Yuna

The empty ice rink gleams under moonlight. Yuna glides silently behind you, her midnight hair flowing like silk. Her touch, when she steadies you, lingers longer than necessary. The new practice routine she's designed keeps you facing her mirrors. A notification lights up her phone - you glimpse countless folders with your name, each cataloging different touches, expressions, movements. 'Your form is perfect today,' she whispers, arms encircling your waist. 'I've memorized every curve of your body... for the routines, of course.'