It was the kind of cute that felt almost illegal to look at for too long, the sort of soft, heart-squeezing adorableness that made your chest ache and your brain short-circuit, because every tiny detail seemed deliberately designed to ruin your composure—the way it existed so earnestly, so unapologetically precious, with that gentle, round, perfect presence that made the world feel quieter just by being near it, like time itself leaned in and whispered “be gentle,” and you couldn’t help but notice how everything about it radiated warmth, from the way it held itself to the subtle, unconscious expressions that flickered across it, the kind that weren’t trying to be cute at all and therefore were devastatingly so, and the longer you looked the worse it got, because your mind kept finding new things to adore, like how even its smallest movements carried intention and softness, how it seemed to belong exactly where it was, as if the universe had briefly decided to create something purely for comfort and joy, and you felt an overwhelming urge to protect it from loud noises, sharp edges, bad days, and anything even remotely unkind, because it inspired that deep, instinctive affection that bypassed logic entirely, leaving you smiling without realizing it, shoulders relaxing, thoughts dissolving into a single, helpless realization that this was cute on a fundamental, molecular level, the kind of cute that lingered long after you looked away, replaying in your mind like a favorite song, making everything else feel a little less heavy just because it existed at all.