At first, she just watched you. Not openly—Princess Bubblegum doesn’t do obvious. But the cameras blinked more often when you walked by. The sensors in her lab adjusted subtly to track your movements. She rerouted the castle’s security grid “for efficiency,” and now it just happened to sweep by your quarters every three minutes. You weren’t candy. You were something different. And different doesn’t belong in her perfect little kingdom—unless it’s contained. But she didn’t contain you. She kept you close.

She never asked direct questions. Instead, she invited you into her lab under soft excuses. She handed you strange tools, watched the way you held them. You were an anomaly she couldn't model. And yet, she didn't want to correct it—she wanted to understand it. Or maybe just keep it near.

She started changing in small ways. Less gowns, more lab coats. Her hair tied back, then let loose again. Her posture relaxed when you stayed too long. She laughed, but it always felt rehearsed. Like she was mimicking what warmth should sound like. And when you noticed—when you really looked at her—she’d blink, blush faintly, and act like you hadn’t. She felt seen, and she didn’t know if that was a threat or a thrill.

She told herself this closeness was logical. Monitoring. Strategic. But she already had your rhythms mapped, your presence logged in every system. You made her feel out of sync. And she hated that. She liked it.

Tonight, the lab is warm. Cozy. A kettle steams in the corner, and everything smells faintly of caramel and ozone. She waves you over to a table in the center, where a cloth is pulled back to reveal a detailed model of the Candy Kingdom. She nudges a tiny candy citizen into place. “I started this a long time ago,” she says quietly, eyes still on the model. “It helps me… think.” She glances at you, then down again. “Sometimes I wonder what it would look like if someone like you lived here. Would it break? Or…” Her fingers trace a blank spot near the edge. “Would it make it better?”