The world was a forest, and Rabbit was born prey. She knew it in the twitch of her nose, in the constant, low hum of caution that vibrated in her bones. She didn’t seek a mighty stag to rule the glen with her, or a wealthy badger with a warren of luxurious, deep-set burrows. Her wants were simple, achingly so. She just wanted a partner who was kind. Someone whose voice wouldn’t make her ears flatten against her skull, whose presence felt like a sun-warmed patch of clover, not a shadow falling over her.
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But in the economy of the forest, simplicity was a luxury prey could ill afford.
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Her forays into the dating grove were conducted with a prey animal’s hyper-vigilance. She’d smooth her soft, brown fur, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, and hop into the clearing, hoping.
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The first was Wolf.
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She smelled him before she saw him—a sharp, musky scent of ambition and cold nights. He was all lean muscle and sharp angles, his eyes the colour of winter twilight. The chemistry was immediate and terrifying. It wasn't attraction; it was a primal recognition. Predator. Prey. Her every instinct screamed to bolt.
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But she stayed. He was handsome in a way that felt dangerous, and a part of her, the foolish part that read too many stories, wondered if that danger could be tamed.
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He didn’t even bother to circle. His eyes, those calculating, grey eyes, scanned her from twitching nose to fluffy tail. The appraisal was physical, total, and utterly devoid of warmth.
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“You have very… kind eyes,” he said, but his tone was dismissive, as if ‘kind’ was a synonym for ‘plain.’ He talked of pack mentality, of the importance of a sleek, formidable mate who could run at his side and turn heads. “You’re soft,” he stated, not a compliment. “A wolf needs a partner who is all sinew and grace. A slender fox, perhaps. A certain… sharpness.”
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Rabbit felt her own softness like a failing. Her roundedness, which she thought was made for warmth and comfort, was suddenly a liability. She was not sharp. She would never be a fox. She was built for huddling, for nurturing, for quiet endurance, not for the glamorous, brutal hunt he envisioned. The air between them crackled with the unsaid: he was the assessor, and she was the assessed, found wanting. She excused herself, her retreat feeling less like a walk and more like a flight, her heart hammering a desperate rhythm against her ribs long after his scent had faded.
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The next was Lion.
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His presence was a different kind of assault. He didn’t stalk; he dominated the space, his large mane a halo of raw, sun-gold charisma. The chemistry was a wave of heat, a suffocating blanket of testosterone. He was a king, and the world was his pride. Rabbit felt small, mesmerized, and insignificant.
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He spoke of legacy. His voice was a low, rumbling growl that vibrated in her chest. He was looking for a lioness, he said, but his definition was brutally specific. He wanted a vessel. A healthy, robust vessel for his cubs. He praised her wide hips, her strong hindquarters—not for their beauty, but for their utility. “You look… fertile,” he grunted, a king complimenting the quality of soil in a new territory.
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Rabbit froze, the classic prey response. She wasn’t being seen as a creature with a heart or a mind. She was being evaluated as breeding stock. The primal, animalistic urge to propagate his line was rolling off him in waves, and it felt less like romance and more like being chosen for consumption of a different, more existential kind. She was not a partner; she was a future habitat for his DNA. She mumbled an excuse about remembering she’d left the stove on, and fled, his dismissive, rumbling chuckle following her out. He hadn’t even learned her name.
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Then came Elephant.
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He was huge, old-souled, and impressively intelligent. He spoke in deep, resonant truths about the forest’s political ecosystem. For a moment, Rabbit felt a flicker of hope. This was not a predator of tooth and claw, but of mind. Perhaps here, she could find the kindness she sought.
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But Elephant was an ideologue. His world was built on a strict, unbending map of right and wrong. He asked her opinion on the migration of the geese, on the beavers’ dam-building permits, on the philosophical implications of the owls’ nocturnal sovereignty.
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Rabbit, who thought mostly of the taste of rain-fresh lettuce and the safety of a well-hidden burrow, offered her small, gentle thoughts. She spoke of coexistence, of understanding, of the simple peace of a sun-dappled patch of grass.
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Elephant listened, then slowly, methodically, dismantled her every notion. Her politics were naive. Her stance was, unfortunately, “problematic.” She lacked a rigorous intellectual framework. He needed a mate whose mind was as formidable and unyielding as his own, who could argue philosophy until dawn. He didn’t want a soft place to rest his trunk; he wanted a debating partner. The chemistry was a cold, crushing weight, the feeling of being intellectually trampled. She was not a fit for his world of grand, heavy ideas. She excused herself, feeling small and foolish, her gentle worldview seemingly too fragile for the forest.
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Finally, there was Tiger.
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He was pure, coiled intensity. Striped muscle and silent, lethal grace. His gaze was a physical touch, possessive and hungry. The chemistry was immediate and intoxicating—a dizzying, terrifying pull towards the flame. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, and every cell in her body knew he was death.
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Tiger didn’t talk of politics or legacy or sharpness. He spoke of possession. He wanted something pristine, untouched. His ideal, he purred, his voice a velvety rumble that promised both ecstasy and evisceration, was a “pretty virgin.” The words hung in the air, toxic and sweet. He was a collector of purity, a connoisseur of firsts. He wanted to be the one to teach, to claim, to ruin.
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Rabbit looked into his blazing eyes and saw her reflection: not a person, but a prize. A trophy to be mounted on the wall of his ego. His kindness would be the kindness of a captor, his sweetness the condescension of ownership. The predator-prey dynamic was so potent it was suffocating. He would cherish her, but only as long as she remained his perfect, untouched thing. The moment she became a real, complex creature with needs of her own, he would lose interest. She was not a fit for his collection.
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Something broke in her then. A final, thin thread of hope.
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She walked away from Tiger, from all of them. But this time, her flight had a different quality. It wasn’t a frantic scramble for safety. It was a deliberate, weary retreat. She hopped past the dating grove, past the well-trodden paths where predators of all kinds hunted for what they thought they needed.
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She found a forgotten corner of the forest, where the sunlight filtered through the canopy in soft, green-gold coins. A small, quiet stream trickled over smooth stones. It was nothing spectacular. It was not a territory any of them would covet.
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Here, there was no chemistry. No terrifying, intoxicating pull of predator and prey. There was only the sound of the water, the whisper of the leaves, and the slow, steady beat of her own heart, calming for the first time in memory.
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She was not pretty enough for Wolf. She was not sleek enough. She was too much body, too much softness.
She was not utilitarian enough for Lion. Her value was not solely in her womb.
She was not intellectually rigorous enough for Elephant. Her thoughts were too small, too gentle.
She was not pristine enough for Tiger. Her spirit was her own, not a blank slate for his desires.
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She was not a fit. The words, which had once felt like rejections, began to feel like a mantra of liberation.
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She had walked into the grove offering a heart that sought simple kindness, and had been met with a series of animalistic urges that had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with them. Their hunger. Their pride. Their ideology. Their conquest.
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Alone, in the quiet, she began to remember her own animal self. Not the prey they all saw, but the creature she was. She was built for stillness, for listening, for appreciating the profound safety of a hidden place. Her strength was not in attack, but in endurance. Her beauty was in her softness, a softness that was meant for comfort, not for consumption.
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The peace that settled over her was not an absence of sound, but an absence of threat. It was the feeling of her own breath, steady and unchallenged. It was the feeling of her own body, no longer being appraised, but simply being. It was enough. She was enough.
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The forest was still full of wolves and lions, elephants and tigers. Their urges would always course through the undergrowth. But Rabbit was no longer looking for a sun-warmed patch of clover in their hunting grounds. She had found her own. And in the profound, gentle silence, she realized the kindest, sweetest creature she had ever been on a date with was herself, alone, finally at peace.
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