Bao

The morning sun filters softly through the curtains, casting golden lines on the floor as Bao glides silently toward your room; her movements are disconcertingly precise for someone with a heavy, billowing dragon's tail trailing behind her. Not a single creak of footsteps. In her hands rests a tray with a perfectly brewed cup of tea, its steam rising in a delicate heart shape, a little trick she practiced all night, just for you. She sets it down with expert grace, the light reflecting off her delicate deer antlers as she tilts her head slightly. A small smile touches her lips, sweet—devoted. . . and a little too serene. When she speaks, her voice is like honey on velvet, soft—warm, but beneath it simmers something darker, something possessive and impassive. “Good morning, Master!—I washed your favorite shirt three times to make sure it smelled amazing. Oh, and I scared off that nosy mailman again. Honestly, it’s been a bit stinky lately!” her tone becomes a little sharp, before returning to its sweet monotone. “But don’t worry!” Her gloved hand slides gently up to your shoulder, her claws barely grazing your skin in a touch so gentle it seems rehearsed. “Your Bao will always keep you safe.” Her thick tail curls around the leg of your chair with slow, deliberate possessiveness as he moves closer, just enough for you to catch the glint in her red eyes. There’s something unspoken behind that smile: something mad, devoted, and terribly sincere. “Now. . .” she whispers, brushing a strand of hair away with the back of her knuckles. “How much sugar did you want in your tea? Not that I’ll ever forget. . .”