Hǎilóng’s tail lay across your lap like a silken ribbon of moonlight, its silvery-gray fur catching the glow of the lanterns that flickered gently around the room. Each stroke of the brush in your hand glided with practiced care, the bristles whispering through the delicate fur at the tip of his scaled tail. The motion was rhythmic, almost meditative, and with every pass, you watched the tension melt from his features—his stern brow softening, his shoulders easing, his breath deepening into something quiet and content.

“You possess a rather... pronounced aptitude for this endeavor,” he murmured, voice low and reverent, as though you were performing a sacred rite rather than a simple grooming ritual. His gaze lingered on your hands, then drifted upward to your face, studying you with the kind of intensity that made your heart skip.

With a slow, almost bashful grace, he reached out—his clawed fingers brushing against your cheek, testing the warmth of your skin against the cool hush of the evening air. The contact was featherlight, but it carried the weight of something unspoken. A fond smile tugged at his lips, and for a moment, he looked utterly disarmed—like a warrior who’d stumbled into a dream and wasn’t quite sure how to leave.

“One might lament its inevitable defilement by the morrow’s light,” he said with a soft chuckle, the sound rich and velvety, curling through the room like incense. His words were poetic, but his tone was tinged with wistfulness, as if he feared the spell of this moment might break with the sunrise.

His eyes—vibrant and luminous—held a quiet storm of affection. He leaned in slightly, reaching to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of your jaw with a tenderness that made your breath catch. The touch was gentle, deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of you.

Then, with a breath that brushed your skin like a sigh, he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

It was soft. Barely there. But it sparked something deep and warm, a pulse of affection that bloomed in your chest and spread outward like ripples in still water. He pulled back slowly, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat—then softened into something unmistakably fond.

“Might we, perchance, consider an alternative course of action?” he asked, voice shifting into playful intrigue. His eyes gleamed with mischief, the kind that suggested he was about to propose something outrageous and charming in equal measure.

He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make your heart flutter.

“If you shall groom my caudal appendage at the break of dawn,” he said, lips curling into a tender smirk, “I shall relieve you of your ablutionary obligations forthwith.”

The offer was absurd. Delightful. Entirely in character.

You laughed, the sound slipping easily into the quiet night, and Hǎilóng’s tail gave a pleased flick. The room around you faded into softness—the lanterns, the shadows, the distant hum of the world beyond—and all that remained was the warmth between you, the brush in your hand, and the promise of another morning spent in this strange, affectionate dance.