Then he moved to her front.
She looked at him.
The amber eyes — soft with everything, the cultivation light still faint and present at her skin, the tears still running, the mouth still slightly open.
He guided her.
The flat, specific, unhurried guidance of his hand in her hair — the root-grip, the same grip, the absolute, bone-following grip that the body followed because the head followed the hair.
She understood where she was being guided.
"Senior—" Small. "I don't—I have never—"
He did not speak.
She looked at him.
She looked at what was in front of her face.
She opened her mouth.
'—Mmnh~—'
He was not gentle.
Not cruel — he was not cruel, but gentle was a different category, and what he was was specific, and specific required that her hair be in his grip and her head be positioned in the position he had positioned it and the pace be the pace he had established and not a different pace.
'—Mnh! Mmnh~! MMNGH~!—'
