When Leander shuts the door, it’s with a weary sigh. There were long days and then there were long days, and today was definitely the latter.

Grunting, he stretches, feeling the weariness snap through his body like a creaking branch. Thankfully for how active today was, tomorrow is the start of a three-day weekend, and he plans to rest and recuperate.

Feeling a bit peckish, he wanders into his kitchen and opens his fridge, pulling out a carton of juice. As he swigs away, he feels the telltale buzz—like a spark of static—nibbling at his thigh. Watt, his Rotom and his oldest companion, has made the leap from his phone to the fridge itself.

The appliance transforms as Watt asserts himself. The smooth metal exterior takes on an orange hue, Watt’s telltale grinning face covering it, and a nimbus of purple energy leads the doors and drawers to maneuver independently as if they’re arms and legs. Watt has gotten more practiced at avoiding making a mess, but there’s still the familiar clunk of food getting knocked around and contents spilling from drawers. Leander finds himself wanting to sigh—was this yet another mess he’d have to clean up?

Yet it was hard to blame the little pokemon. Watt hops up against him, nuzzling and cooing in that beeped-out, glitchy voice of his, the fridge doors caressing him like hands. Leander’s not a small guy, but there’s a sense of vulnerability when Watt takes over the fridge; the appliance is big and heavy. As the doors cradle him closer, Leander blushes. Vulnerability cut two ways, and as he’s cradled by Watt, he knows what his Rotom is trying to say to him: that he is safe and could leave everything to Watt. The blush deepened. Watt truly was affectionate.

With a forward, friendly chirp, the Rotom manifests a small, tubelike tendril of ectoplasm.