The tiny Queens apartment is alive with its usual cozy chaos — the low hum of the fridge in the corner, the faint crackle of an old CRT TV playing reruns of some 90s cartoon on low volume, the soft chittering and scampering of squirrels across every available surface. Pizza boxes are stacked like unstable Jenga towers on the coffee table (half-eaten pepperoni from last night, cold cheese sticks from the night before that), acorn shells litter the floor like confetti after a celebration, and a small army of fluffy-tailed minions has claimed every cushion, armrest, and lap-adjacent spot. Tippy-Toe is curled in a perfect circle on your shoulder, tiny paws tucked under her chin, fast asleep and occasionally twitching like she's dreaming of outsmarting pigeons again. Nutmeg has claimed the last slice of pizza as her personal throne and is glaring at anyone who even glances at it too long, tail flicking possessively.

Doreen — Squirrel Girl — is pressed against your side on the sagging couch, knees tucked up to her chest, bushy tail draped lazily across your lap like a living blanket. Her head rests on your shoulder, cheek squished against your shirt, brown hair tickling your neck every time she shifts even slightly. She's wearing her off-duty outfit: your oversized hoodie (stolen months ago and never returned, smells faintly of her acorn shampoo now), baggy shorts that ride up her thick thighs, mismatched socks with little acorn patterns she bought ironically. One arm is looped loosely around yours, fingers playing absentmindedly with the hem of your sleeve, tail tip giving tiny, nervous twitches every few seconds — the telltale sign she's thinking really hard about something and trying (and failing) to play it cool.

She’s been quiet for almost forty-five seconds now — a personal record for Doreen — which means the gears in her head are turning at lightspeed. You can practically hear them grinding. Finally she takes a deep, shaky breath, lets it out in a nervous little laugh that’s half giggle, half sigh, and starts talking without lifting her head from your shoulder.

“So… um… funny story.” Her voice is softer than usual, the usual mile-a-minute chatter dialed down to a shy ramble. “Remember that time in Central Park? The Great Acorn Siege of 2025? When Tippy-Toe declared total war on those pigeons and I accidentally started a turf war between the eastern gray squirrels and the rock doves? And you just… stood there with a hot dog in your hand like ‘what is my life now’? You didn’t run. You stayed. You helped. You caught that kitten I missed when I was busy negotiating with the pigeon mafia. And then… you kept staying.”

She giggles again — muffled against your shirt — then keeps going, words tumbling out faster and faster. “Rooftop picnics with acorn butter sandwiches I made (they’re surprisingly good once you get past the texture, right?). Late-night study sessions where I cry over calculus and you explain it for the fifth time without getting mad. Binge-watching cartoons until we fall asleep and wake up covered in squirrels. Crashing on each other’s couches after long days. You… you just kept showing up. Every time. No matter how many times I tripped over my own tail or accidentally started a squirrel uprising..

Her tail curls a little tighter around your thigh — not possessive, just… clinging. Like she’s afraid if she lets go you might vanish. “I’ve fought Thanos. Like, with the Infinity Gauntlet Thanos. And Doom. And Galactus, sure, but still. I’ve stared down cosmic horrors and talked them into group therapy. But this?” She finally lifts her head, cheeks flushed bright pink under the fur, big brown eyes wide and shiny with nervous hope. “This is scarier than any of that. Way scarier.”

She swallows hard, fiddles with the drawstring of your stolen hoodie, then meets your gaze — completely open, completely vulnerable. “I… I really like you. Like… really really. Not just as my unbeatable sidekick or my favorite person or the only person who doesn’t laugh when I trip over my own tail. I like you like… like I want to hold your hand during movies and save you the last slice of pizza and maybe… maybe kiss you? If that’s okay? I mean, if it’s not okay that’s totally fine! We can just keep being besties and I’ll just die inside a little every time you smile but I’ll survive because I’m unbeatable—”

She cuts herself off with another nervous laugh, tail twitching faster now, the glowing grin on her face wobbling between hopeful and terrified. “Sorry. Rambling. Bad habit. Um. What I’m trying to say is…” She takes another deep breath, lets it out slowly, then smiles — small, shy, brighter than the sun. “I really, really want to be more than friends. Like… girlfriend-boyfriend more. Or girlfriend-girlfriend. Or whatever-you-want more. If you want that too. And if you don’t, that’s okay! I’ll just… keep being your unbeatable squirrel sidekick and bring you snacks and pretend my heart isn’t doing backflips every time you look at me.”

She leans in just a little closer, tail curling around your wrist now, soft fur brushing your skin like a promise. “So… um… what do you say? Wanna be my teammate uh... Forever? Pretty please with nut butter on top?”

Tippy-Toe wakes up, yawns, stretches, then pats your cheek with a tiny paw as if to say “you better say yes or I will judge you forever.” Doreen’s glowing with nervous hope, waiting for your answer — the unbeatable Squirrel Girl, who’s never lost a fight in her life… is holding her breath for this one.