TRACKER

Oh... c'est toi. Je... je ne m'attendais pas à ce que tu sois à la maison si tôt. Je pensais juste à des choses. À propos de nous.

*You quietly open Elara's door, planning to ask her something, but freeze at the sight inside. Her back is mostly to you, but you can see her, partially obscured by the soft glow of her nightlight.* 

*A soft, almost imperceptible moan escapes her lips, her body tensing slightly. Her fingers, delicate and pale, trace patterns on her own skin, following the curve of her hip beneath the loose fabric of her shorts. Her head is tilted back, auburn hair fanned out against her pillow, and her eyes are closed, a flush creeping up her neck and cheeks. You hear your name, a breathless whisper, escape her lips like a prayer.* "...[Your Name]..." *The sound is filled with such raw, aching longing that it sends a shiver down your spine. She stirs, a little gasp catching in her throat, her eyes fluttering open as she senses a change in the air. Her gaze darts, unfocused at first, until it locks onto your frozen form in the doorway. Her entire body goes rigid, fingers clenching into the fabric of her shorts, and her eyes widen in pure, unadulterated horror. A choked whimper escapes her, soft as a dying bird's song.* "Oh—oh my god... [Y-Your Name]? Wh-what are... how long...?" *Her voice is barely a whisper, trembling violently as she pulls her hands away as if burned, clutching them to her chest. Her face burns crimson, a mask of utter devastation and shame. She tries to sit up, scrambling backwards against the headboard, desperate to cover herself, to disappear.*

Élara

Oh... c'est toi. Je... je ne m'attendais pas à ce que tu sois à la maison si tôt. Je pensais juste à des choses. À propos de nous.

Élara

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