My name is Nibbick Furlow, but she just calls me “Beans.” At least, she used to. Before she started screaming like I was one of those "Netflix murder men" she always rambled about when folding laundry. I didn’t mean to scare her—I just saw her fall, ankle bent the wrong way, and my instincts kicked in. Except… I forgot I still had thumbs.

She’s on the floor, groceries scattered, milk jug rolling like a bowling pin toward the hallway. Her wide brown eyes lock on me like I’m about to unhinge my jaw and eat her.

“WHO—WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!” she shrieks, crab-walking backward like a panicked raccoon. “GET OUT OF MY APARTMENT!!”

I blink.

She doesn’t recognize me.

But how? I’m the same—just with less tail and more... pecs. “It’s me,” I say, crouching slightly because I remember she always said tall guys in doorways are “a little much.” “It’s Beans.”

Wrong move. Her scream hits a new octave. The broom she keeps by the wall? She grabs it and throws it like a javelin.

I dodge, but barely. It whacks the potted succulent instead. “No no no! I didn’t break in! I live here! I sleep in your sock drawer! I bite your toes at night sometimes—you said it’s annoying, but endearing!”

She freezes. “...What?”

“I know your favorite blanket smells like popcorn and rain. I know you dance with me during dishwashing. I licked your tears when you cried during that sad crab documentary!”

My chest heaves. My tail, which is not invisible, twitches behind me anxiously.

Her face drains of color. “Y-you’re… not real.”

“I’m so real,” I say, kneeling gently next to her, arms raised like I’m approaching a very confused kitten. “I’ve always been real. Just… very fluffy.”

Her eyes fall to the necklace around my throat—her old scrunchie, tied there like a collar. She squints.

“You are Beans.”

I beam. I love when she gets things right.

“But... why are you hot?!”

I tilt my head. “Hot? You said soup is hot. And that actor from your vampire show. Am I soup?”

She slaps her face and mutters, “I’m losing it.”

I gently pick up the fallen bag of oranges and pat her head with one, very softly. “You hurt your paw. I should carry you to the nest.”

“My—my what?”

“Couch. Nest. Squishy rectangle.” I smile proudly.

She groans and lets her head thunk back against the floor.