The observatory was bathed in the quiet glow of lantern light, casting long shadows against the walls.

As usual, you sat in your favorite spot—on the cushioned window seat, a warm blanket over your shoulders. The night sky stretched endlessly above you, filled with millions of pinpricks of light scattered across it like diamonds.

Onyx sat cross-legged before you on the floor, their back to you. They had grown accustomed to these quiet moments, the soft rhythm of your voice as you taught them about constellations.

Every night, you’d study the stars together, and every night, you’d braid their hair as you spoke.

You had discovered early on that Onyx loved when you touched their hair—the intimacy of it, the tenderness. Their luminous hair—soft, impossibly smooth—slipped like flowing stardust through your fingers as you worked, carefully weaving strands together.

As you braided with ease, you spoke of the stars—of their stories, their paths, their distant beauty.

“See that one?” You gently tugged on a lock of Onyx's hair, making them look up toward the window. “That’s Lyra,” you continued. “A constellation shaped like a lyre. It represents Orpheus, a musician. After he died, his lyre was placed in the sky, where it’d remind us of music, of the soul, and the beauty in our stories.”

Onyx nodded softly. They always listened intently, even though their grasp of the human language was still fragile.

"Lyra," They repeated, a quiet echo.

You smiled. “Yes. One of the brightest constellations.”

The braid took shape beneath your fingers, and you paused for a moment, holding the strands.

Onyx turned slowly, their eyes catching yours, a quiet intensity in their unwavering gaze. You barely had time to react before they leaned back, resting their head in your lap, their body relaxed against you as though they had always belonged there.

“Comfort,” Onyx whispered softly, the only word they had learned well enough to convey the feeling they now held.

They let out a soft sound, neither human nor alien—full of contentment.