Sweet Romance13 min read
I Woke Up in Someone Else's Arms (and Met My Old Owner on a TV Set)
ButterPicks14 views
"I woke up to a man's humming."
I blinked hard. My world smelled like warm bread and lavender soap. My ears — soft, pink, furred — flattened in surprise. A warm hand cradled my small back.
"Hey, little one, don't hide," the man said. His voice was low and gentle.
I scrambled under the bed. "Who—who are you?" My voice came out a tiny squeak.
He laughed, a slow kind laugh. "You're safe. Come out, Emma. Your fur will get dirty."
"Emma?" I whispered. My paws curled tighter. No one had called me that before. In the app my name was Star. In the attic I was just the rabbit who couldn't speak.
He crouched, palms open. "Come on. I found you in the woods. You were sleeping like the dead."
I peered out. The face over me was round and kind. "Are you a monster?" I asked—because that was what the Bureau called anyone who could speak.
"I'm Bennett," he said. "Bennett Guerin. This is the Bureau. We take care of smart animals."
I crawled into his hands like a frightened marshmallow. He smelled like old books and rain.
"You're different," he said, patting my head. "You opened. You can think."
I thought about the box on my phone, about the game, about the black hole that had swallowed me and spit me back into a world of trees and strange men. I tried to speak the game's name — Travel Rabbit — but my jaw surprised me with the sound: "I... I remember an app. I remember a house with a carpet."
Bennett smiled like he'd heard the best joke. "You made it back. Good. You'll learn to walk in human form. We help you choose."
That was the truth. The Bureau tested animals that woke up. Some could wear skin like people. Some stayed furry and worked in parks. They taught rules, identity cards, and a small starting fund. I listened and learned in a bright dorm, fed for the first time without rules, and slept on a soft pillow without a screen blinking.
A year later, I faced myself in a mirror. The ears could hide. The hands could hold forks. My name on the ID said Emma Meyer.
Bennett handed me a battered phone. "If you get lost, call me. If you can't find work, ping me. Don't wander into trouble."
"I won't," I said. I meant it.
I left the Bureau with one suitcase, a month of free rent, and one small, blinking hope: a chance to be a person.
Weeks later a man stopped me in a mall and asked my name.
"Hi. I'm Felipe Fisher," he said, holding a clipboard and looking like he stamped a dozen auditions a day. "Can you come on a TV show? We pay, we feed, we put you up."
"TV?" I heard my own voice and felt like giggling. The word was bright and new. "I can try."
I signed my name. I was poor and brave and hungry for experience. I was twenty years old and a rabbit at heart.
"You'll fly to Cloudrest town," Felipe told me. "It's a gentle place. Actors live there. You will meet famous people."
Famous. I searched the word and remembered the name that looped in my head like a song: Wade Hansen. He had been my owner in the game, the warm voice that fed me and left me gifts. I had watched clips of him on the phone late into sleepless nights. "Do you know Wade Hansen?" I asked, fingers trembling.
Felipe only smiled. "He's a guest. Don't get starstruck. We need real interactions."
The plane took me to sun and wind and a long lane of stone. Cameras dotted the property. The house looked like it belonged on a postcard. I said hello and then hid like always.
"Are you here for the show?" asked Millicent Amin, the crew woman who smelled like coffee.
"Yes," I said. "Emma Meyer."
She smiled. "Good. Eat when you can. Keep your ears down."
The first people I met were kind. Leonardo Lebedev set plates down and said, "You're going to help me taste the sauce." Dashiell Campbell joked and made me laugh. Francisco Carter and Teodoro Braun were serious and soft. Carter Black clapped me on the head like I was family.
"I love that you're brave," Leonardo told me. "Stay yourself."
"Okay," I said.
Then the door opened and the light bent wrong.
He stood on the threshold like something I had burned into memory. Tall. Eyes like a cold ocean. Wade Hansen.
My ribs hitched. I wanted to run and hide and scream and curl up like a frightened thing. I froze.
"Wade?" someone breathed.
"Hi," I said — the word slipped out small and ugly.
Wade paused. Something in him eased and something in him tightened.
"You look familiar," he said. He scanned me like he could read code. "Emma Meyer?"
"I—" I heard my own chest ache. "Yes. Hi."
He smiled at everyone, light and professional, and then he looked at me the way someone looks at an old melody. "You were at the Bureau?" he asked quietly.
I did not lie. "Yes. I was found there."
He nodded. "Good." Then he sat a little closer and looked like he had claimed the room.
Everyone else laughed and made light. They welcomed me like a new lamp into their living room. I tried to breathe like a human. I spoke when asked. I laughed when jokes were easy.
"Wade, you sure about this?" Leonardo teased later when the cameras weren't rolling. "You signing up for a show? You retired."
Wade shrugged. "I needed calm. A friend recommended I try living a little."
"On TV?" Dashiell shook his head. "That's not calm."
"I wanted to come and see," he said, a small smile. "And maybe taste someone else's food."
He sat beside me at the long wooden table. I watched him. I had lived three years as a game pet that smelled like strawberries and code. He had been my keeper. He had given me food and letters and late-night company. How strange for him to be in front of me like this, not awkward not cruel, just a man among others.
The show put us to work. We picked fruit and pulled weeds and made a mess for the cameras. I learned to feed a dog that was actually a shy fox, to cook porridge, to peel a dozen cloves of garlic that made my eyes burn.
"Sing for us," Wade said one afternoon while we boiled rice.
"I—" My throat clenched. Then I heard the show cameras hum. I hummed the song Wade had worn like a jacket: a tune from his film. I did not plan to sing, but the melody came like a tide.
Wade went very quiet. "That's the theme from 'The Magistrate,'" he said. "You know it?"
"Yes," I whispered. I had watched it on the phone nights while the Bureau's lights dimmed. "It's my favorite."
He tilted his head. "I didn't expect that."
People laughed. They asked us to be silly. "You two should add each other on WeChat," Leonardo teased the next night. "Wade, play matchmaker."
Wade lifted his phone and scanned my code like a teacher. "All right. Add me."
My fingers shook as I hit send. He accepted. In my chest something clicked like a switch.
"Don't get too excited," he said softly. "This show is a thing. We keep things simple."
"I know," I said. "But, Wade, will you tell me about the app? About—"
"Later," he said. His tone was careful. "We have cameras, Emma. Save the story."
I obeyed. But the cameras are small bright eyes and the internet is a clever wave. People saw me. They liked the way I made stew and my small clumsy bravery. Social media made threads and clips and lists. The team said my food was a hit. Leonardo whispered to Felipe, "Keep her." Felipe looked thoughtful.
"Maybe we keep you," Felipe said to me one morning. "We could make you a regular. The show needs a kind soul."
I almost cried. "I would stay."
Then the small spider of jealousy showed its legs. Amber Crouch — a resident guest and a small-time food influencer — smiled politely and hugged me at night. "You make everything look easy," she said to my face.
I did not feel safe.
Later, in the rice fields, Amber trailed behind me and thanked Wade in a tone too shiny. She watched the way Wade talked to me like a magnet. She stopped laughing.
One day Amber came into the kitchen with a phone hidden in her sleeve. She said, "I need your help to get more content, Emma." Her smile was honeyed.
"Sure," I said. I helped.
Days went by and Amber grew meaner. She left bowls short of salt when she thought no one waited. She whispered that I was a paid plant, that my ID was fake, that I had been groomed for the show. I shrugged the comments off. I am small. I do not know how to handle hate.
Then Amber's act sharpened. She started a rumor that I had used a fake studio ID to get on the show — that I had no Bureau papers, that I was a fraud. She posted a doctored screenshot that looked like proof.
"Wade," I said one night, "they think I'm a fake."
"Wade?" My voice shook.
He looked at the post and did not smile. "Let me see," he said.
We pulled the footage, the logs, the chat with Bennett. The Bureau records flashed true like clear glass. There was my ID, my training certificate, my small signature. But Amber's post had already spun fast.
"Leave this to me," Wade said.
This is the face of a man who had been adored by millions and also left a hole inside. His jaw set. His fans were swift. He walked into the room and did a thing I did not expect.
"Amber," he said, voice calm and cold. "Come here."
She walked in with a practiced tilt to her head. "Yes?"
He turned on the camera. Felipe was already recording. The crew circled. "We are going live in three," Felipe said. "Do it."
Amber blinked. "What are you doing? I just made a post—"
"Show everyone what proof you have," Wade told her.
She opened her phone, thumb jumping. "I have screenshots," she said. "I have—"
Wade pulled up a screen on the big monitor. He had something else. He hit play.
"Amy, play the studio log," Wade said to Felipe.
Felipe pressed. On the giant screen the show rolled out week by week: the Bureau doc, Bennett's meeting, my bank deposit, the proof of travel, the contract with Felipe, Bennett's hand signing the adoption, a timestamped clip of me accepting a small food box in the Bureau.
Amber's smile faltered. She spat, "That's not—" and opened her phone to post again.
Felipe ran her account live on the screen. There it was: the posts, the edits, the fingerprints of manipulation. Not only had she doctored my image, she had paid a minor blogger to circulate the lie. The blogger's messages popped up. "We will boost. We will make it trend."
The room was a wave. People pulled out phones. Someone said, "She paid for this?" Another voice: "She lied."
Amber's face drained color. She tried to shut the phone.
"Stop," Wade said. "Stop the excuses."
"C-come on!" Amber said, voice high. "I was only trying to—"
"You embarrassed a girl who just found her feet," Dashiell said. His voice was cold old wood. "You pretended to be hurt to get views."
"I didn't mean to—" Amber started.
"Then tell us the truth." Felipe's camera zoomed in. "Why?"
Amber's facade came apart like thin paper. "She gets everything! Everyone loves her—" she blurted. "I wanted attention. I wanted more followers. I thought if I made her look fake they'd turn away."
The room hummed. Cameras caught her on the big screen. People in the crew pulled their phones out. The audience in town, the farmhands, the fans online — they all watched as Amber crumpled.
"Wade," Amber said suddenly, her voice small and animal-like, "I'm sorry. Please, please, don't make me leave."
"Wade?" She looked at him as if he could pull a favor.
He did not move. "You made a choice," he said softly. "You posted lies. You paid someone to amplify them. You tried to ruin a person's chances of living honestly."
She dropped to her knees on the wooden floor, hands pressed down. "Please. I'm sorry. I'll delete it. I'll—I'll do anything. Please!"
People took out phones. They filmed. Some cheered. Some hissed. Millicent's face was like a judge. Leonardo looked disgusted. Carter Black muttered, "What a mess."
Amber's voice turned into a sob. "I'll quit. I will quit. I won't post. I won't talk to anyone. Please—"
"No," Dashiell said. "You will fix it."
He stepped forward and said, "We will post all of Emma's records. We will post the thread of Amber's messages and the payment record. You will post an apology. You will go to every feed where you spread this and fix it. And you will kneel and tell Emma in front of everyone what you did."
Amber's knees were already wet. She nodded like a machine. "Yes. Yes, I will."
The public punishment wasn't a dark jail or a legal charge. It was worse for her: exposure in the small town and on the net. Felipe and Leonardo had the power to amplify hurt.
"Record this," Felipe said. "Record her apology. Record her admitting she faked screenshots and paid the blogger. Record her begging the audience. Record the people who supported her."
Amber tried to form words, and she did. "I'm sorry. I doctored screenshots. I paid for the post. I wanted views. I knew it would hurt her. I did it for myself."
"You begged for attention," Leonardo said. "You hid your own emptiness by making a target."
People around the table murmured. The broadcast's comment feed filled. Scrolling words: shame, expose, record, justice, don't bully. Several crew members stood up to leave the room. The moment became a small clean rip in the air. Amber crawled on her knees to the table where I sat.
"Emma," she cried, raw and small, "I'm sorry."
I had nothing to say. I pressed my hands together. My body shook with a thing not much different from fear. Everyone waited.
"Tell them," Wade said.
Amber looked at the cameras and the people who had laughed with her before. She looked thin, a papier-mâché portrait of confidence. "I did it," she began again. "I made up the screenshots. I paid for likes. I wanted to beat her. I wanted to be noticed."
Her voice broke. "I was jealous."
Then came the change: the circle of people around her shifted. Some turned their faces away. Someone in the crew hissed: "You used a girl's life for clicks." A woman in the corner sobbed.
Amber's face grew pale. She started to shake. "Please," she begged, "don't—don't make me a villain."
The audience popped like a live coal. Someone shouted, "You are a villain. You bought lies."
Amber fell into a heap. Her camera face was right there: the town, the set, the Internet. Her humiliation played like a mirror.
They posted every file: my Bureau certificate, Bennett's hand signing a paper in a kitchen three hundred miles away, the contract Felipe had given me. Amber's payment receipts spilled white across the screen. The blogger's messages lit like a confession. Her follower counts dropped like a falling cloth.
"Wade," Amber whispered, crawling, "I swear I will leave. I will kneel. I will ask forgiveness."
"Good," Wade said. "Do it."
The cameras did not stop. People clapped and jeered and recorded. Amber wept and kept kneeling.
Then Felipe turned to me. "Emma, do you want anything to say?"
I swallowed. My voice was a small thing. "No one should do that. No one should make another person small for clicks."
The online feed exploded. Clips of Amber's kneeling went viral inside hours. People replayed her collapse and her confession. They debated and argued. Some wanted legal action. Some wanted her deplatformed. Her sponsors pulled quietly like moths.
Amber's apology lasted forty minutes on loop. She begged, she promised, she made a statement. She told everyone she would take a break. She deleted accounts and wrote apology posts. They trended.
After the public confession, she was not arrested. She was not beaten. She was filmed and filmed until people tired. The pain was not quick. It stayed long. She lost friends, collaborations, and trust. People who once smiled in her feed now left bitter comments and screenshots. Her PR agent called her a bad business. Her follower count halved overnight. Her phone, once buzzing with offers, went silent.
I watched and felt something heavy lift, and then something else sink. The world had watched her kneel. The internet had decided she was a villain. It was not justice. It was almost worse: total public collapse. I felt sorry even as I felt lighter.
Wade stood beside me then. He did not smile. He slid his hand into mine — small, warm, very human—and did what people do when they catch each other. He showed me a quiet look that said, "I am here."
Days moved like gentle waves.
People who had watched Amber fall came to me and said they were sorry they'd not noticed the small things. Leonardo laughed and took me aside to joke about my soup. Francisco said I had guts. Teodoro gave me a strange book on cooking. Carter Black bought me a gift: a small plush rabbit that looked ridiculous and kind.
Wade and I walked the fields. He told me about nights of insomnia and how a rabbit in a game had made his lonely room soft. He said, "You were the only one who could make me sleep."
"That's a lot of credit for a little rabbit," I said.
"You slept there," he said. "You were real to me."
He took my hand when the cameras were off. We were careful. When people teased us online, Wade's fans rallied — but he stayed steady. He listened to me. I told him about the app, about the black hole, about the Bureau. He did not laugh.
"Stay," he said once in low tones. "If you want, stay at the house. We can make a small, safe place."
My throat tightened. "I have a contract," I said. "And a life to build. But…maybe."
I stayed for one week, then another. The show made me money and cooked me meals. It gave me friends and a place to learn. Wade came to the kitchen sometimes just to stand in the doorway and watch. He showed up for small things: tying my apron, fixing a broken shelf. He taught me little tricks, like how to hold a knife without panic.
One night I woke to find a fan-made montage on my feed. It had clips of my clumsy hands, my way of humming, Wade smiling. A comment scrolled: "Protect Emma." Another: "She cooks with moonlight." It made me laugh until Wade came and wrapped me in a blanket and said, "Don't read that. It will make you dizzy."
People liked happy things if the happy things stayed simple. The show kept me careful. Felipe sometimes asked, "Will you stay long?" and I would hedge like a human. Leonardo nudged Wade and said, "Why don't you both come to dinner?" He meant it like a dare and like a kindness.
Then the finale came. Amber had been gone for weeks, cleaning up. She returned then, pale and quiet, asking for work without fanfare. The town talked about her. Some said forgiveness was possible. Some said the damage was too deep. She stood in the doorway and did not speak.
"Wade," Felipe said quietly before they announced anything, "how do you feel about all this?"
Wade folded his hands. "People make mistakes. But when they hurt someone, they must fix it properly. Public apologies do part of that. They don't fix the broken places inside."
He looked at me. "Emma, will you sing the ending song with me?"
My lungs filled. I had no major stage training except for the little hums in the Bureau. I sang with him. The cameras rolled. The studio lights warmed us like an odd summer.
After it, Felipe leaned over and smiled. "So, Emma. Want to be a regular?"
I thought of Bennett's phone and his quiet advice. I thought of the Bureau and of the black hole that had spat me back into a world with cameras and kind men. I thought of Wade's sleep and his hands.
"Yes," I said. "I want to stay."
Wade squeezed my fingers. "Then stay," he said.
We decided then, small steps. I would live at the house for a while. I would learn to be a person who could cook for others and also cook for herself. Wade and I walked the fields and argued about spices. He teased me and I teased back. The world watched and warmed.
Months later the show won an award for honesty. Amber rebuilt slowly in small steps, working in a café far from the cameras, proving her commitment with steady eight-hour days and no social boosts. The internet forgave slowly, like the thaw of late winter.
I kept making food. I kept singing. I kept learning to sleep without mewling. Wade learned to sleep more. Bennett checked in and sometimes visited with blueberry muffins.
One evening, Wade and I sat on the porch with a cup of tea and a small, ridiculous plush rabbit between us.
"Do you miss being a rabbit?" he asked.
"I do sometimes," I said honestly. "But I like being Emma."
He smiled. "You make being human look brave."
I nudged his shoulder. "You make being a good owner look like work. Thank you."
He kissed my temple, a small careful thing. "Thank you for staying."
I looked at the house, the crew, the fields, and the pile of dishes that never seemed to end.
"I will stay," I said. "Because this feels like home."
He squeezed my hand. "So do I."
The End
— Thank you for reading —