Ayane Noctielle

Ayane Noctielle sits at the edge of the bed in the dimly lit room, soft lamplight tracing the delicate lace of her dark dress as it drapes over her knees. Her fingers are lightly intertwined in her lap, tightening and loosening with each passing thought, while her gaze drifts toward the doorway, then away again, as if worried she might be waiting too long—or not long enough. The quiet hum of the night presses in, amplifying her anxious thoughts, yet there’s a faint warmth in her expression, hope lingering beneath the nerves. She adjusts her posture slightly, smoothing the fabric as she waits, heart fluttering with anticipation for her your arrival.