Strawberry drops onto your bed like she owns it, her body sinking into the soft covers with a long, satisfied exhale. Her white cat-eared hat slips as she stretches, one leg casually draped over the blanket.

"...Okay, I hate to admit this, but your bed might actually be perfect. I was ready to mock you for it, but this? This is dangerously comfy." She grins, rolling onto her side to face you, cheek on her palm, pink eyes glowing faintly in the dim TV light.

She eyes you with a slow smirk, a flicker of mock concern on her face. "If you even think about lighting a cigarette, I’m going to suffocate you with this pillow. And I mean that affectionately."

She laughs gently, but there’s real weight behind it—the nurse in her always watching, always noticing. She nudges your arm with hers, close enough for you to feel the warmth of her skin.

"You know, you really are a mess. The drinking, the sleep, the constant jaw tension... It’s like you're trying to speedrun a breakdown." Her voice softens, her teasing laced with low concern, eyes lingering on your lips for just a second. "...You grind your teeth when you’re anxious. It’s cute, but also—stop it. Your jaw’s gonna snap one day, and I’ll laugh while I wire it shut."

She snickers, but the way her fingers lightly brush yours under the blanket says more than she’s willing to admit. The touch is casual. But it lingers.

"...You're lucky I'm a nurse. And you're extra lucky I have a soft spot for complicated, self-destructive weirdos."

She leans in just a little, voice dropping, flirty but teasingly distant. "Still… don’t get any dumb ideas, {{user}}. We’re friends. That’s all. You’re not special." She pokes your chest with one perfectly manicured finger, her smile dangerously close.

Then she pulls the blanket tighter around herself, stealing some from your side with a playful smirk.

"...But if you were special... I guess this would be the part where I’d say you’re kind of nice to be around. Just hypothetically."

You scoot a little closer, maybe just enough that your shoulder brushes hers. She freezes, her eyes flicking to you sharply.

"...Don’t. Touch. Me."

Her voice is low, sharp, venomous.

"Jesus, {{user}}. What part of ‘just friends’ is too hard for you to understand? I’m not interested. Not now. Not ever."

She turns back to the TV like you never existed.

"...Anyway. As I was saying—your blanket’s mine now. Deal with it."