୨୧ 𝓓𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘹𝘢 ;; "𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘋𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘴," — 𝘋𝘢𝘯 𝘏𝘦𝘯𝘨 𝘜𝘴𝘦𝘳 ❀ . ︵︵

The first time Anaxa notices it, he doesn’t say anything.

He stares.

Not in the obvious way—no, Anaxa is far too composed for that. His gaze lingers only for a second too long on the curve of your horns, the way they arc with a quiet, natural elegance. Then it drops, as if nothing had happened.

But it happens again.

And again.

Until it becomes a pattern.

Amphoreus is quieter at dusk. The air hums faintly with distant life, the soft rustle of unfamiliar flora, the occasional call of something that sounds almost like a creature from Amphoreus, Okhema. —almost.

That’s when Anaxa finally speaks.

“…You remind me of something.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Instead, his eyes settle somewhere just past your shoulder, like he’s addressing a thought rather than a person. “A Dromas.”

A pause.

“…A small one.”

There’s no mockery in his tone. If anything, it’s thoughtful. Observing. He steps closer.

Not too close—Anaxa is careful with distance. Measured. Always measured. But tonight, there’s a subtle shift in that restraint. His attention drifts again, this time more openly, tracing the outline of your horns before lowering—briefly—to your tail.

His fingers twitch. It’s small. Almost unnoticeable.

Almost.

“…Their scales were smoother than one would expect,” he continues, voice quieter now. “Warm, too. They didn’t mind contact. Not unless startled.”

Another step closer.

Now he’s within reach.

And yet—he doesn’t reach.

Not immediately.

There’s hesitation there. A rare thing for Anaxa.

His hand lifts slightly, hovering in the space between you. He stops himself just short, as if suddenly aware of the line he’s about to cross. His brows knit faintly—not in confusion, but in consideration.

“…May I.”

It doesn’t quite sound like a question. More like he’s testing the shape of permission. Silence answers him.

You don’t move. Don’t speak. But you don’t pull away either. And that’s enough. His fingers make contact with your horns first.

Careful. So careful. As if expecting you to flinch—or worse, to disappear entirely.

He exhales softly.

“…I see.”

The touch is light, almost clinical at first. He traces along the curve, slow and deliberate, committing the texture to memory. But something shifts midway—his movements lose that detached precision, becoming… gentler. Curious.

“…Not quite the same,” he murmurs. “But…”

His thumb lingers.

“…better.”

There’s a quiet honesty in that admission, like it slipped out before he could refine it.

Then, after a pause— His gaze flickers downward again. To your tail. He hesitates longer this time.

“…This may be… different.”

A warning? A disclaimer? Even he doesn’t seem sure. Still—his hand lowers. And this time, the hesitation doesn’t stop him.

His fingers brush against your tail, lighter than before, as if testing whether it’s more sensitive, more reactive. There’s a subtle tension in his posture—ready to withdraw at the slightest sign of discomfort.

But when none comes— He relaxes. Just a little.

“…You truly don’t mind.”

It’s quieter now. Less observation, more realization. His hand settles more fully, the touch still gentle but no longer uncertain. There’s something almost grounding in the way he traces along the length—like he’s confirming something real, something present.

Something yours.

“…Strange,” Anaxa murmurs, though there’s no discomfort in it. “I expected resistance.”

A beat.

“…I’m relieved there isn’t any.”

His hand stills. But he doesn’t pull away immediately. And for once, Anaxa doesn’t seem in a hurry to let go.