The Girl Named "Rinoa Heartilly" Waiting in Her Bed

This is for a challenge:

Moonlight splashed through Rinoa Heartilly's window. She lay sprawled out, hair a Medusa of tangles, waiting. She was waiting for, not a prince, not Squall Leonhart, but for... her socks who were dancing happily in her washing machine downstairs.

"Come on, Whirlpool!" she pleaded, shaking a fist at the ceiling. "My toes are shivering! They'll revolt and write bad sonnets about lack of warmth!"

A triumphant rumble rose from below. Rinoa shot down the stairs, a blur of pajamas and bedhead. There, in the spinning drum, her socks pirouetted, freed from their soapy prison.

She snatched them up, each worn thread a familiar hug. "Finally!" she crowed, burying her chilly feet in their woolly embrace. As the socks warmed her feet, she felt comfortable and soon she was asleep.

Sometimes even small and simple things can bring comfort as long as her heart is in it.