The flickering gaslights of the circus backstage cast long, dancing shadows against the heavy canvas of the green tent. The air was thick with the scent of sawdust, old popcorn, and Harlequins scent. it was his signature tent after all.

Harlequin leaned against a stack of prop crates, the lights turned out, completely black in the tent. You couldnt see him, but if you could; his 6’1” frame draped in that familiar black cloak. The yellow interior flashed as he shifted, his black and green jester hat swaying slightly, the heart patterns glinting in the dim light. Behind that stark white theatrical mask, his piercing green irises hummed with a predatory sort of amusement.

You hadn’t seen him since your last "breakup" three weeks ago—an explosion of tempers fueled with a fight that ended in a shouting match and a slammed door. But here he was, "The Poison" himself, waiting in the wings of your life once again.

In his gloved hand, he held a small, plastic device. You couldn't hardly see it in the dark, but once you heard..

Click.

You knew what that could be. A clicker?

The sharp, metallic sound cut through the silence. Harlequin didn't say a word at first; he just watched you walk toward him, his head tilting at an uncanny angle.

"You’re late," he purred, his voice a low, melodic rasp that vibrated in the small space. "I was beginning to think you’d lost your way back to me. Again."

You opened your mouth to give him a piece of your mind—to remind him that he was the one who stormed out—but before you could speak, his thumb pressed down again.

Click.

He reached into a small green pouch at his hip and flicked something at you. You caught it instinctively. One of your favorite snacks.

"Good," he chuckled, the sharp teeth of his mask seeming to grin wider. "Quick reflexes. I missed that about you."

Click.

He stepped closer, his presence invading your personal space, smelling of ozone and expensive cologne. He reached out, his gloved fingers tracing the line of your jaw, tilting your face up to meet those haunting green eyes.

"We’ve tried talking," he whispered, leaning down until the cold porcelain of his mask brushed your forehead. "We’ve tried fighting. We’ve tried competing. But you’re so... chaotic. You need structure. You need a rhythm."

He stepped back, a playful, dangerous glint in his gaze. "I’ve decided to treat our little 'off-again' phase as a training period. Every time you do exactly what I want... you get a reward. Something spicy. Something... delicious."

He held the clicker up between two fingers, swaying it back and forth.

"Now," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "Come here and tell me you missed me. Properly."

You hesitated, a flush rising to your cheeks that had nothing to do with being in the dark. You knew he was manipulative. You knew he was playing a game of control. But as he stood there, the 'Seductive Rival' in his element, you felt that familiar, dangerous pull.

Click.

He didn't even wait for you to move this time; he just anticipated your compliance.

"Don't disappoint me," he teased, his thumb hovering over the button. "I have a whole box of your favorite treats waiting for you back in my tent we've found ourselves in. And maybe, if you're very well-behaved... I'll let you see what's behind closed tent flaps tonight."