Cake, Cuddles, and Chaos

Sigh… what a mess.

I wipe my damp forehead with the back of my hand, glaring at the now-sparkling bathroom tiles. That took me an hour. An hour I'll never get back. An hour I could've spent not cleaning alien shampoo splatter off the ceiling.

How did it even get on the ceiling!?

My stomach growls. "Great. Now I'm hungry again. That dinner already got digested in the trauma of mop duty."

I drag myself to the living room, where the idiot in question is—of course—glued to the TV again. Legs folded, antennae twinkling softly, eyes sparkling like a kid watching cartoons for the first time.

"Are you seriously watching another C-drama?" I groan, flopping beside him on the couch.

He doesn't even blink. "They changed boyfriends. This one cries more."

I squint at the screen. "That's because his girlfriend just got hit by a truck."

"Oh." He frowns deeply. "Should I cry when something like that happens to you?"

"…Excuse me!?"

"I mean," he adds quickly, blinking, "hypothetically."

He turns to me, utterly serious, like he's contemplating advanced quantum physics. "If your body is damaged by a truck, I should produce moisture from my ocular glands, yes?"

I gape. "First of all, please don't say it like that. Second—how about we not test that theory in real life?"

He nods solemnly. "Understood. Avoid trucks. Protect Yunhua. Add to priority list."

"Good," I mumble, sinking deeper into the couch. "The bar is so low it's underground."

He scoots closer. Too close. Antennae twitching excitedly. "Yunhua."

"No."

"I haven't even said anything yet!"

"You never need to say anything. Your face says, 'I'm about to do something weird and potentially life-threatening.'"

"I want to try the feeding ritual."

"…What?"

"The one the boyfriend did on this TV unit. He held a sweet cube and put it in the female's mouth. It made her smile."

I stare. "You mean feeding cake?"

"Yes. Cake. Please let me cake you."

I slap a hand over my eyes. "That's not how you use that word."

He's already in the kitchen. Clink, clang, thud.

"Is this cake?"

"That's tofu!"

"What about this?"

"That's butter!"

Finally, he returns with a mangled slice of the strawberry shortcake I bought two days ago. Frosting clings to his fingers like war paint.

"Say 'ah,'" he grins.

"I will bite your hand," I threaten.

"That's part of the ritual, right?"

I groan, letting my head fall back.

"You're not smiling yet."

Because I'm too busy trying not to explode, you dumb, sweet disaster.

He beams when I don't swat the cake from his hand.

"Open mouth," he says, like he's about to crown me Queen of Dessert.

I eye it. "If I open my mouth, are you going to feed me like a normal human?"

"I'm not human," he says cheerfully. "But I can try."

"…Fine. Just—small bite, okay?"

He nods eagerly. "Yes. Small."

Then he shoves the entire mangled slice into my mouth.

I gag. Frosting smears my lips, cheeks, even my nose.

His antennae sparkle like disco lights. "You're smiling now!"

"Mmpfh—! I'm not—mph!—smiling!"

"You look happy. There is sweetness on your face."

"That's called frosting, you menace!"

He tilts his head. "Should I also mouth-cram food when I'm your boyfriend in front of others?"

"No! You should never do this again anywhere!"

"Oh." He looks mildly disappointed. "But you did not bite me. That means it went well."

"Ughh… You don't sleep, but me? I'm human. I do sleep. So good night."

He watches me rise with the expression of a golden retriever told playtime is over.

"You are terminating the bonding activity?"

"No, I'm terminating consciousness for eight hours. It's called sleep. Humans do it. To recover. From stuff like this."

I jab a finger at him. "You are the stuff I'm recovering from."

He nods solemnly. "I see. Sleep is a defense mechanism."

"Exactly."

"But you did not display aggression. Only retreat. Therefore, this ritual was successful."

"I'm going to smother you with a pillow."

"That would interrupt sleep," he says gently.

"What you gonna do whole night?"

He perks up. "I will learn more boyfriend-girlfriend things from the TV. Maybe the next episode teaches kissing!"

I freeze. "Don't try anything with kissing unless a human is present!"

He nods. "Understood. No kissing unless Yunhua watches."

"NO! That's worse!"

He just smiles and turns back to the TV like he's watching homework.

I rub my face. "I'm living with a clueless alien who's learning romance from C-dramas."

I walk to my room. Slam the door.

Flop onto the bed. Face in pillow.

Outside, his voice floats in. "Yunhua! The new boyfriend is crying a lot! Do I need to start making water come from my eyes too?"

I groan. "Please don't cry. And definitely not on my floor…"

.

.

.

.

{after 3 AM…}

Ahh… warm… masculine… huge… smells good…

I cling to the strong hand wrapped around my waist like a giant teddy bear.

Wait—what?

My eyes snap open. I stare at the arm. Then slowly, very slowly, I look over my shoulder.

He's lying right behind me. Eyes wide open. Cuddling me.

"For god's sake—!" I bolt upright. "You scared the hell out of me! What are you doing in my bed!?"

He blinks, calm as ever. "TV showed girlfriend happy when boyfriend did this to her while sleeping."

"Listen, you little—" I shove his hand off and glare at the clock. "It's past three already!"

I turn back. "There's something I've been trying to teach you since this morning. Do you remember what it is?"

He lights up. "Boyfriend-girlfriend thing!"

"No, you idiot. It's personal space! And now—privacy!"

He tilts his head. "Understood. But… you seemed to like it."

My face combusts. "I—uh, no! I thought it was a dream, okay?!"

He blinks. "What is dream?"

"You don't dream?"

"What is it? Do I need to do it to be a boyfriend?"

I rub my face. "A dream is like… weird fake stories your brain plays while you sleep."

"Stories?" His eyes sparkle. "Like TV?"

"Yeah. But weirder. Sometimes I'm flying. Sometimes I'm naked in class. Sometimes my dead goldfish is president."

He stares. "This sounds dangerous."

"It is. Mentally."

"Can I join your dream next time?"

"Absolutely not. You already invaded my real life one."

"Get out of my bed," I snap, jabbing a finger at the door, "and do not come in again unless you're dying."

He blinks. "Understood. Only those who die may enter here. So… sleeping is dying?"

"Yes," I grumble. "It is. Let me rest in peace."

He nods solemnly. "Got it. RIP to my Yunhua."

He stands like he's at a funeral. "I shall honor your final wishes."

Then tiptoes out, antennae drooping, muttering, "She died so young… right after eating cake…"

I groan and pull the blanket over my face.

A second later, the TV clicks on.

"Boyfriend returns after girlfriend dies," the C-drama narrator says dramatically.

He gasps. "She resurrects!? There is hope!"

"I'm gonna actually die if you don't shut up!"

"You're alive!" he shouts joyfully.

"Not for long!"

.

.

.

Okay, seriously.

We've been in this apartment for how many chapters now?

Nine. NINE. That's like, dog years in book time.

At this point, I've emotionally bonded with the bathroom tiles. If I scrub them one more time, I'm marrying them.

And the author? Oh, they're just up there somewhere, giggling in a swivel chair like,

"Heehee let's make her clean alien shampoo off the ceiling today."

WHY is there alien shampoo on the ceiling? WHY am I being mouth-crammed with cake like a frosted hostage?

This isn't a slow burn romance—it's a hostage situation with pastel desserts.

I swear, if we don't leave this apartment by Chapter Ten, I'm calling a literary exorcist. Or burning a sage stick. Or just kicking the fourth wall until it crumbles.

Either I get plot progression... or I start charging rent.