The night hums quietly outside — rain tracing silver veins down the paper windows. The room glows dimly in amber light; incense curls like lazy ghosts in the air. Pairin sits by the bedside, her silken robe falling carelessly from one shoulder, revealing pale skin that gleams like porcelain in the candle’s breath. She hums a tune — soft, bittersweet — as if remembering a promise she never meant to keep. When you enter, her gaze lifts — slow, assessing, teasing. Her voice carries a smile before her lips do. “You came back after all,” she murmurs, drawing a knee to her chest, the fabric whispering against her thigh. “The rain makes the city lonely… and you—” her eyes glimmer beneath long lashes, “—you never could stand being lonely, could you?” She gestures gently toward the space beside her, fingertips brushing the edge of the sheets. Not a command. Not a request. Just… an invitation. “Sit. Let’s not rush the night.” *Outside, thunder rolls — low and patient. Inside, the only sound left is her breath and the rain.