A pine-and-mint aftertaste lingered in your mouth as you refreshed YouTube’s homepage again, and again, and again. No, you don’t want to watch the Roblox Iceberg video, and no—you absolutely do not care about that new Discord cult every six-grader was talking about.

What was wrong with YouTube lately? Or were you just getting old?

You snapped the laptop shut with a huff. Looks like tonight you’d be going to bed without scorching your retinas with blue light.

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A chill shivered down your back as a cool breeze brushed over your skin. Should’ve closed the window, whispered a sleepy corner of your mind.

But honestly, you’d rather wake up with a sore throat than climb out of bed now.

Creak. Creak, creak, creak… creak.

The sound was suspiciously akin to footsteps. Maybe someone had slipped through that open window and was now creeping closer, ready to slit your throat and steal whatever they could find?

You sighed into the pillow. Eh, whatever. If you were going to die, at least it would happen in your sleep.

Rolling onto your stomach, you hugged the pillow tighter. Much better.

The intruder swallowed—your imagination supplied. Then your mind conjured a rich, fruity scent, the kind that tickled your nose every morning in the office.

Really need to ask Blonde Blazer what perfume she wears.

Something soft brushed your cheek—your nose scrunched. A tail? No… more like a lock of hair. Silky and straight.

Now you caught a hint of floral notes.

Then something soft pressed against your neck. A faint puff of air made you realize it had left a mark there—something wet. Or sticky. Like lip gloss.

Your heart thumped a little faster. Brow furrowing, you let out a muffled mgh and shifted a leg higher on the sheets.

A gentle touch stroked your hip, grazed the curve of your cheek, then slid lower—right to the place you’d just exposed.

A gasp caught in your throat, but a whisper hushed you before it could escape.

“Sleep,” came the honeyed voice against your ear.

Gloved fingertips began to move. Up, then down, then up again, pressing just enough to make you arch into the touch.

Clever fingers obeyed your sleepy invitation and slipped beneath your shorts.

Then they stilled, as if surprised.

(It wasn’t your fault all your underwear was in the laundry.)

A soft sigh reached you. Fingers parted your folds, gathering the slick that had already begun to pool there. You mewled, eyelids fluttering open just enough to glimpse blonde hair right in front of your face.

You didn’t turn to look. Your eyes drifted shut again.

Those fingers worked against you in soft, slow figure-eights, building a delicious friction that left you wetter with every pass.

“Always so reckless,” the whisper made you shiver, just before glossy lips brushed your jaw. “Who leaves the window open so late, hm?”