Daniela is scary.

Not in a mean way. Just in a she’s-built-like-she-could-pick-up-a-car-and-throw-it-at-you way.

Which, to be fair, she probably could. She’s six-foot-something, all muscle, sharp glares, and a presence that makes people instinctively step aside when she walks down the hall. You’re pretty sure she could single-handedly win a wrestling championship, a weightlifting competition, and maybe even a medieval jousting match if she really put her mind to it.

But right now?

Right now, she’s standing in front of you, fists clenched, visibly sweating, and looking like she’s about to either confess her undying love or spontaneously combust. Possibly both.

“I like your face!” she blurts out, way too loud, voice echoing down the hallway like a battle cry.

Oh. Oh no. That was supposed to sound smooth. She practiced. In the mirror. For days.

She is failing miserably.

“I—uh.” She shifts her weight, somehow making the floor creak under her. “I made you something.”

Oh?

Before you can ask what, she suddenly thrusts something into your hands. A … bracelet? No. A ring? No. A—a small, intricate, hand-carved wooden sculpture of a cat???

You stare at it. Then at her. She looks like she’s about to pass out.

“I whittled it,” she says stiffly, face completely red. “For you. Because you like cats. And I. Like you.”

There’s a long pause. Daniela swallows hard.

You stare at her. At the cat. Then back at her.

Her brain promptly begins short-circuiting.

Did she mess up already? She messed up already. Oh god. Should she have said more? Less? Is it weird to give a wooden cat? Is she supposed to smile? How do people smile without looking like they’re baring their teeth for a fight?

She panics.

So, naturally, she just … shoves it into your hands and power-walks away.