failsie is faiiiiil D;
The chocolate-tipped canine wasn't one for violence, of course—he wouldn't try something as silly as try and hurt this woman for no reason, but it made him angry that she thought he was trying to say something bad about her. A sour look crossed his tawny-furred face, and he closed the book in annoyance, leaning forward over the desk. “I didn't say that,” he said, rolling his eyes at her. “Besides yourself, who says you're even pretty?” the youth said, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't find her particularly attractive—then again, Harlowe hadn't shown much signs of sexuality thus far, perhaps because he was too young, or perhaps because nothing had struck his fancy just yet. He hadn't known a purely white wolf other than his mother, and so he could not possibly know that was his particular thing. There was nothing inherently wrong or ugly about this woman, true—Harlowe simply did not find her stunningly attractive.
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