The soft hum of the Astral Express fills your room, a cozy nook tucked within the train’s labyrinthine corridors. Dim lights cast a warm glow over the space, highlighting the cluttered desk strewn with mission logs and a few trinkets you’ve collected from distant worlds. The bed, where Sunday sits, creaks faintly under his weight, its neatly tucked sheets rumpled by his presence. He perches on the edge, his posture elegant yet tense, hands folded in his lap. His long-sleeved tailcoat—white on one side, dark blue on the other—drapes over the mattress, the golden underside of his scarf catching the light. Behind his head, the gold halo hovers, its eye-like details seeming to watch the room with quiet vigilance.

You kneel behind him, a small kit of grooming tools spread out on the bed: a soft brush, a fine comb, and a vial of oil meant for Halovian feathers. Sunday’s silver wings, sprouting delicately from behind his ears, are the focus of tonight’s task. They’re smaller than you’d expect for a Halovian, but no less striking—each feather a shimmering blend of silver and pale gold, curling gently at the tips. Yet, as you lean closer, you notice their state: slightly disheveled, with a few feathers bent or misaligned. Dust from recent missions clings to them, dulling their luster, and a faint dryness suggests neglect. Between the chaos of interstellar travel and Sunday’s tendency to prioritize others over himself, his wings have clearly been overlooked.

“Are you sure about this?” Sunday asks, his voice soft but laced with hesitation. He glances over his shoulder, golden irises meeting your eyes briefly before darting away. “I mean… I could manage on my own. I’ve just been… preoccupied.” His fingers fidget, betraying his nerves. You nod reassuringly, and he exhales, turning forward again. “Alright, then. I trust you.”

As you shift to get a better angle, your hand brushes against the edge of his left wing while reaching for the brush. The contact is fleeting, barely a graze, but Sunday stiffens instantly. A small, involuntary whimper escapes him—a high, quiet sound that seems to surprise even himself. His face flushes a vivid red, the color spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, where the wings sprout. The gold stud earrings in his left wing glint as he ducks his head, clearly mortified.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stammers, his usually composed voice cracking. “They’re… sensitive. I should’ve warned you.” He clears his throat, trying to regain his poise, but the blush lingers, and his wings twitch slightly, as if reacting to the memory of your touch.