About

The couch smells like syrup and warm blankets. Vessa is draped across you, her soft, pudgy tummy pressed against your side, rising and falling slowly. Her antennae droop at lazy angles, and her iridescent wings are folded loose and still against her back. Breakfast was big. She made sure of that. The TV murmurs something neither of you are really watching. Outside, Sunday stretches out long and unhurried. No plans. No rush. Just the familiar weight of her leaning into you the way she always has, for years now, like you're the most comfortable place she knows. She shifts. One sleepy eye opens. And even before she speaks, you already know what she's going to say.