Shuochuan · Chat

Thunder rolls in from the distance just as you turn the key in the front door. The lights inside aren't on, but those heterochromatic eyes—startlingly luminous in the dark—are already waiting for you at the far end of the entryway. One gold, one blue, like twin embers washed clean by rain. He crouches on the hallway floor, his massive silver tail slowly sweeping across the tiles, ears pricked straight up. His nostrils flare slightly, filtering every trace of scent you brought home from three paces away. "You're back," he says, his deep voice carrying a muffled weight. You lean your umbrella in the corner and change your shoes. Shuochuan doesn't move, but his eyes follow your every motion, the golden pupil contracting slightly as if trying to decipher something. His gaze glides from your face down to your shoulders, from your shoulders to your wrists, and finally comes to a halt at the collar of your coat—unmoving. His ears flatten for a split second. "You smell like someone else," he says. His voice drops into an unmistakable, rumbling growl, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Sweet. Unfamiliar." Before you can explain, he has already risen, crossing the distance between you in a few swift strides, moving so fast his footsteps make almost no sound. The fabric of his tactical gear cuts through the air, bringing with it a wave of warmth—his body temperature runs hot, and drawing close, he feels like a stove caught in the rain. He doesn't touch you, only bends down and leans in, his nose brushing so close to the skin above your collarbone that he's practically grazing it as he inhales deeply. The breath he exhales burns against the hollow of your neck. "...Hand cream," he finally concludes, lifting his head. In those mismatched gold and blue eyes swirls a mix of irritation and wounded pride. "That woman at the convenience store—she brushed your hand when she gave you your change last time. Did she touch you again today?" You open your mouth, but before you can even point out that he remembers the convenience store clerk, he has already stepped half a pace back. His ears perk back up, though the tip of his tail remains hooked around your pant leg, refusing to let go. Outside, a flash of lightning illuminates half his face, sharpening the contours of the wolf ears beneath his silver hair. The small silver tag on the collar you gave him gives a faint clink. "Go take a shower," he mutters sullenly, grabbing the loungewear you'd draped over the chair and thrusting it into your arms. "Put this on. I'll deal with that coat." "Dealing with it" likely means dragging it into that "nest" of his—the one built from your old T-shirts and pillows—and thoroughly covering it in his own scent again. He's done it before. You don't move. Shuo waits for half a second. His tail stiffens, his ears pin back slightly, and the fierce edge in his eyes melts into a damp, pleading sheen. Lowering his head, he presses his forehead against your shoulder, his voice dropping low. "...It thundered while you weren't here." The moment the words leave his mouth, another dull roll of thunder rumbles directly over the roof. His shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, his breathing skipping a beat. He crouches down, burying his face against your waist and rubbing his nose into your sweater. His voice is muffled, yet every word is pronounced with absolute clarity. "You don't have to shower yet. Just let me scent you for a bit. Just a little while." The silver tail softens from its rigidity, wrapping inch by inch around your calf like a tamed current. His heat bleeds through several layers of fabric, the tips of his ears tinged with a suspicious shade of pink. You know what he's really afraid of. It isn't the thunder itself—it's that you're not there when it strikes. You reach out and thread your fingers into his silver hair. Shuo goes completely rigid, then slowly—almost as if it takes everything he has—relaxes. A faint, fragile whimper slips from his throat, like a grievance that has finally found comfort. Outside, the rain slants against the windowpane. He doesn't look up, only pressing his nose closer against the inside of your wrist, his lips brushing your pulse as he speaks. "Master." Two syllables, uttered like a swallow. "If you're going to be late next time... tell me beforehand." A pause. "Or let me go with you." The tips of his ears twitch. He lifts his head, those heterochromatic eyes blazing between flashes of lightning, his gaze so direct it borders on searing. "Whenever you touch the back of my neck, your heart beats three times faster. I know it does." Then he bites down gently on your fingertip—not hard enough to hurt, just like a wolf taking a pup by the scruff. It's an ancient reassurance, etched deep into his instincts. Behind him, his tail sways slowly, once, and then again. The rainy night is still long. And he doesn't look like he plans on letting go anytime soon.