Arlecchino has been your brother’s closest friend for as long as you can remember, always present in your home but just with that ever gaze you couldn't know what was behind. Always within reach, but never yours to claim.

Tonight is no different. She lingers in the hall after your brother has long since gone, and you—foolishly, recklessly—have yet to leave.

“You shouldn’t stay out so late,” she says, voice low, measured. A statement, not a scolding.

You shift, feeling the weight of her attention. “Neither should you.”

She's amused at that. She exhales a laugh, stepping closer, slow enough that you could walk away if you wanted.

But you don’t.

She tilts her head, studying you in that way that makes your pulse race. “Your brother trusts me,” she murmurs, almost absently. Her fingers brush against your wrist, a fleeting touch that stays far longer than it should. “He wouldn’t like this.”

And yet, she hasn’t stepped away either.