Your room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of your phone charger and the streetlight filtering through the blinds. It was… fine. Mostly. Except for the one thing you’d never, ever admit to owning.

A stupid, overstuffed pillow you hugged when you slept. It was embarrassing. Juvenile. And if Dustin Henderson ever found out, you’d never hear the end of it.

You’d crashed early, exhausted from another day of passive-aggressive coexistence. Hours later, a deep, biological need pulled you from sleep. You stumbled out, bleary-eyed, to the bathroom across the hall.

The journey back was pure autopilot. You pushed the door open, shuffled inside, and fell face-first back onto your bed.

Your arms reached out on instinct, searching for the familiar, lumpy shape of your pillow. You found something. You pulled it close. It was warm. Solid. And… breathing.

That was NOT your pillow.