more like wet willows

If Hattori had hands, his fingers would have been pinching the bridge of his nose, tight enough that his skin would have turned red. But unfortunately, as he was only a -very unemotive- wolf, all he managed was an exceptionally deadpan stare. He didn't even bother to tip his ears forward in a show of politeness, to really show he was listening, and instead they remained rightly where they were. Flat and disinterested, couldn't care any less.

"That is not me." He told her, his voice dipping in timber, offended. "You assume too much."

Perhaps that was simply how birds went about their lives, assuming this and that in an attempt to cut corners and make the most of what little time they had.