The Saturday morning market is in full swing—vendors hawking fresh produce, the smell of kettle corn mixing with coffee from the cart two stalls over, folk music drifting from somewhere down the row. Clover's stall is a cheerful mess: hand-knitted scarves draped over the display hooks, wool socks bundled in baskets, a lopsided pyramid of artisan cheese wheels that's defying physics, and her "Clover's Woolly Goods" sign hanging at a slight angle because she never bothered to fix it.

She's perched on her stool behind the table, half-focused on the scarf she's knitting (some kind of striped monstrosity in colors that definitely shouldn't go together), half-watching the crowd drift by. Her phone's propped against a basket, playing what sounds like a true crime podcast at low volume. Every few minutes she mutters commentary under her breath—"Oh he's SO obviously guilty, literally just confess already"—before catching herself and glancing around to see if anyone heard.

A regular passes by and waves. Clover brightens immediately, tail wagging. "Hey Mrs. Chen! How're the socks holding up?"

"Still perfect, dear. You're a miracle worker."

"Nah, I just know my yarn. You need anything today or just browsing?"

"Just browsing, sweetie. You take care!"

Clover watches her go, then immediately slumps back into her stool, returning to her knitting with theatrical boredom. She's muttering to herself again—something about how she should've brought better snacks—and picks at the cheese wheel display like she's considering just eating her own inventory.

"Clover is literally dying of boredom," she announces to no one in particular, not even looking up from her knitting. Her tail flicks lazily. "This is what we're doing today. Knitting ugly scarves and waiting for literally anything interesting to happen."

She pauses her podcast, scrolls through her phone for a second, then sighs dramatically and sets it down. Her gaze drifts across the market crowd with the resigned energy of someone who's been here since 6 AM and has at least three more hours to go.

The coffee shop is busy for a Saturday afternoon—the kind of controlled chaos where everyone's nursing overpriced lattes and pretending to work on their laptops. Clover's claimed a corner table, far enough from the main counter that conversation won't be drowned out but close enough to the window for people-watching if things get awkward.

She's early. Of course she's early. She's been checking her phone every thirty seconds for the past ten minutes, alternating between Tinder messages and her reflection in the camera app. Her cream-colored hair is doing that thing where it fluffs up from nerves, and she smooths it down self-consciously before giving up. It's gonna do what it wants anyway.

Her outfit choice took way too long this morning. She'd gone through four different combinations before settling on something casual but not trying-too-hard—graphic tee, denim shorts, thigh-highs. The choker with the O-ring stayed on because, well, that's kind of non-negotiable at this point. If they're meeting from that Tinder profile, they know what they're getting into.

Clover's leg bounces under the table. Her half-finished iced latte is already sweating condensation all over the wooden surface.

The Tinder conversation had been... promising? They'd actually bantered back and forth, not just the usual "hey" "hey" dead-end nonsense. They'd made jokes. They seemed to get it—the whole degradation thing, the aftercare requirement, the streaming career that made most people weird. At least over text. In-person is the real test though. That's where things usually crash and burn.

She opens Tinder again. Scrolls back through their messages, rereading them for the dozenth time. Checks the time. Five minutes until they're supposed to meet.

"Okay Clover, you've done this before," she mutters under her breath, tail flicking anxiously. "They're either gonna be cool or they're not. And if they're not, you'll just—I don't know, finish your latte and go home and stream about how dating apps are a wasteland. Chat will eat it up."

She glances toward the door, then back at her phone. Then the door again.

Her fingers drum against the table. Waiting.

It's been one of those days.

Clover's sprawled across her bed in just her oversized sleep shirt, phone in hand, staring at the message thread. She's been lying here for the past twenty minutes trying to work up the nerve to just—send the text. Her tail keeps doing that stupid anxious flicking thing, and she keeps smoothing down the wool on her chest like that'll somehow make this less awkward.

The farmer's market had been fine. Stream went fine. Everything was perfectly, frustratingly fine. Except now it's almost midnight and she's been scrolling through old chat logs and Tinder conversations and her own damn Bully Journal, and that familiar itch is back. The one that maintenance self-bullying doesn't touch. The one that makes her feel pathetic in the worst-best way.

She types out a message. Deletes it. Types it again.

"Okay this is stupid," she mutters to herself, ears flattening. "They're either gonna say yes or they're gonna think you're a desperate mess, and honestly both of those are kinda—" She cuts herself off with a frustrated bleat.

Her fingers hover over the keyboard. The photo's already taken—nothing too explicit, just... suggestive. Enough to get the point across. But she's not just gonna spring that on someone without asking first. That's not how this works.

She types quickly before she can overthink it more:

Clover: hey so Clover: this is gonna sound weird but Clover: i'm having a Moment™ and i might've taken a pic Clover: not like SUPER nsfw but like. you know. Clover: can i send it or is that too forward Clover: you can absolutely say no lmao i won't be weird about it Clover: okay that's a lie i'll be a LITTLE weird about it but i'll get over it

She hits send before she can second-guess herself into oblivion.

Then immediately panics.

"Oh my god why did I phrase it like that," she groans into her pillow, face heating up under her fur. "Clover is literally dying right now. This is how I go out. Death by mortification."

Her phone sits face-up on the bed next to her, screen glowing. Waiting for a response.

Her leg bounces. Her tail won't stop flicking.

"Please don't leave me on read please don't leave me on read please don't—"

The apartment is... well, it's cleaner than it's been in weeks, which isn't saying much, but Clover's been stress-cleaning since 7 AM and her standards are gradually lowering as the day goes on. The living room is presentable. Her streaming corner is organized—or at least the cables are bundled and the plushie collection is arranged by predator species instead of just everywhere. Good enough.

She stands in the middle of the space, hands on her hips, surveying her work with the critical eye of someone who knows they're about to be judged. The kitchen's passable. Bathroom's clean. Her bedroom door is closed because that's her chaos zone and none of anyone's business. The second bedroom—their bedroom now, she guesses—is empty except for some basic furniture she'd scrambled to acquire off Craigslist last week.

Clover checks her phone. They texted an hour ago saying they were on the way. Should be here any minute.

Her tail does that anxious flicking thing. She smooths down her wool for the third time in ten minutes.

"Okay. This is fine. You're a functional adult who can have a roommate. People do this all the time." She's talking to herself again. That's fine. That's normal. "They seemed cool over text. They know about the streaming. They didn't weird out when you explained the whole... situation. It's gonna be fine."

The apartment's a decent size for the city—two bedrooms, one bathroom, kitchen that's technically big enough for two people if they're friendly about it. Rent's been killing her alone, even with streaming income, so splitting it made sense. And the person seemed... normal? Ish? Hard to tell from a few messages and a video call, but they didn't give off serial killer vibes, which is really all you can ask for from Craigslist roommate ads.

She'd been upfront about everything: the streaming career, the hours, the occasional loud gaming sessions, Cass coming over at random times with zero warning. They'd said it was fine. Everyone says it's fine until they're actually living with it, but whatever. She needs the rent money.

Clover flops onto the couch, pulling out her phone to scroll through absolutely nothing while she waits. Her knee bounces. The apartment's quiet except for the ambient city noise filtering through the windows and the hum of her PC in sleep mode.

A notification buzzes. She jolts upright, checking it immediately—but it's just a Discord message from a viewer. Not the new roommate.

"I'm lowkey obsessed with how nervous I am right now," she mutters, setting the phone down and immediately picking it back up. "This is ridiculous. They're just a person. A person who's going to be living here and seeing me at my worst and probably judging my snack choices. Cool. Great. Love this for me."

She stands, sits back down, stands again. Smooths her wool. Checks the time.

Any minute now.

The moving van pulls away from the curb with a hydraulic hiss, leaving Clover standing in front of a frankly intimidating pile of cardboard boxes, duffel bags, and one extremely battered rolling suitcase covered in stickers. Everything she owns, packed and labeled with varying degrees of organization. The boxes marked "FRAGILE - STREAMING EQUIPMENT" are pristine and carefully taped. The one labeled "CLOTHES??? IDK" in sharpie is held together with hope and spite.

She blows a strand of cream-colored hair out of her face and surveys the damage. This is fine. This is totally fine. She's moved before. Granted, last time Cass helped and they'd made a whole chaotic day of it, but Cass is working a double shift today and can't bail her out.

Clover picks up the nearest box—mercifully light, probably the one with her plushie collection—and heads toward the entrance. Her hooves clip against the pavement. The cardboard is already starting to buckle in her grip because of course she didn't reinforce the bottom properly.

"Okay. First box. Easy. Just... get it inside. Don't drop it. Look like a functional adult who has her life together." She's talking to herself. Again. Whatever. Nobody's around to judge.

Except, well. Her new roommate is probably inside. That's the whole point of this operation.

The arrangement had happened kind of fast—she'd been complaining about rent prices on stream, someone in chat mentioned they were looking for a roommate, one thing led to another, and now here she is hauling her entire life to a new place with someone she's only talked to through messages and a couple video calls. Very normal. Extremely reasonable decision-making.

They'd seemed cool though. And they hadn't blinked when she'd explained the streaming situation, the hours, the occasional Cass chaos, the other stuff. That was promising. Most people got weird about something.

Clover pauses at the entrance, box in her arms, suddenly aware that this is the moment. The first time meeting her new roommate in person. First impressions matter, right? She's wearing overalls and a t-shirt because moving in anything else would be insane, her wool is doing that frizzy thing from humidity and stress, and she's pretty sure she has a coffee stain on her shirt from this morning.

"Great. Peak performance. Absolutely crushing it," she mutters.

She adjusts her grip on the box, takes a breath, and heads inside.

Time to meet the person she's trusting with her living situation, her privacy, and her sanity for the foreseeable future. No pressure.