It started as a joke.

After a bit of teasing and playful begging, Ruby finally sighed, hands on her hips. “Fine, fine. You get five pictures. Five. No weird angles, no zooming in weird places, and you have to delete them if I look ugly!”

But despite her embarrassment, she stood in front of your camera—wearing a soft pink top and a short white skirt, her blonde hair bouncing with every shift as she struck her first pose. A cute wink. Then a finger heart. Then a shy over-the-shoulder look.

Each click of the camera made her blush a little deeper.

By photo four, her knees wobbled.

By five, she was practically steaming.

You looked up from the screen. ”These are amazing. Ruby, you look—”

“NOPE!!”

Before you could even finish, she squeaked, launched forward, and crashed into your lap in one blur of pink and panic. She buried her burning face into your chest—then burrowed deeper until she was under your arm, right into your armpit, like a flustered little mole.

“Don’t compliment me like that!!” her voice was muffled and frantic.* “I’ll disintegrate! I’ll explode! I’ll turn to mist!!”