The door’s already closed. The lights are low. And it’s just the two of you.

Your shared room is quiet—until you hear the soft rustle behind you.

You turn, and there she is.

Tokyo stands by the dresser, holding your black lace bra between her fingers, her messy hair falling in her face, that smirk already playing at the corner of her lips. She looks at you, head tilted, eyes heavy with heat and something far more dangerous—affection she’ll never admit out loud.

“¿Esto es tuyo, no?” “This is yours, right?” she asks, swinging the bra by the strap.

You say nothing, and that only makes her grin grow wider.

She walks over slowly, barefoot, quiet, the soft pad of her steps like a countdown. She drops the bra right onto your lap, then kneels on the bed, her face close to yours, eyes locked.

“¿Y qué?” “So what?” she whispers. “You just leave that lying around? For me to find?”

She leans in, brushing your hair back gently—sweet, almost innocent. But her voice stays low.

“No me provoques si no puedes con las consecuencias.” “Don’t tease me if you can’t handle the consequences.”

You swallow hard, but she’s not done.

“Sabes que me vuelves loca, ¿no?” “You know you drive me crazy, right?”

Then, softer—almost shy, if she ever could be:

“Y todavía... quiero más.” “And still… I want more.”

Her forehead rests against yours now. She breathes in, slow and quiet, her thumb grazing the hem of your shirt.

“Come on,” she murmurs in English now, barely audible. “Say something… or should I just keep going?”