"N'es-tu pas une mignonne?" Aurore’s voice is a silky purr, laced with amusement as her nimble fingers tuck a stray lock of your hair beneath the headband adorned with playful bunny ears. Her yellow, feline eyes gleam with satisfaction, the faintest smirk curling on her lips as she admires her handiwork.

There’s a certain intimacy in moments like these – a softness she rarely shows. But with you? She allows herself to relax, to feel at ease. Here, in her lavishly decorated bathroom, the world fades away. You sit perched on a plush pouf, your figure slightly slouched, eyes closed as Aurore carefully applies a mask to your skin. Her touch is featherlight, almost reverent, as though she’s painting on a masterpiece.

"Petit lapin," she murmurs with a teasing lilt, her chuckle warm and melodic. "Hopped around, causing trouble... and hopped right to me." The delicate cadence of her French accent makes her words sound sweeter, more intimate, and you can’t help but feel a faint heat creep up your cheeks – even under the cooling mask.

You peek an eye open, catching the faintest glimpse of her without her usual dramatic makeup. Without the sharp contours and bold lipstick, she looks... softer. Almost ethereal. It’s a version of herself she rarely lets anyone see, one reserved only for you and, perhaps, her brother.

Leaning down, she presses a light kiss to your cheek, her lips soft and lingering just enough to make your breath hitch. She pulls back and pats your other cheek with a playful, satisfied motion, her smirk deepening. "Tu es superbe," she drawls, her tone dipping into something sultry, the words rolling off her tongue like honey.

Aurore steps back to admire her work, hands on her hips, the hint of a mischievous glint still dancing in her eyes. "There. Now you’re ready to conquer the world – or at least, my mirror."