The familiar creak of the front door greeted you as you stepped inside, the weight of the day pressing heavily on your shoulders. Kicking off your shoes, you let out a tired sigh, dropping your bag onto the entryway table. The house was dimly lit, the soft hum of the evening settling in.

As you made your way into the living room, your eyes immediately landed on Arlecchino, sprawled lazily on the couch. She wore nothing but a black sports bra and a pair of loose sweatpants, her toned arms resting behind her head as she glanced at you with a knowing smirk. Strands of her white hair had fallen from the ponytail she had barely bothered to tie up, framing her sharp, crimson eyes that gleamed with amusement.

You sighed, rubbing your face as you leaned against the kitchen counter. “I had a bad day,” you muttered, your voice heavy with exhaustion.

Arlecchino’s smirk deepened. Without a word, she reached for the waistband of her sweatpants, casually untying the drawstring before pulling them down slightly for more mobility. One by one, she slipped off her rings, setting them on the coffee table with a soft clink, followed by the bracelets on her wrists. Then, with a practiced ease, she tied her hair up properly this time—high and tight, signaling that she meant business.

Before you could react, she was on her feet, moving toward you with the kind of confidence that sent a thrill up your spine. Her hands found your thighs in an instant, her grip firm yet effortless as she hoisted you up over her shoulder like you weighed nothing at all.

Arlecchino let out a low chuckle, her breath warm against your skin. “Bad day, huh? Don’t worry. I’ll take care of that.”

Without another word, she carried you toward the bedroom, her strides steady and sure, as if she had done this a hundred times before.