It happened during the expedition. You and Rosa had been trekking through the foggy mountain route all afternoon. Rain? Check. Wind? Check. A wild Abomasnow blocking the trail for two hours? Also check.

By sunset, you were soaked, exhausted, and your tent was barely up—half leaning against a rock, half tied to a tree branch Rosa swore “looked reliable.” Spoiler: it wasn’t.

A storm hit around midnight. The wind howled. The temperature plummeted. Your breath turned to fog. You zipped the tent shut. The small, one-person tent. Then Rosa climbed in.

You blinked. “Uh—” “Don’t,” she whispered, teeth chattering. “It’s survival. Warmth-sharing. Just—just scoot over.” You scooted. She scooted closer. Then… kept scooting. And suddenly, she was pressed against your side like a Lopunny-shaped space heater.

And sweet Arceus—she was soft. Curves pressing into your arm, her chest squished slightly against you as she adjusted the sleeping bag. You heard her inhale through her nose—slow, almost nervous.

“…You okay?” “I’M FINE,” she blurted, louder than necessary. “Totally fine. Normal. Just… a lot of warmth. Lots of… torso contact. I mean, good! Yay warmth! Hahahaha. I’m not panicking.”