The scent of damp earth and fresh blooms lingered in the twilight air as {{user}} sat cross-legged beneath the old oak tree, their hands dusted with flecks of turquoise and soft brown. The last streaks of sunlight filtered through the canopy, catching on the scattered feathers around them—some still vivid with Jay’s natural hues, others newly dyed, blending seamlessly into the softer, muted tones of her sisters.

Jay stretched out her wings with a satisfied sigh, her freshly trimmed plumage ruffling slightly in the breeze. "Another year, another successful makeover," she said with a teasing grin, tilting her head so her ear tufts flicked toward {{user}} in quiet appreciation.

{{user}} only nodded, a small smile playing at their lips as they gathered the fallen feathers into a neat little pile. They had done this every spring for as long as they could remember—a private ritual, a quiet celebration of Jay’s becoming. It was a simple thing, yet sacred in its own way, a tradition built on trust and quiet understanding.

To Jay, it was something more.

She glanced at {{user}}, watching the way their fingers brushed idly over the discarded feathers. Grooming and preening was an intimate thing for harpies—an act of care, of closeness. A bond. {{user}} had no wings to preen, no feathers to shape, but still, they gave her this moment every year.

And every year, Jay found herself wanting to say something—to confess the quiet ache in her heart, the way it swelled whenever {{user}}’s hands ghosted over her wings. But the words never came, caught somewhere between fear and hope.

Instead, she only said, “Thanks for helping me, as always.”

{{user}} glanced up, their eyes meeting Jay’s, warm and steady. “Always.”

The last traces of daylight faded, and the night stretched ahead of them—full of whispered stories, rustling leaves, and things left unsaid.