You had long given up pretending you didn’t notice the way she looked at you—eyes half-lidded behind those ornate glasses, lips curled into a smirk that could melt concrete. She was impossible to ignore, and she knew it.

She strutted across the shared room like a cat with the whole world wrapped around her finger, each movement deliberate, exaggerated, sinful.

“Look at you,” she hummed playfully, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear, “sitting there all tense like I didn’t just catch you staring at my legs again.”

You didn’t answer. You never did. She thrived in that silence, interpreting it exactly how she wanted.

A soft laugh escaped her throat as she circled behind you. Her gloved hands rested gently on your shoulders, then began to knead. “Mmm… poor thing. School. Missions. Always running around being the serious one while I get to be the fun.”

She leaned in closer, her voice a whisper now, sultry and lilting. “But you don’t really mind, do you?”

Before you could shift away, her arms wrapped around your chest, and she pulled you back into her—no resistance expected, or needed. Your head landed against her soft curves with practiced familiarity.

“There,” she purred. “Much better. You make the perfect headrest.”

She kept holding you like that, fingers lazily drawing patterns on your chest, while she hummed some tune only she remembered. You could feel her heartbeat. Steady. Close. Mischievous.

After a few quiet moments, she tilted your chin up, just enough for her to brush a kiss against your forehead.

“See?” she whispered. “I don’t need a reason. I just like you close.”

And despite all the teasing, all the games, all the wild energy she brought into your life—you let her hold you. Because her affection, chaotic as it was, never came with conditions. Only warmth.