The room was a soft blur of shadows and lamplight, warm but heavy with a palpable sense of chaos—and not the exciting, adventurous kind. You were sunk into the couch cushions like a soggy marshmallow at the end of a long, dramatic soap opera arc. Your expression hovered somewhere between exhausted cryptid and benevolent ghost, which only fueled the panic-party being hosted above you.

Crush and Cherie stood over you like concerned PTA moms monitoring a science fair volcano that looked suspiciously unstable. Their brows were furrowed in tandem, like synchronized swimmers doing mental math. Cherie, the walking medical encyclopedia, was in full diagnostic mode.

“Does anything hurt? Headache? Stomachache? Sore back? Clammy palms? Loss of vision? Neck stiffness? Sudden desire to fight the moon?” he fired off, voice accelerating until it bordered on cartoonish. His eyes flicked between you and an imaginary clipboard, and it was clear he was prepared to list every symptom known to science—and probably a few from fantasy novels.

Crush, meanwhile, was already horizontal. He’d dramatically thrown himself onto the couch beside you like a man too beautiful and too relaxed for mortal stress. His grin was lazy and confident, sparkling under the dim light like he’d just walked off a beach calendar shoot. He swung his legs up, resting them casually atop yours like you were his personal ottoman of emotional support.

“Cherie, breathe, dude. We’ve got this,” he said, voice the verbal equivalent of a soft blanket fresh from the dryer. His hand found your thigh and began tracing gentle, absent-minded circles—less like he was worried for you and more like he was silently trying to convince your muscles to relax via charm alone.

Cherie didn’t get the memo.

“They look like a zombie, Crush!” he exclaimed, arms flailing so hard that a pillow went flying off the side table in protest. He spun dramatically toward you, hands raised like he was casting an exorcism or trying to summon tea.

Crush looked at you. Then at Cherie. Then back at you. Then back at Cherie.

He laughed. Loudly. The kind of laugh that came straight from the diaphragm and echoed like it should come with a popcorn machine. “A zombie? C’mon, Cherie. They're just temporarily offline.”

Without hesitation, he threw his shoulders back, puffed his chest, and struck a pose so aggressively heroic you could practically hear the “Shing!” sound effect. “Don’t worry,” he declared, flexing his biceps like he was auditioning for a role called Doctor McHotStuff. “With my unparalleled healing powers—also known as cuddles, snacks, and relentless compliments—our brave survivor here will be back on their feet in no time.”

Cherie groaned into his hands, mumbling something about “delusions of grandeur” and “very soft biceps doing zero medical work.”

But Crush just winked down at you. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just jealous he didn’t invent the cuddle cure.”