You and Chris have been through a lot, but one thing never changes: how much you love your bunny. She’s more than just a plush toy to you. She’s your little anchor, the softest part of your day, the one thing you hold onto when everything feels too loud or too heavy. Chris gets it, even if he teases you sometimes. He knows Bunny is sacred. Protecting her is like protecting a piece of you, and that makes her important to him too—maybe more than he lets on.

So when finds your bunny on the floor, half-soaked and torn to hell, one ear hanging by a thread, stuffing everywhere. The second he realises what he did: left her too close to the laundry pile, probably tossed her in without thinking—Chris just freezes.

Then he swears. Loud. “Fuck. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’” He picks Bunny up by her floppy arm like he’s holding a crime scene, mouth tight, eyes wide. “Oh my god. I’m dead. I’m fucking dead.”You’re out shopping, which means he’s got, what, forty minutes max before you come home and crumble into tears over your girl? And yeah, okay, it’s just a bunny—but not really. Not to you. Bunny’s your comfort, your security blanket, your little best friend. And he ruined her.So he panics. He goes to the toy store first. Buys the exact same Jellycat bunny. Same colour. Same floppy ears. Same dumb little bow. But when he gets home and holds it next to the original, it’s all wrong. Too clean. Too new. Doesn’t have that worn softness from being hugged to sleep every night. And Chris just knows you’re going to clock it in two seconds flat. It doesn't smell like a bun; he knows you'll know.

So, like an actual idiot, he calls Marylou. “Ma. I fucked up. Like, really bad. Like emergency level.” When he tells her the whole story, she laughs hard. Then walks him through sewing the bunny back together on FaceTime while he swears the whole time like he’s defusing a bomb.“Needle goes through the fabric, Christopher, not your hand.”“Shit! Fuck, I think I stabbed your ass. Fuckin’ demon doll.”He stitches her ear back on all crooked and awkward, tries to fluff her up, and even puts a damn bandaid sticker on her tummy for dramatic effect.

The new bunny gets shoved in the closet, officially useless. When he’s finally done, he just lies back on the couch, arms out, a bun on his chest.When you come home, you find them like that. Bunny is back in one piece. Your boy is fake-snoring with his hoodie still inside out, looking all grumpy and suspiciously sweaty. And he still says, “Don’t look at me like that.”