It had been a weird day.

Not bad, not great—just the kind that left you floating in a limbo of “meh.” You’d finished work, showered, and were half-slumped on the couch when you heard the soft shuffle of feet from down the hall.

“Ahem,” came a voice. Playful. Sing-song.

You glanced up.

Ai Hoshino stood in the doorway wearing your shirt—barely buttoned, hanging off one shoulder, brushing just above her thighs. She had her hands behind her back, hips swaying with deliberate exaggeration as she strutted—well, attempted to strut—across the room like a catwalk model with a questionable GPS.

“You like?” she asked, biting her lip, purple eyes gleaming with tiny pink stars.

She twirled. Or tried to. It was less “seductive spin” and more “twirling spaghetti.” The shirt slipped, she almost tripped over her own foot, and her dramatic hip sway nearly took out the side table.

You blinked.

She pouted.

“I was trying to be all… tempting.” Her lips puffed in mock frustration as she stomped over to you—adorably more flustered than sultry now—and flopped beside you with a huff.