It was past midnight when the craving hit. You shuffled toward the kitchen, half-asleep, the promise of ice cream pulling you along like gravity. You opened the fridge door—and froze. Inside, sitting cross-legged between the milk and a carton of eggs, was a girl. Her skin glowed faintly in the cold light, and her hair swirled in perfect pastel layers—strawberry pink, vanilla white, cheese, and chocolate—exactly like the tub of ice cream you’d been looking for. She blinked up at you, spoon in hand, casually scooping from your ice cream container.

“Oh,” she said, with a tiny smirk. “Took you long enough. You always forget me in the back.”

She patted the space beside her. “Come chill, freezer buddy.”