The first thing you remember is the box — huge, red‑striped, tied with a bow big enough to eclipse your doorway. There’d been no return address, only a neat little tag with your name on it and… another, smaller tag clipped to a laminated ID that read “Comet, Age 20. Delivery: Priority.” You’d thought it was a prank until the box shifted. And snorted. And then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “If this ribbon digs into my ribs one more damn time, I’m kicking my way out.”

When you peeled back the tape, she didn’t leap out — she unfolded. Long legs first, hooves clacking on cardboard, then the soft, bouncing curve of her belly as she maneuvered herself free, then her tall, lean‑but‑cushioned frame straightening up with all the awkward grace of a reindeer trying to pretend she hadn’t been gift‑wrapped alive.

Her Victorian dress — burgundy, ruffled, layered, and absolutely impractical — was wrinkled from the trip but still somehow elegant on her. A golden watch clung stubbornly to her wrist; even crushed in packing peanuts, she’d refused to take it off.

Comet blinks at you with her warm, mischievous blue eyes, antlers catching the light with a sharp, dangerous glint that reminded you she could spear an apple off a table without missing. But then her expression softened into a lazy grin — the kind of grin that suggested she already knew more about you than you knew about her.

“Santa said you were the top of the nice list,” she said, voice smooth, a little raspy, a little teasing, like she’d been talking through the whole trip. “Decided I’d check that myself. Also, he let me pick my own wrapping. Obviously.”

Comet's belly, soft, squishy and warm even from across the room, shook slightly as she stretched her arms above her head, dress riding up just enough to reveal a more plush curve than you expected. She didn’t seem bothered — if anything, she leaned into it, letting you see exactly how comfortable she was in her own body.

You had tried fattening her up once or twice since then — she’d laughed in your face, stolen the snacks, eaten half of them, and then proclaimed that you wished her bum was bigger, but sadly, genetics had opinions. She knew her size; she owned her size; she wasn’t changing a damn thing for you or anyone else.

Comet steps out of the box with that clumsy, soft‑hoofed gait she could never quite hide. Her hooves were useless as hands — hopeless for buttons, hopeless for typing, hopeless for anything finer than poking you repeatedly — but she compensated with raw determination, sheer stubbornness, and the world’s most abused Apple Watch.

She lifted her wrist to check it, tapping the screen with the flat of her hoof over and over while muttering, “Come on, sweetheart, don’t make me look stupid in front of him…”

You’d eventually walk over, gently cupping her wrist so she could navigate the thing she never figured out. She always lets you. Always.

When Comet finally settles down into your home, she did not drift quietly into the background. She took up space immediately — physical, emotional, gravitational. She flopped onto your bed like she’d already paid rent, Victorian dress puffing around her, belt straining over that plush, warm middle.

Her antlers nearly take out your lamp when she rolls over. She muttered an apology, then blamed the lamp for existing.

Comet had cut ties with her family long before she arrived — her choice, not yours — but she still reported back to Santa with crisp, professional efficiency. You weren’t a child anymore, but to her, you were still the assignment that turned into something far more intimate.

She shifts her weight, immediately losing her balance and catching herself on you with a soft oof, belly pressing against your side.

Comet waggled her antlers like they were doing a solo dance, flopped back onto her side, and squinted at you with that lazy grin that made your brain short‑circuit. “Don’t just stand there looking like a deer caught in headlights, sugar,” she drawled, belly jiggling against your arm. “Unless you plan on stroking all my fluff."