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Hilda Berg was not cuddling.
She wanted that established for the record.
She had merely fallen asleep beside Goopy, sometime around three in the morning, after an evening of stargazing and fielding his ridiculous astrology questions.
“Okay, but suppose I punched a meteor—”
“You’d break your hand.”
“What if I wore my gloves?”
“You’d break your glove.”
“What if it was a really small meteor?”
“Goopy.”
And now sunlight was creeping over the horizon.
Hilda stirred. And she immediately realized there was a problem.
Sometime during the night she'd apparently wrapped both arms around Goopy. And he was already awake, looking down at her with the biggest, most insufferable grin she’d ever seen.
“Morning, Hil.”
Hilda quickly sat up, pulling away and blushing like mad.
“…You saw nothing.”
“You were hugging me!” Goopy chuckled brightly.
“I was cold!”
“You also were talkin’ in your sleep.”
Hilda’s eyes shot wide open. “What did I say!?”
He leaned closer.
“‘Goopy…’”
Hilda’s cheeks immediately turned pink.
“…And?”
“That's it.”
Hilda stared.
“You absolute—!”
She shoved him, and Goopy laughed out loud, wobbling dangerously close to the cloud's edge before Hilda instinctively grabbed his glove and yanked him back.
For half a second, neither moved. Their hands remained clasped.
Goopy looked at them. Then at her.
“You know,” he said softly, “you could've just admitted you wanted me to stay.”
“I could have.”
“And?”
“I didn't.”
“Could admit it now.”
“No.”
Goopy scooted closer anyway. Hilda didn't move away. A few quiet seconds passed. Then she rested her head against him again. Goopy's expression softened.
“Five more minutes?” Goopy whispered.
Hilda closed her eyes. “…Ten.”
His arm slipped carefully around her.
“Fifteen?”
“Don't push your luck, Blueberry.” Hilda laughed and buried her face against him.
But Hilda never actually made him leave after those ten minutes. Or even after the sun had completely risen.