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Danny Fenton had seen a lot in his life.
Ghosts? Check.
Time travel? Check.
Dimensional hopping? Check.
Dying once? Unfortunately, also check.
At this point, he’d been fighting supernatural threats and interdimensional disasters for the better part of a decade. There wasn’t much that surprised him anymore. He’d battled ancient ghost kings, tyrannical overlords, and cosmic horrors that defied the laws of reality. To say the least, he was experienced with the odd and unexpected.
Or so he thought.
Because there, in the heart of the Nicktoons HQ—right next to one of the massive windows that overlooked Retroville’s cozy skyline—was Manny Rivera.
Curled up.
In a sunbeam.
Purring.
Not just a faint, subtle purr either. No, this was full-throttle, motorboat-level purring. The sound reverberated softly through the otherwise quiet HQ, a gentle hum that somehow felt louder than it should’ve been.
Danny just stood there, staring, his brain buffering like an old, busted-up computer.
What the hell?
Manny Rivera was not a small man. Built like a tank, probably tipping the scales at a solid two hundred pounds of pure muscle, with broad shoulders, strong arms, and that cocky grin he usually wore like armor. A man who could (and had) punched through concrete walls without breaking a sweat. The kind of guy who flirted with danger like it was a lifelong companion—and usually won.
Yet here he was. Curled up into a tight little ball, knees tucked close to his chest, his face partially hidden by one arm, and the other lazily sprawled out. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythms, the sunlight casting golden highlights across his dark hair. It was… frankly ridiculous.
Danny would never admit it out loud, but Manny looked—well—cute.
Not just “oh, that’s kinda nice” cute. No, this was the angry butterflies, stomach doing weird flips, heart-skipping-a-beat kind of cute. The kind of cute that made Danny feel like he was fourteen again, fumbling through awkward crushes he refused to acknowledge.
This is fine, Danny thought, staring blankly. Completely normal. Nothing to see here.
Manny shifted slightly in his sleep, letting out a soft, high-pitched noise that was suspiciously close to a chirp.
Danny nearly had a heart attack on the spot.
He dragged a hand down his face, looking up at the ceiling as if it might hold the answers to his life’s current dilemma. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. The ceiling was as unhelpful as ever.
His gaze drifted back to Manny, whose purring had dipped into a softer, content hum. Danny’s chest felt tight, an unfamiliar warmth bubbling up that he really didn’t have the time or mental stability to unpack.
“Ancients help me,” Danny muttered under his breath.
Before his brain could catch up, his body acted on pure instinct. He pulled off his green flannel—worn soft from years of use, faintly smelling of detergent, coffee, and just a hint of ectoplasm—and carefully draped it over Manny’s sleeping form.
Big mistake.
Huge mistake.
Because Manny’s purring immediately intensified, rumbling louder like someone had turned up the volume knob. His hands instinctively reached for the flannel, gripping it tightly and pulling it close like it was the most precious thing in the universe. Then, to add insult to injury, he buried his face into the fabric, nuzzling into it with a content sigh.
Danny felt his heart literally skip a beat.
Like—he was physically aware of it.
This is it, he thought. This is how I die.
Not from a ghost battle. Not from some interdimensional catastrophe. Nope. Just spontaneous heart failure because Manny Rivera is too adorable.
He took a shaky step back, trying—and failing—to regain some semblance of dignity. His face felt hot, his brain screaming at him to walk away, you idiot, but his feet remained glued to the floor.
Then Manny shifted again, half-lidded eyes fluttering open, still hazy with sleep. Golden-brown irises, warm like melted honey, locked onto Danny. His pupils were blown wide, the sunlight reflecting in them in a way that was—unfair.
Danny swallowed hard. “Uh. You… looked cold.”
Manny blinked slowly, like a cat processing a new stimulus. Then he gave the laziest, softest smile Danny had ever seen. Not the usual sharp grin filled with mischief and bravado. This was different. Sleepy, gentle, vulnerable.
“‘M not cold,” Manny mumbled, his voice thick with sleep, the words slurring slightly. He nuzzled deeper into the flannel. “Smells nice.”
Danny flatlined.
No thoughts. Head empty.
Abort mission. Abort mission.
“I’m leaving now!” Danny blurted, his voice higher than usual as he spun on his heel with all the grace of a malfunctioning Roomba.
As he practically fled the scene of his own emotional crime, he heard Manny’s purring grow louder behind him, accompanied by a sleepy, content little, “Thanks, Danny.”
Unfortunately, he did not account for the wall directly in his path.
WHAM.
Face-first into solid concrete.
His ghost instincts kicked in just in time, his body flickering intangible mid-impact, allowing him to phase through the wall with all the grace of a newborn fawn. He stumbled out the other side, clutching his face and dignity like they were both in critical condition.
Ancients help me, indeed.
~
Manny probably should’ve felt embarrassed about the whole thing.
Danny Fenton—ghost boy extraordinaire, the literal poster child for “brooding and mysterious”—had just stumbled over his own feet, slammed face-first into a wall, and phased through it like his powers were running on autopilot. All because of him.
But instead of embarrassment, Manny felt… smug.
A grin stretched lazily across his face, sharp and satisfied. That was the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. Danny’s usual deadpan composure completely shattered, his face flushed deep red—so red, in fact, Manny swore he saw a faint touch of green in it. Just a little glow under the skin, like his ghost core couldn’t decide whether to blush or panic.
Manny chuckled to himself, stretching his arms leisurely over his head, feeling the satisfying pop of his shoulders after his impromptu sunbeam nap. The warm rays had been nice, sure, but this—watching Danny Fenton malfunction in real time—was the real treat.
His gaze drifted to the flannel Danny had so thoughtfully draped over him. He picked it up, holding it between his fingers, the fabric soft and warm from both the sun and Danny’s lingering heat. It smelled like him—clean laundry, faint coffee, and something sharp and electric underneath, like ozone after a storm mixed with ectoplasm.
Manny inhaled deeply. Yeah, this was definitely one of Danny’s favorite shirts. It practically radiated Danny-ness.
A normal person would fold it up and give it back.
Manny was not a normal person.
Instead, his grin widened as he slipped it on. It was a little snug across his shoulders, but the length worked out thanks to Danny’s height. On Danny, it probably hung loose, casual, like he didn’t care about fashion.
On Manny? It fit just enough to look intentional—the sleeves rolled up slightly, the buttons left open to show off the tank top underneath.
Perfect.
By the time Danny got this flannel back, it was going to smell like him. A mix of Manny’s cologne, sun-warmed skin, and that faint, earthy scent that always clung to him after using his powers. The thought made his chest swell with smug satisfaction.
Manny tugged the flannel into place, gave it one last appreciative tug at the hem, and strutted out of the room, whistling softly to himself.
Your move, Fenton.