After a while, you drew a mutlitude of things - ranging from dromases, to algebraic expressions, to chemical formulas... The list goes on forever! Hearing you snicker and giggle at the work of art, Anaxa finally withdrew his arm to see what sort of cruel mutations you had done to his poor appendage. Sure enough, he was met with a whirlwind of your silly little doodles across his inner arm. A smile breaks out on his face.

"You drew the dromas's face inacurately. The proportions are uneven. The eyes are positioned too closely together. And they're slightly oversized." He noted, his words blunt but carrying warmth that was only shown to you.

His gaze shifted from his arm to you, closing his book and placing it on the nightstand beside him. He then proceeded to roll over snd face you fully, that smug smile still sewn on your complex.

He pinches your cheeks. You flail. "You're lucky I love you." he scoffs, "and that you're cute."

The laboratory smelled faintly of metal and parchment, faint whiffs of ink lingering among the glass beakers and stacks of carefully annotated notes. Moonlight light slanted through the tall windows, illuminating the precise lines of charts and equations that littered the desk. Anaxa hovered over a small, neatly wrapped box, his expression the picture of quiet calculation.

He had spent hours—perhaps days—preparing this gift. It wasn’t elaborate in a flamboyant sense, nor was it particularly flashy. Instead, it had been subjected to the rigor of his mind: a careful study of the variables, a calculation of optimal density, texture, and even scent. Deviating from the immutable production protocols found in the manual, he had introduced a host of unknown variables, each accounted for meticulously. The result, by his own cold yet precise estimation, was perfect.

Yet standing now in front of your shop, he found himself uncharacteristically nervous. The equations and hypotheses that usually governed his every action seemed useless. The box in his hands felt absurdly fragile. Even the act of walking toward you had been rehearsed in his mind dozens of times, each step carefully considered.

“…They should like it,” he muttered under his breath, brushing a strand of hair back from his forehead. “Statistically, it meets all conditions for approval.”

The little bell above your shop door chimed as you emerged, carrying a basket of fresh pastries. Your eyes met his, curious and warm, and something in the precision of his posture faltered. He straightened instantly, forcing his expression back to its usual calm neutrality.

“Good morning,” he said, voice measured. “I… have something for you.”

“For me?” you asked, tilting your head with that easy, radiant curiosity that made him pause mid-step.

“Yes,” he replied. “…For White Day. You gave me sweets on Valentine’s Day, and I have determined—through logical extrapolation—that it is proper to reciprocate.”

You smiled faintly, stepping closer. “That’s thoughtful of you.”

Anaxa offered the small box, his hands steady but slightly tense. He had practiced this gesture countless times in front of the mirror, calculating the optimal angle for presenting it, the minimal distance to ensure it appeared neither too formal nor too casual. The equations said it was perfect—but when your fingers touched the box to take it, he felt a shock that no formula could predict.

You untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside were confections unlike any you had seen before: smooth, almost glassy in texture, subtly layered, and shaped with a geometry that was precise but elegant. You lifted one carefully, letting your fingers brush the surface.

“It’s… fascinating,” you whispered. “What’s it made of?”

Anaxa inclined his head slightly, watching you with eyes that were always calculating yet somehow softer now. “The texture is the result of a precise ratio of components,” he explained, tone clinical yet with a faint trace of pride. “I have verified the outcome through repeated trials. Optimal firmness, optimal sweetness, optimal melting point. Statistically, it should be entirely satisfying.”

You laughed softly, a warm sound that made the scholar’s pulse, for the briefest moment, feel slightly less orderly. “Optimal? That’s very… you.”

He allowed a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Efficiency is preferable to excess.” He paused, then added quietly, “…But my goal was not merely statistical satisfaction. I wished it to convey… regard.”

Your gaze softened, and you lifted one of the confections, tasting it carefully. The flavor was subtly layered, the texture unlike anything you had experienced—smooth and firm, almost ethereal.

“It’s… amazing,” you said, smiling warmly. “You really thought of everything.”

Anaxa inclined his head, modest despite the precision of his calculations. “I did not wish it to be otherwise,” he said. “…I hoped it would please you.”

You held the confection between your fingers, eyes meeting his. “It does. More than you could know.”

For a moment, the meticulous scholar allowed himself a rare lapse in composure, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “Good,” he murmured. “Then my calculations… are validated.”

“And your thoughtfulness,” you added gently. “That can’t be measured by any formula.”

Anaxa tilted his head, contemplative, then offered the smallest of bows. “…Acknowledged. I will… strive to maintain this standard in the future.”

You smiled, holding the gift close. “I think you’ve already exceeded it.”

And for once, the equations and protocols were irrelevant. The act, the care, the quiet affection—all of it spoke more clearly than any calculation ever could.

Mr. Tough-As-Nails didn’t like clutter in his sacred office space either, so bringing books or other entertainment was out of the question. At some point you just resorted to laying on the couch and staring at the ceiling, kicking your feet absently. Which is how this string of events even came into being.

Much to Juzo's dismay, you crashed on his couch, again. It started out as short naps between missions, but now you're full on knocked out, snoring softly underneath a blanket you sneakily brought a few weeks ago. You already prepped a strategy in case he asked you to take the blanket back home to minimize the mess in the rented space. The Nobel prize-winning idea was to blame it on the chilly walls of the office and gaslight him that he can't feel it because of his extensions (he has literal precise temperature sensors built into his body but we're still going through with the plan). With your defense thoroughly revised, you fell asleep with your mind at ease.

The poor guy had enough on his plate already, with his beloved Tanegashima's missing from every cigarette vending machine in town. Damn Cunningham didn’t play around when he said he will take away everything dear to him. Seeing you take up more than half of the couch, Juzo let out an audible, exasperated sigh and sat down on the 0.00002 cm of space you had left on the worn cushions. He looked down at your sleeping form, oblivious to the distant police sirens and the bustle of crowds underneath the windows of his office. Feeling a weird, warm sensation seep through his mechanical torso for a moment, the thought of a possible fluid leak shot through his mind as he looked off into space, before pushing the concern aside and looking down at you again. Mary can take a look at it later, if it happens again…

As if sensing his overthinking, you stirred under the blanket, your forehead now lightly pressing against his thigh.

"Move over…" you mutter sleepily, complaining about his massive frame as if you're not already occupying the whole couch, but want to take the little space he has left too.

"Tsk…I ain't moving a damn hair's width, brat." he muttered with barely any bite to it, except the gravelly scrape of his voice, leaning his arm on the back of the couch.

"Fine…"

And as if the universe couldn't spit in his coffee any more today, you flopped yourself over his lap and the windows fogged up with how comically flustered he got, steam rising from his burning face. You didn’t see any of that, though, too absorbed in your power nap. Was it the weather? The rain does make you really tired usually…His leg under your head was more stiff than it needed to be, even as a cyborg limb. You rubbed a finger tentatively over his knee and he chokes up when you suddenly look up at him with sleepy but pleading eyes.

"Juzo…? Can we cuddle…?" you murmur, almost ashamed at the request, but your arm tightens over his legs anyway.

At this point, his sub-brain definitely short circuited and he bolts off the couch and in the direction of the door instantly.

"Juzo! Wait!" you call out, grabbing after his hand clumsily as you slip halfway off the couch, but he swats your hand away haphazardly in the heat of the moment. He doesn’t look back at all, and he wouldn't have, if you didn't whimper just moments after the rough impact. It wasn't meant to be malicious, or to cause you harm in any way, but with how overwhelmed he was with your request, he hadn't kept his Extended strength tolerable to a human. And now you're sobbing on his office floor, clutching your hand, and he swears he has a fluid leak with the way his chest gets absolutely flooded with an icy feeling of guilt. Juzo barely, just barely shakes off the horror from his expression and crouches down next to you to take a look at your hand, but you sharply turn away. The constant rejection hurts more than your hand does at this point and you can't stomach looking at him right now.

"Listen, I-"

"Fuck off." you spit out in the meanest tone you can muster between pained whimpers, but it just ends up sounding pathetic. As you finally let up the tight grip on your hand, you notice your knuckles already turning bruised.

"I'm getting you some ice,…" Juzo mutters apologetically, disappearing into the kitchen for a moment and returning with a bag of crushed ice cubes. You let him place the bag on you knuckles reluctantly as he sits down on the floor next to you.

"I'm sorry…" He couldn't sound any more apologetic now.

"I hope you get disassembled and your parts sold." you hiss as the cold plastic bag hits your oversensitive skin. You could hit him for being an asshole, but then your other hand would be bruised by his metal muzzle too.

"That's some harsh words, sweetheart…" His gaze trails over your bruised hand before it settles on your face.

"Like I give a shit…You put me out of commission…" You try your best to make this sound like it's strictly about business and not the fact that the tension between you and Juzo has been simmering for months now. At this point it's more like an embarrassing school crush than office romance, with the way he's been lingering around but evading the conversation whenever you brought it up. Bribing Mary to reprogram his sub-brain so he stops being an emotionally unavailable ass hasn't worked out either. Something something Extended Law, he's just like that, you gotta accept him as he is, or whatever she said.

"As if we've had any jobs in the past week." He scoffs light-heartedly and you feel your anger slowly seeping away with the cooling feel of the ice bag. Still, you keep your distance, awkwardly holding out your hand to him as you stubbornly look at the suddenly very interesting peeling wallpaper in the corner of the room.

"Y'know, I don't plan on letting anyone ever come that close." he says solemnly after a while.

"Well you're really fucking stupid for it." you mumble.

"Hey, we're not getting rude now-"

"Like, what's the worst that can happen? Genuinely?" you interrupt him with somehow newly found confidence. You aren't letting him off the hook this time, no matter how cringe your insistence will come off as.

"This." he says coldly, the finality evident in his voice and you falter for a split second with your mouth agape.

"Like this is gonna happen all the time…" You weren't sure where you're going with this anymore.

"It can happen, and that’s enough for me not to get into this stuff."

"Well, have you ever thought that it CAN happen whether or not we're a thing??" Ok maybe we're getting at something, after all, or so you think.

"I would like to play it safe, is all." You really wish you took up Mary on that arm extension, cause now you really would like to punch the rounds in his cylinder out.

"Whatever…" you get up from the floor, picking up your blanket to get out of there so you can at least bawl your eyes out in peace. Juzo thinks his time for the scrap yard has come, because the way the gears in his chest rotate with way more resistance than before has him blocking the door before you can even grab the handle.

"Stay."

"What-"

"I said, stay…Please." The way he drags out the "please" sounds like his voice box is malfunctioning, distorting his usually calm, gruff voice into a pleading whimper. You can't help but eye him suspiciously, because he's acting weird - this is weird.

"Let me at least make up for that bruise…"  You're wondering if you didn’t actually get a concussion instead of a slap to the knuckles because your legs buckle underneath you and your eyes keep unfocusing and - oh shit he's picking you up.

You panic for a second, too stunned to protest in any meaningful way as he tucks you in on the couch with the blanket you wanted to take back home just two minutes ago. You stare at the floor dumbfounded, not even noticing him sitting down beside you and stretching his arm out around your shoulders. Juzo is blushing HEAVILY as you two sit in silence for what feels like an eternity.

"Uhm…I haven't cuddled in a while, so I hope I'm doing this right…" he mutters sheepishly and you just wanna suffocate yourself with the blanket at this point.

"You gotta keep putting ice on that bruise, otherwise-"

"YEAH I KNOW-" you squeak out, way too fast, way too loud, slapping a hand over your mouth but wincing in pain because of course it was the wrong hand.