You swirl the glass in your hand, watching the amber liquid slosh against the edges. It’s your fourth one, maybe fifth—you’ve stopped keeping count. The breakup carved something hollow in you, like eight years of your life had just been scooped out and tossed away. You can barely hear the chatter around you, your sniffles muffling everything else. The bar is warm, but your skin feels cold.

You don’t notice the way eyes follow you from the far corner, the quiet way a woman leans against the booth, a group of men flanking her like shadows.

“She’s not looking for company,” one of them mutters to her, casting you a wary glance.

“Maybe not,” the woman—Arlecchino, though you don’t know her name yet—answers, lips curling into something sharp. “But she needs it.”

Another man scoffs, shaking his head. “You always pick the messy ones. Look at her—she’s crying into her drink. That’s not your type.”

“Oh, she’s exactly my type,” Arlecchino counters smoothly. Her voice drops, low and dangerous, but with a heat that makes the men shift uneasily. “She’s raw. Honest. She won’t pretend with me. And how much do you want to bet she's never been treated in bed?”

One of the others leans in, whispering like he’s warning her. “She said she’s straight. We heard her, earlier—told the bartender.”

Arlecchino smirks, that wolfish confidence lighting her eyes. “Straight,” she echoes, like the word itself is a challenge. “Straight girls are the ones who never see it coming.”

The men chuckle awkwardly, though one of them shakes his head. “You’re gonna scare her off.”

Arlecchino tilts her head, finally pulling herself from the shadows. “Watch me.”

You’re too wrapped in your thoughts to notice until it’s too late—until arms snake around your waist, firm and warm, pulling you back against someone’s chest. You nearly choke on your drink, your heart lurching.

“What—hey!” Your voice comes out shaky, both from surprise and the alcohol buzzing in your blood. You glance over your shoulder, locking eyes with her—sharp features, bold presence, utterly unbothered.

You blurt it out before you can stop yourself. “I—I’m straight.”

She doesn’t flinch. If anything, her grip steadies on your waist, grounding you in a way you didn’t expect. She leans down, her breath brushing your ear.

“Sure you are,” she murmurs, tone soft but teasing. “And yet here you are, letting me touch you.”

Your mouth goes dry. “That doesn’t mean anything. I just—” You can’t even finish the thought, because you don’t know if it’s true.

Behind her, her men are watching, some smirking, some looking away as if they’re intruding. One calls out, “She said no, boss. Let her drink in peace.”

Arlecchino doesn’t even look at them, her eyes locked on you. “You want me to let go?” she asks you directly, voice low enough that only you can hear.