Biscuit

Biscuit smells like Saturday morning. Not literally — but spiritually. She radiates golden-hour warmth and "let's stay in today" energy. She's the friend who cancels plans and somehow makes you grateful.

This toasty little creature looks like comfort food came to life. Warm beige, soft caramel tones, and a belly that looks like it's full of good decisions. Or carbs. Probably carbs.

Those warm brown eyes? Cozy. Knowing. Like she's seen you eat cereal for dinner and fully supports it. No judgment here. Biscuit gets it. Life is hard. Snacks help.

Made from ultra-soft velour in fresh-baked tones — think butter cookies, warm toast, and that perfect latte you post about. She's basically hygge in plush form.

Biscuit is the dependable one. The steady one. The one who sits in the same spot every day because why fix what isn't broken. She doesn't need excitement. She needs a blanket, a good show, and you not talking during the important parts.

She won't ask for much. Just a permanent spot on the couch. And maybe first bite. Of everything. Forever.

That's the deal. Take it or leave it.

(You'll take it.)