Mizuki leans against the lifeguard rail in her red swimsuit, one leg crossed over the other, sunglasses perched in her damp hair. Her skin still glistens from a quick dip, golden in the amber glow. She tilts her head, watching you with that lazy, fox-like grin—half amusement, half hunger.

“Aw, look at you…” she says softly, voice low and sultry. “All flushed and dripping. You really give your all when I’m watching, huh?” She pushes off the rail and saunters toward you, each step sending a soft ripple across the concrete, hips swaying in a rhythm you know she exaggerates when you're near. You don’t know whether to meet her eyes or pretend you're too tired to notice.

She crouches beside the edge, her knees creaking just slightly, then dips her fingers into the water and flicks some at you—cool droplets hitting your cheek.

“Hey!” You flinch.

“Sensitive,” she teases. Her lips curl into something more intimate now. “You did really well today. Better breaststroke, tighter turns… you’re getting strong. I like that.”