himself, and his space clean as he could.

“No?” He was trying not to be harsh, or rude. Bugs? Seriously bugs? It made his fur crawl in thought. “There’s a dead tree down by the tree break, I’m sure you’ll find some there” his tone was flat. Simply stating a fact with no interest behind it. The cat wanted bugs, he’d give him some.

“I need to get back to my mother, she’ll be worrying” he mewed flatly. Eyeing above at the sun. Lifting a paw to measure the length of the sun to the horizon. Judging how much time he had before it got dark. He seemed satisfied, not too worried. He had plenty of time left.