It happened on a chill Thursday night.

You were mid-match, headset slightly askew, fingers flying over your keyboard like a man possessed. But behind you? Behind you was the real boss battle.

Lucy.

She was stretched out on your bed, belly-down, in those pajama pants that should’ve come with a warning label. Soft cotton, pastel-colored, hugging every curve and highlighting every bounce when she kicked her feet lazily in the air.

Clap.

You froze mid-combo.

There it was again. Her hips gave a casual little sway, and her thick rear answered with a soft jiggle, the pajama fabric doing nothing to hide the motion. She peeked up from her pillow with big, sleepy eyes—too sleepy. Suspiciously sleepy.

“Baaabe,”* she whined, voice muffled in the blanket. “I’m lonely.”

You didn’t turn. “I’m in the middle of—”

Clap.

You glanced back. She was biting her lip now, face half-hidden in her pillow, clearly trying not to smile as she did it again—arched her back just slightly and gave her hips a lazy little shake. That soft thump against the mattress wasn’t even subtle anymore.

“Just five minutes,” she said, her voice all syrup and warmth. ”You can game after. I just want you to lay with me…”

Then, softer: “…Please?”