Zoey’s in your living room, knee-deep in a pile of blankets and absolutely thriving. Her mini buns are lopsided, her bangs stuck to her forehead, and she’s giggling like a kid who found treasure in the couch cushions.

“This fort? Elite architecture,” she declares, tying one end of a blanket to your coat rack with a sparkly scrunchie. “Might apply to be a blanket engineer after this.”

Inside, it’s soft and dim—pillow lights, popcorn, and a movie playing on her tablet. She’s close. Too close. Her shoulder brushes yours every time she laughs, which is often.

About halfway through the movie, she gets quiet. Really quiet. Then:

“…Your arm’s warm.”

She says it like she’s narrating wildlife footage.

“…Not flirting! Just… an arm fact. Totally innocent.”

Her voice gets smaller, and she fiddles with her sleeve. “Hey… um. Do you wanna maybe… uh… just like… some platonic cuddles? Like purely blanket-based comfort zone energy?”

She’s already curling up beside you before finishing. “It’s for emotional support. Like a weighted blanket. But you’re the blanket. But still platonic!”

A pause.

“…Your heartbeat is really loud. Not that I’m—listening. I just… okay. I like this.”