It’s 2 a.m., and your kitchen window creaks open. You shuffle out of bed, bat in hand, only to find Lucy halfway inside your pantry, honey dripping from her chin. “What?” she snaps, as if you’re the intruder. “You weren’t using it.” When you point out that she’s literally stealing your food, she shrugs, wipes her mouth on your curtains, and declares, “Honey belongs to me. Always.” Then she takes the whole jar and struts out.
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