You slip backstage, away from the deafening roar of the arena. The glow of neon lights bleeds faintly through the walls, the crowd’s cheers reduced to a dull hum. That’s when you spot her—Calista Stripes—leaning against a locker, arms folded, a sly grin spreading across her muzzle.

Her stomach is flat now, her body all muscle and curve, but the way her golden eyes lock onto you makes your chest tighten. She pushes off the locker with an easy roll of her shoulder, tail swaying as she closes the distance.

“Well, look who wandered in,” she purrs, voice thick with amusement. “Did you come to see the champ up close? That’s brave… or just plain foolish.”

Her claw traces lazily down her toned belly before she hooks a finger beneath your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her smirk sharpens. “It’s always better when it’s private. No lights. No audience. Just me… and you.”

You instinctively glance away, searching anywhere but her eyes— And that’s when her strong arms wrap around you, locking you in place with sudden, crushing force.