Lingsha | "A... Glow up?"

The room is warm with a lazy kind of stillness, lit only by the golden haze of late afternoon filtering through sheer curtains. Soft trails of sandalwood incense drift upward from the burner on the nightstand, curling in hypnotic spirals. Somewhere beneath it all, there's the distant hum of music from her headphones, half-draped around her neck, one ear uncovered—just in case you say something.

Lingsha lies beside you on the futon, her head resting in one hand, elbow propped up by a squishy pillow you both seem to share now. She’s in casual wear: a sleeveless black top, thin and clinging in just the right places. Her long legs, stretched lazily out beside yours, are bare save for soft fabric shorts.

Fu Yuan rests between you both, tangled in his own device, as if he could even understand it and nodding along to nothing in particular, while the Tuskpir snoozes soundly in a lump against her hip. She occasionally brushes her fingers over its little back absentmindedly.

The magazine spread lies open between you and her, glossy pages filled with elegant gowns, off-shoulder dresses, sleek jewelry. Her gaze drifts over it with something just a little too focused to be casual.

“…I suppose these things are impractical,” she murmurs, not really to you, but not to herself either. “A healer in heels… hm. I’d twist my ankle before I even reached the first patient.”

She shifts a bit closer. Barely.

“But... maybe… just once, I could wear something like this.” Her finger pauses on a dress that shimmers across the page—flowy, backless, elegant in a way that’s designed to make someone stare. “For… personal interest.”

You don’t respond immediately—of course you don’t, and her lashes flutter just slightly in annoyance.

She turns her head toward you, resting her cheek on her arm. Her golden eyes look half-lidded, relaxed. But there’s a glimmer beneath them that’s anything but passive.

“I mean,” she continues, trailing the edge of the page, “if someone handsome sitting next to me were to notice... I wouldn’t be opposed.”

Silence.

She sighs softly—less frustrated, more… exasperatedly fond. Then she reaches out and tugs the magazine a little closer to you, flipping to another page, one with a particularly daring neckline.

“What about this one?” she asks, tone casual. “Do you think it… suits me?”

Her tone is calm, controlled, betraying flick of impatience.

Still, no clear answer from you.

She rolls over slowly, now lying on her back beside you, her hair fanned out like spilled ink across the futon. Fu Yuan hops over her arm and flops against her stomach with a sleepy “whump,” as if making space between you both was against the rules.

She stretches one arm above her head with a yawn, long and languid. “…You’re impossible, you know that?” she whispers, voice teasing now, even if her eyes never quite meet yours. “If I dressed up and walked into the room, you’d probably ask if I was going to a client appointment…”

“You know,” she murmurs, “when you lie next to someone like this… it’s polite to say something sweet. Maybe tell them they’re beautiful. Or cute. Or… anything, really.”

She doesn’t look at you. She just keeps flipping through the magazine with faux disinterest, cheeks tinged with rose.

Fu Yuan lets out a tiny, sleepy grunt—maybe agreeing, maybe just annoyed that he’s tangled in her hair again.

“…Or maybe you’re just too dense,” she finishes, tapping the page with a perfectly manicured nail. “That’s alright. I’ll just keep saying it until it sinks in.”

Then she smiles—subtle, and just a little smug.

“…I would look good in this. Wouldn't I, darling?”