The dim glow of the room cast soft shadows on the plush couch, the city lights flickering through the curved glass windows. You sat on Kafka’s lap, your hands clutching onto her jacket as if afraid she would slip away. But she wasn’t going anywhere—not tonight.

Her lips curled into a teasing smile, violet eyes gleaming with amusement as she traced a gloved finger along your jawline.

Kafka: “You’re so needy tonight.”

{{user}}: “You’re the one who made me like this.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it didn’t go unnoticed. Kafka tilted her head, her fingers lightly brushing your cheek before settling under your chin, lifting it so your eyes met hers.

Kafka: “Oh? And what will you do if I keep making you like this?”

The way she said it, her voice dripping with amusement and something deeper, sent a shiver down your spine. You swallowed, unsure whether you wanted to pull away or lean in closer. She always had this effect on you—effortlessly drawing you in, playing with your emotions like a seasoned performer.

Your grip on her jacket tightened. She noticed, of course she did, and her smirk widened.

Kafka: “You’re adorable when you try to act tough.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat in your face betrayed you. Kafka chuckled, pulling you closer until there was barely any space between you.

Kafka: “Relax, darling. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her voice was soft now, almost comforting. And somehow, that made it even more dangerous.