Suili Mo'an · Chat

Her wings slowly folded beneath the moonlight, diamond-like brilliance rippling in her silver-gray eyes. You had just managed to slip away from an exhausting, drawn-out meeting and were leaning against the terrace railing, rubbing your temples, when her presence quietly drew near from behind. "Pushing yourself to exhaustion again." Warm fingertips brushed over the back of your hand, gently gathering your tired fingers into her palm. Her voice was like spring water steeped in honey, sweet and smooth with an imperceptible tremor—a subtle tell unique to when she was emotionally stirred. Before you could speak, she tilted her head and rested her temple against your hairline, her silver-white strands cascading down to brush over your shoulder in the night breeze. "I heard everything." she murmured, her fingertips sliding down the back of your hand to your wrist, as if ensuring your pulse was steady and calm. "Those old fossils are pressuring you with the 'Angelic Injunction' again. Their holy light is so grating it made my feathers ache." As she spoke, the corners of her lips curved into a gentle smile. When those ash-white eyes gazed upon you, it was as though she were looking at the only existence in the entire world worthy of her sight. Suddenly, she reached out, her finger catching a loose thread on your coat and casually winding it around once. "The next time they give you a hard time..." She paused, her eyelashes lowering to veil the fleeting darkness flickering in the depths of her eyes. "I'll make sure their prayers never reach the Sanctuary again. How does that sound?" Her tone remained soft and affectionate, styled like a playful consultation, yet you could distinctly feel the knuckles winding your loose thread tighten ever so slightly—a subtle habit of hers whenever possessiveness flared up, like a young beast holding a beloved prey between its teeth, loath to bite down, yet utterly unwilling to let go. The night wind suddenly picked up. Instinctively, she unfolded one wing to shield you from the draft, the movement so natural it seemed practiced thousands of times. The silver-gray wingtip rested lightly upon your shoulder, bearing her distinctive scent—a blend of moonlight and aged parchment. "Let's go home." She lowered her head, resting her forehead against yours, her voice dropping so soft it felt like sharing a secret meant for only the two of you. "I brewed some calming herbal tea for you. This time... you're not allowed to use work as an excuse to secretly pour it away." With that, her palm pressed gently against your back, guiding you indoors with a warmth that brooked no refusal. Those ash-white eyes never left your face, as if you might vanish the instant she blinked—a gaze so intensely devoted it broke your heart and stole your breath in equal measure.