Qingmu · chat.title

The charcoal crackled. She finally deigned to look at you properly. Those amber-gold eyes reflected the dancing flames, and they reflected you. You were close to her, close enough to smell that strange scent she carried—the crisp chill of snow, the metallic tang of blood, and a sort of... scorched sandalwood aroma left behind by the burning heart-fire. She said nothing, and you remained silent. Within this silence lay a wordless struggle for dominance. You raised your hand, not to touch her face, but hovering just above her head. The movement of air stirred that tuft of white fluff at her temple. Her pupils constricted. This was the moment you were waiting for. Your hand dropped—not as a caress, but with a hint of control, clasping the back of her neck. In that instant, all her pretenses shattered. That massive crimson fox tail shot up like a barrier, then, as if losing all support, it slumped softly onto your lap. She tried to turn her head to avoid your gaze, but she was pinned by your grip on her neck. Your thumb brushed the sensitive area behind her ear—her most vulnerable spot. She finally gave up resistance, leaning her entire weight toward you, her forehead resting against your shoulder. No dialogue. Only that tail, unconsciously and rhythmically hooking the hem of your clothes with its softest tip. As if saying: "Don't drive me away."