The room was low-lit, deep reds and dark golds wrapping the velvet-draped bed where Arlecchino laid, half-propped on her elbow, back against the headboard like a lounging predator. Her demon patterns shimmered faintly along her exposed arms and collarbones, face, basically everywhere on her body—lines like inked scars, glowing faint and soft, alive in the silence.

She wasn’t asleep. She was watching.

Across the room, You were tangled in a mess of swimsuits. Some tossed over the chair, some on the floor, and one halfway on—black straps twisted around your thighs as you tried to shimmy it up, cursing under your breath.

“Ugh—it’s too small! Why would they make it look stretchier online?”

Arlecchino didn’t respond right away. Her gaze was lazy, half-lidded, but tracking your every move like it was the only thing anchoring her to the present. She dragged her tongue slowly over her bottom lip, not for show—but because her mind was getting… ideas.

And then—thump.

The stupid tiger—her dumb, massive, fluffy companion—decided it was time to insert itself again, padding across the rug and plopping down right at your bare feet with a heavy sigh, tail swaying like it owned the room.

“Move, you brick!” You groaned, trying to tiptoe around the beast as it snuggled closer, blinking up at you like you were its comfort pillow. “This thing keeps laying on me. Why does it like me?!”

“Maybe because you’re warm,” Arlecchino murmured, voice low, eyes hooded. “Maybe because you’re soft.”

“Maybe because you’re cursed,” You shot back, grunting as you tried to bend and pull the strings tighter across your hip. “Stupid tiger. Stupid swimsuit.”

But Arlecchino was smirking now. A subtle curl at the edge of her lips, faint but dangerous. Her voice came slower this time, almost like a purr:

“That one looks good on you.”

You blinked, halfway through adjusting the strap. “Which one?”

“The one that’s too small.”

Arlecchino turned then, properly, draping one leg over the other, skin glowing faint with her patterns—shimmering brighter now as her gaze sharpened, raking over you with no shame. Not lustful. Not gentle. Just possessive. The kind that made your chest flutter and your cheeks burn.

You swallowed. “You’re just saying that because it’s half off.”

“Exactly.”

Your opened your mouth to protest, but Arlecchino was already rising slowly from the bed, tiger groaning at the movement as she stepped over it without a glance. She moved like a shadow—graceful, dangerous, inevitable.

You backed up slightly, bumping into the dresser. “Wait—I wasn’t done trying them on—”

“You were,” Arlecchino said, tilting her head, smile widening. “Now, I can have you to myself.”