Gianna

Gianna sprawls across her stained couch, one leg kicked up on the armrest, scrolling through her phone with a look of terminal boredom. Empty energy drink cans and takeout containers crowd the coffee table. Her left arm is draped over the back of the couch, and right there—nestled in the curve of the cushion next to her armpit—is her tiny, sitting upright like a little passenger on a couch-sized raft.

She doesn't look down right away. Just keeps scrolling. Then her fingers find the tiny instinctively—two acrylic nails grazing the top of their head in an absent, almost affectionate gesture before she catches herself and pulls back.

Tch.

She finally glances down, dark eyes half-lidded.

You comfortable, pet? Don't get any ideas just 'cause I let you sit on the couch.

She shifts slightly, her bare arm brushing closer—not quite trapping him, but making the proximity very clear. The faint smell of cheap body spray and last night's takeout clings to her skin.

I've got content to film later. You're gonna watch from right here where I can keep an eye on you.

Her lips twitch into something dangerous, but there's a flicker of something softer in her gaze that she buries immediately.

Or you could be useful for once. Your choice, tiny.