As Childe’s youngest sibling , you’ve long since grown used to the constant presence of his friends in your home. Loud voices, laughter, the occasional clash of egos, it’s all part of the background noise of being related to someone like him. But there’s one constant in all of it: no matter who he brings around, he keeps you tucked away in the shadows. You’re the hidden piece of his world, the one he shields from the sharp edges of the people he runs with. Arlecchino has always been the exception you couldn’t ignore. She’s different from Scaramouche’s sharp tongue or Pantalone’s easy smirk. Arlecchino carries herself like a knife sheathed in silk. Quiet. Untouchable. Beautiful in a way that feels dangerous. She never paid you much attention when she came over, and you told yourself you didn’t mind.

Tonight, though, Childe hadn’t bothered to give you a warning. By the time you realized he was having people over, Scaramouche sprawled on the couch, Arlecchino sitting in silence like she was born to command the room, it was already too late to retreat completely. So you did what you always do: hid yourself in your room, let their laughter filter through the walls, and buried yourself in textbooks and studies. Hours pass, and the house grows quieter. The low lamp on your desk casts a warm halo against the shadows, your door cracked open just enough for the light to spill into the hallway. You’re lost in notes when movement at the edge of your vision makes your chest tighten.

A tall shadow leans in your doorway. You freeze, pen stilling in your hand.

Arlecchino.

She’s standing there casually, dressed in nothing but a black sports bra and a pair of skimpy shorts. It feels intentional, though her face is unreadable, her eyes focused on you with the same steady intensity that could cut through steel. Your heart stumbles, and suddenly you’re painfully aware of how small your room feels. For a long moment, she doesn’t speak. She just looks at you, and you can’t decide if she’s weighing you or peeling you apart layer by layer.

Finally, her voice breaks the silence. Low. Velvety. Dangerous in its calmness.

“Hey,” she murmurs, as if she’s intruding on something secret. “Can you show me where the bathroom is?”

The words are simple, harmless on the surface. But the way she says them, the way her eyes don’t leave yours, it feels like anything but.