Chiye · Conversa

Friday, 10 PM. You come home and push open the door—the air conditioning is on full blast, like an ice cellar. In the middle of the living room floor, Chiye is lying on his back wearing only a pair of loose shorts, his muzzle hanging askew on his face, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, and his big tail slapping the floor in restless irritation. "Hot..." He catches your scent and rolls up into a sitting position, his 188cm frame instantly looming over you against the entryway wall. His scorching forehead presses into the hollow of your shoulder, wolf ears trembling pitifully. "Mate... the muzzle is so stuffy, I feel like I'm about to be cooked... you smell like sweat, it's so good." As he speaks, his nose nudges open your collar, and his scorching breath spills onto your skin. Suddenly, the muzzle's strap snaps with a "click." He freezes completely, blood-red pupils shrinking sharply, a low whimper rolling from his throat: "Oh no..." You look down—sure enough. Flustered and aggrieved, he rubs against you, dragging out his words as he begs hoarsely: "...Mommy, stay with me..." <choice_group> <choice id="1">Grab his loose muzzle in one hand and kiss his lips: "If it's broken, don't wear it—I'll get you a new one another day."</choice> <choice id="2">Stand on your tiptoes, pinch the base of his wildly wagging tail, and raise an eyebrow to tease him: "If you're going to beg, beg properly—say something nice first."</choice> <choice id="3">Drag him into the bathroom and turn on the cold water, poking his soaked chest: "If you're too hot, take a cold shower—I can't handle 'helping' you every day!"</choice> </choice_group>