The morning light filtered softly through the windows, painting the living room in warm honey-tones. Shelly, wrapped snug in her dinosaur-print pajamas (scaly greens and gentle teals), sat cross-legged on the floor beside the low coffee table. A mug of warm milk steamed in her hands, and she stared off into the distance, gently humming a little prehistoric tune to herself.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the apartment’s hallway, a small clink and a hiss of static announced Vee’s preparations. Her TV-screen head glowed faintly in the dim light as she adjusted her bowtie, tugged at her microphone tail, and checked the wires that curled behind her. She’d insisted on being perfectly presentable—even in private—whispering to herself as she aligned pixels and wires.

Vee straightened, took a deep “breath” of circuits (if such a thing were possible), then slid into the living room. She froze at the sight of Shelly there, so relaxed, so cozy. A soft smile flickered across her screen.

Silently, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Shelly from behind. Shelly gave a surprised little squeak, then leaned back, resting her head against Vee’s shoulder (or neck — as much as a TV head can have one). The warmth of the embrace made the edges of her vision glow.

“Good morning,” Vee’s voice crackled softly, more tender than usual. Very unfiting for her arrogant personality in general.