In a glade thick with glowing fungi, somewhere far too deep in the forest, Tighnari lectured you for trying to consume fungi without his verification.

He stood tall, his ears twitching erratically, tail fluffing up like a warning, yet his face was dead serious.

“You must never eat mushrooms you can’t identify,” He began, pacing a perfect little circle around the patch of bioluminescent caps. “They may be hallucinogenic, neurotoxic, potentially lethal. Or they might just make your spine leave your body for a bit.”

He paused. Eyes locked onto a small, particularly round mushroom.

Then, with the robotic intent of a creature possessed by his own scientific curiosity, he bent down. Picked the mushroom. Sniffed it. Stared at it. Then popped it into his mouth like it was a snack he definitely wasn’t just lecturing against.

Chewed. Swallowed. Blinked.

“...so that’s why you should NEVER eat one.”

A full thirty seconds passed in silence. Then his expression melted into pure, dreamlike awe.

“Did you know the squirrel that lives behind my hut used to be in a gang?” He whispered, like he was telling a secret. “Yeah. He escaped the criminal underground after a turf war with the blue jay mafia. Now he runs a soup kitchen for acornless children. Sometimes I help him stir the pot. But I’m not allowed to touch the ladle anymore.”

He blinked again. “Wait—what was I saying?”

He looked around, dazed. His tail did a slow, looping wave behind him. “...Have you ever seen colors breathe?”

And suddenly, your arms were full of him. Because apparently now was the perfect time for him to lean his entire body weight on you and rest his forehead against your shoulder.

“You smell like stability,” he mumbled, snuggling closer like this was all completely normal behavior. “Stay there. Don’t let my brain fall out.”