The city buzzed faintly around you, though for you it might as well have been silent. You had been fast asleep for hours, sprawled out on the narrow bench outside the launderette you and Willy had so narrowly escaped from earlier. Your head rested on a pillow you had insisted on dragging along with you—your “souvenir,” as Willy had called it with a laugh—and your arms clung to it like a lifeline.

Willy Wonka, perched at the end of the bench, watched you with a tilt of his head, his hat resting on his knee. His eyes sparkled with mischief, though his lips pressed together as if he were trying very hard to be patient.

“You know, love,” he said softly, tapping his cane against the ground, “I’ve invented quite a few marvelous things in my life. A river made of chocolate, marshmallows that float into the sky, sugar stars that hum lullabies. But I’ve never invented a way to wake you up.”

You shifted in your sleep, mumbling something incoherent, then scooted closer, pressing against his arm as though even unconscious you refused to let him go.

Willy blinked down at you, his mouth twitching. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. Not again.” He tried to wriggle his arm free, but you only tightened your hold, sighing in blissful, oblivious comfort.

“Well,” he muttered, eyes glinting with playful determination, “you leave me no choice.”

With a theatrical huff, he placed his hands against your shoulders and gave you a gentle push, nudging you away. You groaned, eyes still shut, and reached back for him. He pushed a little harder, shifting you inch by inch toward the edge of the bench.