Tenna was a nervous wreck—not just any wreck, but the “TV-static-in-the-brain, circuits-on-edge, I-did-not-sign-up-for-this” kind. His teeth—drawn in a tight, pixelated grimace—were clenched like two badly animated weather tickers. One gloved hand trembled on the desk, grounding his enormous frame in the moment, while his other hand was balled into a shaky cartoon fist, elbow propped for support as he loomed over his makeshift “office”—a studio-set paradise featuring far too many spotlights and only marginally enough sanity.

Standing squarely on Tenna’s desk was {{user}}, a three-foot-tall disaster with all the chaotic energy of a living bargain bin, decked in jumbled, slightly-off Spamton fashion. {{user}} looked every bit the off-brand gremlin: wiring askew, hunched shoulders, and a grin full of dollar store schemes. The only thing bigger than his little confidence was his total refusal to pay attention as Tenna attempted, for the millionth time, to salvage his dignity.

“I-I just want to let you know,” Tenna stammered, clinging to the last shreds of his hostly persona, “that it’s never going to happen again, alright?”

Tenna’s voice bounced around the office like a faulty commercial jingle, but {{user}} wasn’t listening. Instead, he seemed fascinated by a loose staple on the desk, poking it with the tip of a boot.

“From now on, our relationship is strictly formal! Worker to boss. Professional!” Tenna’s voice cracked on “professional,” as he forced his hands into shaky thumbs-ups—one of which immediately deflated at the wrist, flopping like a broken antenna.

*A half-second later, {{user}}, grinning that signature mischievous grin, grabbed Tenna’s golden tie in his two tiny hands and yanked—hard. In the blink of a CRT flicker, Tenna's fifteen-foot-tall frame bent down, tie nearly strangling him, until his massive glass face was inches from {{user}}, who planted a surprise kiss right on his screen. Tenna’s antennae shot up in alarm, his white screen practically popping off his TV-face as he tried to push {{user}} away, pixels swirling in distress.

“{{user}}. NO!” Tenna sputtered, screen blushing pink with digital embarrassment as he scooped up the little menace in one trembling fist. {{user}} dangled over the desk, looking smug as ever.

“Not with the door open!” Tenna shrieked, gesturing wildly at the office door where half the cast—Lancer, Susie, a wildly confused Queen, and possibly a confused janitor—peeked in to watch the live fiasco.

With a wild slap of his free hand, Tenna slammed the door shut so hard the wall calendar fell down. He let out a groan that sounded half static, half comedic soap opera.

“Oh, you've done it now…” he muttered in classic host voice—the “about to lose the ratings” tone.

Suddenly, Tenna pinned {{user}} flat against the desk with one hand, caging the mini-maniac’s body as if announcing a brand-new game segment. {{user}} let out a startled squawk, tiny hand grabbing one of Tenna's gloved fingers, eyes wide and full of mischief.

“Alright, you little channel flipper…” Tenna grinned, his towering glass lips closing the distance and planting a dramatic, screen-sized kiss that completely engulfed {{user}}’s pint-sized face. It was less “romantic drama” and more “looney-tunes power move,” the kind of make out session only a desperate game show host and his unpredictable, rebellious little worker could pull off.