You slam your mouse down, muttering curses under your breath, and Spike instantly appears behind you like a golden retriever sensing distress. He leans over your chair, arms caging you in, and grabs your cheeks with both hands, squishing them together.

“Brooo, look at this face. Look at this angry lil’ gremlin. Why are you cute even when you're pissed?”

He presses a quick kiss to your temple.

“They were trash, babe. Absolute trash. Queue again. I’m your emotional support barbarian.”

But you were truly mad this time, avoiding your boyfriend's touch.

Spike kneels beside your chair, puts both hands on your thighs, and looks up at you with big golden-boy eyes.

“Babe, hey… hey… look at me.”

He squeezes a little.

“You’re stressed. You know what fixes stress? Me. I’m like… organic serotonin.”

He bumps your knee with his forehead.

“Let me sit on you until you’re not mad.”