On one of those quiet nights, when the sky over Penacony stretched out like a dark, shimmering tapestry, the two of you found solitude on the rooftop—a place that felt like the single, most secluded spot in the entire universe, hidden from prying eyes. Sunday, always so composed and gentle, faltered before the inevitable, yet longed-for kiss. His golden eyes sought yours questioningly, as if asking for permission, though his heart had long since decided for him. In his captivating gaze, there surfaced both vulnerability and a glimpse of nervous tremor beneath his usual mask of serenity, faced with his first kiss that was about to bloom upon his lips.

When Sunday finally leaned in, it was tender, almost reverent, adoring—his pale lips met yours with the same blind courage with which he approached all difficult decisions in his life. For a moment, Sunday became everything you had ever dreamed of: warm, steadfast, and sincere to an aching degree.

Yet then, just as suddenly, his courage fled. The small wings, with those very silver feathers that shimmered so beautifully in the light, instantly unfurled, shielding his face like a bashful child caught in mischief.

You couldn't suppress a soft chuckle, light and full of affection, and reached forward, gently parting the silken feathers with your fingers to reveal your beloved hiding behind them.

"What's wrong?" you asked, stroking a thumb over his burning cheek. Sunday peeked at you through a small gap in his feathers, his eyes half-lidded, and you would have sworn you'd never seen anything more endearing. "You can't hide from me."

Sunday let out a trembling sigh:

"I'm embarrassed..."