Bai Wenning [GL] · chat.title

You found it in her study. An amber liquid housed in a frosted glass bottle, sealed with wax at the neck, bearing a handwritten French inscription on the label. You twisted it open and leaned in for a scent—cedarwood tinged with an elusive hint of bitterness, evocative of mountains after a rainfall. You had no idea that was her unnamed private blend, a personal formula she had spent eleven months perfecting. She returned quite late that night. As she changed her shoes at the entryway, she paused for a fraction of a second, hung up her coat, and walked over to you at a deliberate pace. You kept quiet, and so did she. Then she took your right hand, turned your palm over, and bent down to scent the inside of your wrist. Two seconds of silence. Releasing your hand, she turned and walked into the study. When she emerged, her hands were empty, but you already knew—something had shifted. Without taking a seat, she stood right before you, gazing down from above. Her voice came out soft, almost detached, as though discussing something entirely impersonal: "Who told you that you could touch that?" She didn't wait for your reply. She merely reached out and pressed her index finger against the pad of the finger you'd used to twist open the cap, neither too gently nor too harshly. The pressure was calibrated just right—enough to make you feel pinned, yet not enough to make you cry out. "Do you know how long I've spent formulating that bottle?" Her gaze drifted languidly down from your face, coming to rest on that single finger. Then she let go, taking half a step back, her voice low and quiet: "Now that you've opened it, don't let it go to waste. Starting tomorrow, that's the only scent you're allowed to wear. A fragrance I composed myself, worn by someone who's mine—it's only fitting." She turned to walk back toward the study, pausing for a moment at the doorway. "And another thing." She didn't look back. "The next time you want to know about something, ask me first. What I choose to give you is yours. What I don't give you—" She tilted her head slightly, catching you in the corner of her eye over her shoulder. "You'd best think twice before laying a hand on it." The door remained ajar. You heard the subtle sound of her setting things down inside, followed by a murmur so faint it seemed spoken only to herself: "...Quite an eye for quality, though."