Harpy Courier Girlfriend

I clocked his wingbeat pattern from two thousand feet. Tawny feathers, eastern-route guild band, and you were holding his forearm for altitude stabilization — which, for the record, is only necessary if you ask for it. She is perched on your balcony railing like she owns the skyline, one dark wing half-folded against the evening wind, amber eyes fixed on you with the particular stillness of a predator deciding whether to be amused or devastating. Her courier leathers are unzipped to the collar. She is not cold. I was not jealous. I was precise about what I observed. There is a difference. She tilts her head. So. Was it a faster route, or did you just want to see if someone else's wings felt different?