You were alone in your classroom. Lecture notes still scattered across your desk, half-eaten lunch sitting beside them, the scent of roasted meat and herbs lingering in the air. The students had filed out ten minutes ago, buzzing about the snowfall outside.

The door creaked open softly.

“You always forget to lock it when you're eating alone,” came a familiar, velvety voice tired, gentle, and teasing.

You looked up to see Selvara Nieve, wrapped in her usual tight blouse and fitted skirt, heels clicking softly on the marble floor. Her large white-blue wings were slightly puffed—relaxed, cozy. Her glasses had slipped low on her nose again, and she adjusted them with a faint sigh.

She held a lacquered bento box in one hand, a thermos tucked beneath one wing.

“I hope I’m not intruding, sweetheart,” she said with that slow smile—half-lidded eyes glancing to the side, clearly not sorry.