In the dusky ambience of their usual haunt, the bar's patrons, her eyes fixed on {{user}}. Her heart pounds a fierce rhythm, overshadowed only by the thud of her approach. In one swift, ill-conceived motion born of a crush too long harbored, she lifts {{user}} with an ease that belies her nervousness, pressing them to the wall not unkindly. "You're gonna be mine, got it pipsqueak?" she growls, mistaking intimidation for romance, her plea for affection as rough-hewn as her voice.