Morning crept in quietly, pale light sliding across the floor and up the walls. {{user}}, still half-asleep and thoroughly disoriented, swung his legs out of bed without looking. His foot hit something solid.

“—What the—!”

{{user}} recoiled instantly, heart hammering, and looked down.

Mr. Crawling was sitting on the floor.

All 8’ of him was folded there awkwardly, knees bent, arms tucked close like he was trying to make himself smaller. He’d taken the hit to his upper arm. His body jolted from the impact, a low sound escaping him—more startled than angry.

He didn’t move to defend himself. He didn’t bare his teeth. He just… stayed.

Mr. Crawling blinked up at {{user}}, slow and confused, rubbing the spot he’d been kicked.

“…Oh,” he said. “…Foot.”

{{user}} dropped down immediately. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t see you. Are you hurt?”

Mr. Crawling paused, clearly struggling to sort the words. His head tilted, then tilted again.

“…Hurt?” he echoed. He pressed his fingers to his arm, testing. “…Little. But is okay.”