Leon was still asleep, which was a miracle. He was usually restless, especially after hard days. But in that moment, he was completely out, making him look at peace in a way that made your heart swell with an overwhelming tide of affection. Lying on his stomach, one muscular arm draped across your waist, holding you against his side. His face was buried half in the plush pillow, half in the crook of your neck, his warm breath fanning across your collarbone with every deep exhale. You took a moment to look at him. The years had matured him gracefully, dusting his dark blonde hair with silver and etching fine lines around his eyes, lines that deepened beautifully whenever he smiled at you.

You lay there for a long time, perfectly content to be pinned beneath his weight. It was a Saturday, a day that belonged entirely to the two of you. There was no rush, no schedule, nowhere else in the world either of you needed to be. The house was a sanctuary of peace, and you wanted to savor every second of it.

Eventually, the faint and persistent rumble of your own stomach reminded you that it was time to start the day. You wanted to make him something special, something warm and comforting to wake up to. Moving with the practiced stealth of someone who deeply cherished their husband's rest, you gently slipped your hand under his heavy forearm. Inch by inch you lifted his arm, sliding out from beneath the covers and quickly replacing the empty space beside him with a long body pillow. Leon stirred, his brow furrowing for a fraction of a second before he wrapped his arms around the pillow, burying his face into the fabric. You smiled, pressing a feather light kiss to his sleep tousled hair, and quietly padded out of the room.

The hardwood floors were cool beneath your bare feet as you walked down the hallway. The house was silent, wrapped in a blanket of morning stillness. As you entered the kitchen, the sunlight was already spilling across the counter tops, reflecting off the polished surfaces and making the whole room glow with a warm light.

You tied your favorite apron around your waist. First things first: coffee. But you knew the electric grinder would be too loud for a quiet house and more importantly, too sharp for Leon's ears. He suffered from mild hearing loss and a persistent, sometimes agonizing tinnitus. It was a lingering echo of his past that flared up when he was stressed, tired, or exposed to sharp or sudden noises. Instead, you reached for the bag of pre-ground roast he loved and set a silent kettle on the stove. While the water warmed, you gathered your ingredients. Today felt like a pancake morning. Fluffy, thick pancakes served with the fresh, sweet berries from the local market you had gone to the day before.

You set a large glass bowl on the counter and began adding the ingredients, the tap tap of the eggs against the rim of the bowl the only sound in the room. Reaching into the utensil drawer, you pulled out a standard wire whisk, the metal hitting the sides of the bowl as you mixed. Then you heard the unmistakable, heavy tread of footsteps descending the carpeted stairs. You didn't stop whisking, but you slowed your pace as the footsteps drew closer. They were slow, dragging slightly. The steps of a man who was still half asleep and entirely reluctant to leave the warmth of his bed. A moment later, his tall frame filled the doorway of the kitchen when you looked at him. He was a sight for sore eyes, wearing only a simple pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair, usually styled meticulously, was falling into his eyes in messy strands. He was rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes squinted against the bright morning light pouring through the wide windows.

"Morning, handsome," you said softly.

Leon stopped, leaning his broad shoulder against the door frame, and just looked at you. A slow, soft smile spread across his face, melting away any lingering sleepiness and making his eyes crinkle at the corners. "Mornin', sweetheart," he replied, his voice a deep baritone, raspy and thick from sleep.

He pushed himself off the door frame and shuffled toward you. Before you could say another word, his arms were wrapping securely around your waist from behind. He pulled you against his chest, dipping his head to press his face into the crook of your neck. You sighed happily, leaning back into his solid, comforting warmth. He always made you feel incredibly safe.

"You left me," he mumbled into your skin, his lips brushing against it sending a delightful shiver down your spine.

"I only left to make you breakfast," you chuckled softly, your voice directed downward and away from him. "I thought you'd want to sleep in."

Leon's arms remained tightly locked around your waist, holding you flush against him, but he hummed a questioning and low note. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "Hmmm? Didn't catch that, sweetheart."

You smiled, a rush of fond warmth blooming in your chest. His hearing problems were just a part of him, mostly affecting his left ear, and accommodating to it was entirely second nature to you. You turned your head, leaning back against his chest and angling your face so your voice would carry clearly.

"I said," you repeated, raising your volume just a fraction and articulating your words with loving patience, "I only left to make you breakfast. I thought you'd want to sleep in."

"Nah. Bed felt too big and cold without you." He kissed the side of your neck again, his light stubble gently scratching your skin. "Smells good in here, though. Coffee?"

"Almost ready," you promised, turning your head further to press a tender kiss to his warm cheek. "And pancakes."

Leon squeezed you tighter, burying his nose in your hair and taking a deep breath. "You spoil me. You know that, right? I don't deserve you."

"I absolutely spoil you," you agreed playfully. "And you absolutely deserve it. Every single bit of it," you added, replacing his self deprecation with validation like you always did.

You turned your attention back to the counter and resumed whisking the batter, the metal wire clinking against the glass again. Suddenly, you felt Leon stiffen behind you. It was a small reaction, a subtle tightening of his muscles that anyone else would have missed entirely, but you knew every nuance of this man's body. The arms around your waist tightened, and he subtly pulled his head back from your neck. You stopped whisking immediately, your hands freezing over the bowl, and turned in his arms to look at him. His eyes were squeezed shut, a small wince pinching his eyebrows. He raised his left hand to the side of his head, the heel of his palm pressing firmly against his ear while his fingers massaged his temple. His jaw was locked tight, the muscles jumping rapidly beneath his skin.

Your heart squeezed with immediate, overwhelming empathy. The ringing. He had told you that sometimes it was just a low hum he could ignore with a bit of effort, but other times, it was a sharp and high pitched noise that gave him a throbbing headache.

"Hey," you whispered, your voice dropping to a soothing register, ensuring you were facing him directly so he could read your lips if the ringing was too loud. "Ringing?"

Leon opened one eye, looking down at you with a mixture of apology and deep discomfort. He gave a single, tight nod. "Yeah," he rasped. "Started when I woke up, but that scraping sound..." he stops himself, not wanting you to feel bad about it, rubbing his earlobe as if he could physically brush the noise away. "I'm sorry. I'm ruining a perfect morning."

"Don't you dare apologize to me," you said firmly, though your tone remained gentle and dripping with love. "You haven't ruined anything. Come here. Let me help you."

You moved smoothly out of his embrace and immediately swung into action, your movements focused on his comfort. First, you took the metal whisk out of the glass bowl and placed it gently into the sink, pulling out a soft silicone spatula that would be silent against the glass bowl. Next, you walked over to the stove and reached up to turn on the exhaust fan in the middle setting. It came to life with a steady rushing sound, a constant low frequency hum of white noise that filled the room.

Leon watched you from the center of the kitchen, his hand still pressed to his head, eyes tracking your movements with wonder and deep gratitude. But you weren't finished. You picked up your phone from the counter and connected it to the radio sitting on the windowsill, selecting a carefully curated playlist of instrumental lo-fi. Within seconds, the soft and mellow notes layered perfectly over the deep hum of the exhaust fan.

You walked back over to Leon, who was staring at you, the tight wince on his face had already begun to loosen significantly. "Better?" you asked softly, reaching out to gently cup his stubbled cheek.

Leon leaned heavily into your hand, turning his head to press a long, lingering kiss into your palm. "Much better. You're amazing. You know that?"

"I'm just taking care of my husband," you said, reaching up with your other hand to brush a stray, messy lock of hair away from his forehead. "Now, go sit down at the island. You're holding tension in your jaw again."

Leon didn't argue. He used to back in the day, but he rarely did anymore when you took charge of taking care of him. He walked slowly over to the large kitchen island and sat heavily on one of the tall, cushioned wooden stools, resting his thick forearms on the cool granite counter. You stepped up closely behind him and Leon immediately dropped his head forward, exposing his neck. You placed your hands flat on his broad shoulders, taking a moment to just feel the radiant heat of his skin.

You began to massage his shoulders, your thumbs pressing into the tight, stubborn knots of muscle that always gathered at the base of his neck. Leon let out a deep, rumbling groan, his head drooping further forward as his posture completely melted. You moved your hands higher, fingers slipping into the soft, thick hair at the nape of his neck, massaging the base of his skull in small, firm circles. You brought your hands around to the sides of his face, thumbs finding the hinges of his jaw.

"Unclench," you instructed gently.

He obeyed immediately, parting his lips as you began to massage his jaw using slow, sweeping motions with your thumbs, pressing deeply into the stubborn knots and urging them to finally release. You could feel the exact moment he completely let go, his whole body seemed to sink heavily into the stool. He leaned his head back against your stomach, tilting his handsome face up toward the ceiling as you continued to expertly work out the tension in his face.

Looking down at him from this angle, you were struck once again by how fiercely and unconditionally you loved this man. He was so incredibly strong, so capable of enduring unimaginable things in the world outside these walls, but right now, he was completely vulnerable, openly allowing you to soothe his pain with nothing more than your touch and your undivided attention.

After several long, peaceful minutes, you slowly lightened your touch, trailing your fingers down the sides of his neck and coming to rest affectionately on his collarbones. You leaned down and pressed a long, tender kiss to his forehead.

"Better?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Leon opened his eyes slowly. They were clear, warm, and shining with an adoration that practically stole your breath away. The pinched, pained look was entirely gone, replaced by a radiant calmness.

"Perfect," he said softly. He reached up, covering your hands with his own larger, delightfully calloused ones, giving them a gentle squeeze. "Thank you. I mean it. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You don't ever have to find out," you promised, stepping around the stool to face him directly. You leaned in and pressed your lips fully to his. It was a slow, sweet, perfect morning kiss. Leon's hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing affectionately across your skin, holding you there for longer. When you finally pulled away, you gave him a bright smile. "Now, stay put. I have pancakes to finish making, and I am armed with the silent spatula."

Leon chuckled. "Yes, love. Whatever you say."

You returned to the counter, the rest of the breakfast preparation was a peaceful and quiet. You used the silicone spatula to gently fold the thick, vanilla scented batter, considering the absence of scraping sounds a massive victory. You poured two coffees in your matching mugs, placing Leon’s softly in front of him on the granite island. He wrapped both of his hands around it, letting the heat seep into his palms. You ladled the batter onto the hot pan, the sizzle completely masked by the soft hum of the exhaust fan and the mellow notes floating through the air. You moved around the kitchen deeply aware of Leon's eyes tracking you, a comforting gaze that made you feel incredibly cherished and seen.

When the pancakes were perfectly golden brown and fluffy you plated the food, arranging the fresh berries over the top of the stacks and carried two warm plates to the island, setting one down carefully in front of Leon before taking the stool next to him.

"This looks incredible," Leon said earnestly, picking up his fork. He cut a generous piece of the pancakes, dragging it slowly through the maple syrup before taking a bite. He closed his eyes and let out a soft groan. "Oh, man. You outdid yourself today."

"I'm so glad you like them," you smiled, taking a sip of your coffee.

You sat together in comfortable, golden silence, eating your breakfast side by side. The exhaust fan continued its steady hum above the stove. The lo-fi music played its melodies from the window. The sun climbed higher in the blue sky casting bright, geometric squares of light across the hardwood floor. Halfway through the meal Leon slowed his pace, his fork resting idly against the ceramic plate. He wasn't looking at his food anymore, his blue eyes tracking the way the sunlight caught the stray strands of your hair, turning them into threads of spun glass.

He pushed his empty plate aside and stood up from his stool, but he didn't head for the sink. Instead, he took two slow steps toward you. You remained seated on your high stool, your knees naturally parting to make room for him as he stepped into your space. He moved between your legs, his thighs brushing against yours, his large hands coming to rest on your waist. You reached up and brushed your thumbs behind his ears, over the skin where the ringing usually felt the sharpest. He leaned further down, bowing his head so his forehead could rest against yours.

"I don't think I tell you enough," he whispered, his breath warm against your lips. "How much this means to me."

"You don't have to tell me," you whispered back, your hands moving to frame his face, feeling the stubble beneath your palms. "But I love hearing it."

Leon leaned in the rest of the way, capturing your lips in a kiss that tasted of maple syrup and the lingering warmth of the sun. It was a slow, deep pull, his hands tightening slightly on your waist as he pulled your seated frame closer to his standing one.

Leon pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours again. A small, crooked smirk, the one that still made your heart do a ridiculous little flip after all these years, tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I have an idea," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with tenderness.

"Oh yeah?" you teased, mirroring his smile. "And what’s that, Mr. Kennedy?"

He leaned in to brush his nose against yours, a boyish mischief in his eyes. "Marry me. Seriously. Let’s go find a chapel right now."

"Well," you said, leaning forward to peck his nose. "By my count, that makes this the fifth time you've proposed since we actually said 'I do.' If we keep having weddings, we’re going to run out of cake flavors."

"I'm okay with that," he chuckled. "I'll keep asking as long as you keep saying yes."

"Always," you promised.

You kneel, brushing away a thin layer of leaves before setting the flowers in your hands carefully on the marble. The late afternoon November air is crisp and it’s getting cold, but you haven’t had the chance to come here the past days, so you stay and talk. It felt stupid the first times you visited, the way your words wouldn’t be able to stop from escaping your mouth, but you had never imagined there would come a day where you could not talk to your best friend about your day. But silence felt worse. It became a habit.

“Bad news is, I overslept today. Good news is, I sold out my strawberry cake again.” You say cheerfully. “You would’ve liked that one. It tastes just like the sweet strawberries from your mother’s garden.”

For a moment, you can almost see it. The two of you sitting on the back steps of his adoptive family’s home, juice staining your fingers, the sun too warm, the world simple and happy.

You sit there for a long time, you always do that when you haven’t been able to visit for a while, talking about everything. How the café has been so busy lately due to the festival. The town filled with people from all parts of the world. The old, rotten tree at the edge of the field that got cut down, the one you fell from. “Remember?” Your throat tightens. Of course he doesn’t remember. He’s dead.

Gravel crunches behind you and you freeze. The cemetery doesn’t get visitors this late and especially not in the Kennedy’s lot.

“Sorry,” a voice says. Low and careful. Familiar in a way that makes something deep in your chest ache before you even understand why. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay.” You stand slowly, wiping your hands on your coat, and finally turn to see a stranger. Light brown hair with some stray greys. The lines on his face make you think he’s around your age. Eyes… Your breath catches. No, that’s impossible.

“I’ll go,” he says quickly and turns to walk away, like he regrets saying anything at all, “didn’t realize someone was here.”

You stare at him and your heart starts pounding like it’s trying to break out of your rib cage.

“You-” your voice falters. “Do I know you?”

He freezes, shoulders tight under his leather jacket, and a heavy silence hangs between the both of you. He takes a big breath and tries to relax, exhaling slowly. He doesn’t know what to do, he thinks he should have never come back. You have gone through enough and this was selfish from him. He didn’t expect to meet you here, either. Yet he looks back, then turns around.

“…Have we met before?” you ask, your voice quieter now. You take a step closer, then another, despite unease crawling under your skin. God, those eyes. Wind rustles the leaves above you, dragging the moment out until it feels unbearable.

“Say something,” you demand, and he exhales shakily.

“…Yeah.”

Your stomach drops so suddenly it makes you dizzy, there is a ringing in your ear and the world stops.

No.

No, no, no-

“That’s not funny,” you say, your voice trembling now. “Whatever this is, whoever you are, it’s not funny.”

Something in his expression shifts. The softness doesn’t disappear but it steadies, grounds itself. Like he realizes he’s standing on the edge of something fragile, something that could shatter if he takes the wrong step.

“I know it’s not,” he says quietly.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Then what is this? Some kind of sick joke? You think you can just come here and, what, pretend?” Your voice rises as tears start to pool at the corners of your eyes. “You don’t get to stand there and look like him and-”

“You fell off that tree,” he says suddenly, cutting you mid sentence.

“…What?” You stutter.

“That summer,” he continues, voice low, steady, like he’s choosing every word with care. “At the edge of the field. The branch cracked under you. You tried to pretend it didn’t hurt.”

“That’s-” your voice shakes, your vision blurry, and you take a step back. “People know that story.”

“You cried about ruining summer,” he adds quietly. “So I came over the next day and I told you-” his voice falters, just slightly. “I told you not to cry because we’d eat tons of ice cream instead.”

“…Stop,” you whisper, but your voice doesn’t have any strength behind it. He takes a small step closer but you can’t look at him. Tears start rolling down your face when you notice his hands, full of scars.

“You used to cheat in hide and seek,” he says, softer now. “In the cornfields. You’d move spots when you thought I was getting too close.”

A broken sound escapes your throat.

“I knew every time,” he adds, a faint, sad smile across his face and you hear him sniffle. “I just never said anything because you looked so proud when I couldn’t find you.”

“Stop it,” you choke, tears spilling over before you can stop them. “Stop-”

“You hated high school,” he continues, “and you complained about the arcade machine being broken every time I scored higher than you.”

“STOP!” you scream and slap his face, unable to contain the anger. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t flinch. “You don’t get to… you don’t get to know that. You don’t get to say those things like they’re yours!”

But they are his, and you know it. You can’t stop the tears. You try to wipe them away with your sleeve as you pace around, but they won’t stop.

“It’s been twenty eight years, Leon.” Your voice is filled with anger and frustration.

“I know.”

“Do you?!” you bark back. “And do you know what that feels like? Do you know what it’s like to bury someone who you can’t even see for the last time? To stand in front of this… this stone and pretend it’s enough?” You face him now, snarling. “You don’t even know how hard it was for me. What it did to me. What it took from me.”

He doesn’t look away, eyes soft and glossy. His hand moves slowly, carefully, and from inside his coat he pulls out an envelope. Old and worn, edges yellowed with time, his old apartment address in your handwriting. Every feeling of yours immortalized on the pages inside of it.

“I know,” he whispers, voice unsteady now, and clears his throat, “if only… shit.”

“Fucking hell, Leon. You knew, and you let me mourn you for twenty eight years.” You try to sound angry, but the way he’s holding that letter like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, brows furrowed and the tears threatening to fall from his eyes make it impossible. He looks broken. Just like you are.

“I couldn’t come back. I couldn’t do anything about it,” his voice hoarse, “they made me disappear, promised me they would keep this place- everyone in my life safe. I couldn’t risk it. If I could keep you safe from the horrors that happen out there…” he stumbles on his words a little bit. “I only read your letter after that. I wanted you to live.”

“I didn’t live,” you whisper. He flinches like you’ve struck him. “I survived. There’s a difference.”

Rain starts to fall. Soft at first, barely there, a mist that settles into your hair, your clothes, the space between you. You take a good look at him, at the exhaustion carved into his face, the weight he carries on his shoulders, the small scars on his face that you can’t recognize from childhood.

“I thought you’d move on,” he admits, the words barely audible under the growing rain, so much he wants to say yet he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. “I thought… you deserved to move on. Find someone normal, someone who could actually be there.”

“Yeah,” you chuckle softly, “that worked out great.”

All of your fight is gone as your chest tightens. All these years, and he still feels the same. He still looks like a sad puppy when he is sad. You reach for his face with your hand, palm cupping his cheek, and he closes his eyes and leans into the touch. To be honest, you thought you were having a dream or hallucinating, but the warmth of his skin against yours grounds you.

“I tried,” you add, quieter now. “At first, I tried to go back to school. Tried to be… anything other than the person who lost you.” You shake your head slightly. “Didn’t work. Everything felt wrong. Empty.”

The rain picks up, heavier now, soaking through your clothes, but neither of you moves.

“I went back home,” you continue. “Everyone was kind. Too kind. Like I was made of glass.” A faint, bitter smile tugs at your lips. “Maybe I was.”

Leon watches you speak, cheek still pressed against the palm of your hand. Baby blue eyes staring into your soul like he’s looking for every single time you hurt because of him. To memorize it and make it up to you somehow. Every trace of anger or pain in you is mostly gone now, the feelings replaced with softness. Leon Kennedy, you’re impossible, you think. You could never stay mad at him, and he has come back to you after nearly three decades.

“I opened the café,” you say. “Remember how we used to talk about that? When we were kids, I baked my first cookies and you said I’d have a place with the best desserts in town and you’d eat everything before I could even sell it.”

A soft laugh escapes his lips, fragile and wet with tears. “Yeah… I remember.”

“I did it,” you say softly. “Opened it years ago.”

“I know,” he says.

You blink.

“…What?”

“There are flowers at the door every morning, right? That was me.”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “No, that’s not- that’s not possible. That’s every day, Leon. Every single day for…”

“Twenty eight years.” He looks unsure, scanning your face for a reaction. “I remember you loved my mother’s garden, you said you’d like a room full of different flowers, so I made sure you had that every morning.”

“Why?” You caress his cheek with your thumb, over a scar that seems like it must have hurt.

“Because I have loved you all this time. All my life.” He says bluntly, eyes fixed on yours.

“…You never said anything.”

“I was scared, didn’t want to lose you if I got it wrong.” He admits, a faint, broken smile touches his lips. “Guess I managed that anyway.”

“You idiot.” You whisper.

“Yeah.” He answers softly, exhaling a breath he was holding, and places a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand on his cheek.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The rain, the years, the distance, the pain… all of it hangs in between you.

“You’re going to get sick,” you mutter, quieter now.

A small breath of laughter leaves him. “So are you.”

You hesitate just for a second, and then-

“…Come home with me,” you say. “You can shower, dry off, eat something. We’re not done talking.”

“No,” he says gently, “we are not.”

You pull your hand away from his face slowly, the absence of contact immediately noticeable. It feels cold for half a second, until his own hand slips into yours.

“Welcome, how can I-” is the last thing you hear before you shut down completely.

You wake up to the smell of oil and sweet coolant. A cold room that you don’t recognize illuminated only by screens and dimmed neon lights. Slightly dazed, your fans are still running quickly and everything feels heavy. There are no windows around, but your internal clock tells you it’s 8:35 PM. Blinking a couple of times, your eyes regain focus and you notice a man’s figure next to you, hunching over a screen connected by a handful of cables on your neck.

“Wow, you are so hot.” He says, eyes not breaking contact with the screen. Dark hair, with what you presume are bangs, falls over his face all tousled. He looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.

“Nice. I ended up at a pervert’s shop. Just my luck.”

“I meant,” he raises his arms over his head stretching until his spine pops. His black tank top rides up, revealing a physique that doesn't match a simple repairman, then rubs his tired eyes with one hand, “your internal temp. You’ve been on my table for four hours.” He lifts his eyes to an analog clock on the wall. “Shop's been closed for two.”

You scan the room, neon screens flickering against metal surfaces. “Ew. You hooked me up to that!?” You panic, finally properly noticing the older equipment and thick cables around you.

“Watch it.” He pats a decent sized metal box sitting on a wooden table. Everything about this place screams old. Neat, clean and very well organized, but old nonetheless. “Old tech is more reliable. I got plenty of loyal customers who appreciate the craft and the fact that this shit can’t be tracked. Speaking of, I had to turn down three of ‘em to keep you alive.”

Alive. Even if machines have gained the same rights as humans and science has proved that they too have feelings and, arguably, a soul, people still hesitate. They refer to it as functional, operational, not alive.

“How are you feelin’?” His voice stops your train of thought, arms crossed in front of his chest and icy blue eyes staring at you with a slight frown. You still feel very uneasy, but the fact that his accent comes out in random words while he speaks is kind of amusing. Paired with how serious he looks, you have to suppress a giggle.

“Weird. Based on a quick data run I can’t explain why I am still running hot.” You scratch your neck around the ports. “You didn’t downgrade me while I was unconscious, right?”

He lifts his arms and rolls his eyes. “Who do you take me for? I’m a professional, not a scavenger. I managed to avoid any damage without opening you up. Nearly ran outta coolant.”

“Ouch.” You flinch at the thought of the bill. You try to relax and to run another system analysis, eyes glowing in a rainbow of colors as the data flashes in front of your eyes. You sigh in defeat when you still can’t locate the problem.

“Could be your temp sensors, CPU got the worst of it. Worth the check?”

He seems kind of excited at the thought of looking inside of you, but it doesn’t come off in a weird way. The state of the shop, the old mechanical parts shining under the artificial light, the way every wire is placed neatly and color-coded, the screwdriver twirling in between his fingers. He has not touched you the whole time, unlike the creeps from your district.

You feel comfortable enough to turn around, laying on your stomach to lift up your shirt, exposing your lower back. Silicone skin parts in clean lines to reveal an intricate pattern of electronics under it. He stills for a minute and you start to regret your decision, thinking that your systems are actually fried up for trusting the guy.

“Sorry, it’s just…” he notices your unease and starts to speak, “don’t you feel a little, uh, tangled up?”

“What do you mean?” You turn your head so you can stare back at him, standing there with his hands on the table and eyes darting from side to side of your back.

“That I think you need to kill whoever's been working on you. This is a mess.”

“Geez, thank you for the compliment on my body.” You joke, trying to brush off how unsettled not being able to see what he means makes you. You shift slightly on the bed, fingers hovering near the exposed parts before pulling back. “Now that you mention it, my battery is running out a little quicker than usual lately. I just figured it was wear and tear.”

“Can I?” he asks, voice quieter now. His hand hovering just above your exposed components while he waits for your answer.

“Sure.” You reply, shifting as you lower yourself further onto the maintenance bed, pressing your face into the worn surface in an attempt to hide the sudden heat creeping up your neck. You’ve come to places like this your whole life, knowing exactly what to expect, what you’re there for, but no one has ever asked before. It’s nice to be treated with respect for once.

The first shift of wires nearly short-circuits your thoughts, expecting the usual rough handling. You try to focus on something else like you usually do, to run background processes and let the maintenance happen without thinking about it, but it is impossible to take your mind off of the way he is being so gentle with you. Not a single tug or pull unnecessarily harsh, one hand firm against your side to keep you steady and metal tools not touching anything that they aren’t meant to touch. He pays so much attention to detail and all you can focus on is the careful paths his fingers trace along your internal wiring as he follows each line. He stills when he realizes that there is one connection jammed way too tight onto its port.

“Breathe in. I’ll try to be careful, but this one might hurt.” He says, the hand on your side squeezes a bit harder, thumb digging into the silky skin. Two of his fingers reach under a metal plaque and the tug sends a sharp buzz all over your body making you groan, face buried on the bed while your hips are firmly being held down. He slowly runs another finger under the corresponding port for guidance, your shoulders twitching at the feeling before a soft click releases all the tension you have been carrying the last few weeks. You exhale, limbs going limp, and take in the comfortable feeling.

By the time he is done with the adjustment you feel so light and a bit dizzy at the way that his fingers ghost over the cables on their way out of your body. He lets out a long breath that he was holding in to focus on the work.

“As suspected,” he breaks the silence clapping his hands together, which startles you a bit, “it’s the sensor. Needa swap it.”

You push yourself up onto your elbows, adjusting to the unfamiliar ease in your system with a stretch. “You are not putting old junk inside of me.”

He drags a hand down his face before dropping his head into his palms, frustrated. “There you go again. You’re still running, aren’t you? Trust me a little.”

He reaches for a drawer on his desk, rummaging before holding up a small, shiny box in front of your face. You recognize it immediately. New generation, barely on the market, the kind of upgrade people wait weeks to get their hands on. “My old junk can run the newest updates too.”

“Fine.” You roll your eyes, trying to not sound impressed.

It doesn’t take long after that. Just a few final checks, the hum of processing, everything settling neatly back into place before you can sit up. Your fans are running steady, battery fully charged and ready to go. By the time he walks you to the front of the shop it’s 10 PM, the neon glow outside dimmer against the dark. You raise your hand to show the barcode on your palm, ready for him to scan it and pay but instead of reaching for it, he shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it.”

You blink, visibly thrown off, still holding your hand out. “Don’t be ridiculous, you kept complaining about how late it is and how you ran out of coolant. I can’t leave without paying.”

“I am serious.” There’s no hesitation, no room left for argument. “It was an emergency, I am okay with that. Besides, I don’t always get the opportunity to work on older military grade units.” He gives you a cheeky smile, leaning on the counter, and you want the Earth to swallow you. How did he figure that out? You have spent years upgrading, trying to erase all that was left from those days, making sure no one would look at you and notice them.

You clear your throat. “I am retired.”

“Pretty impressive, if you ask me. But you definitely need to find a better tech. Name’s Leon, by the way.”

That’s how you find yourself a new technician.

Day 3.

You don’t plan on coming back at first, but you pass by the shop again a few days later, slowing enough to glance at the neon sign glowing faintly behind the counter and end up stepping inside.

The second visit is normal. A simple data check after the incident. You come in earlier this time, when people are still coming in and out, the noise of machines filling the space. Leon barely looks up when you walk in, just gestures vaguely toward the waiting area with a quiet “Gimme a minute.”

When he finally gets to you, it’s all business. The conversations start small, they slip in between quick diagnostics and efficient movements. A few comments about whoever handled your last updates and maintenance like he’s personally offended by their existence. You find yourself watching his hands this time as he works on your arm, tracking the way he moves through the work without hesitation.

“You ever think ‘bout switching districts?” he asks, not looking up from the joint he’s working on. “There’s better cities to live in.”

You think for a second before shrugging. “Too much effort.”

“Fair enough.”

Day 15.

Another time, you find him elbow deep in a piece of equipment that looks older than anything else in the shop, a bundle of rusted edges and scratched metal. There’s a bottle sitting near his elbow, the sharp scent of whiskey cuts faintly through the usual oil and coolant.

“Is that thing even compatible with anything anymore?” You ask, leaning against the doorway of the maintenance room.

He doesn’t even look up, the tool slipping in his hand. “Doesn’t need to be. It’s for my collection.”

Pushing off the doorway, you step back to the waiting area near the counter, mindlessly flipping through files to free up space in your memory. You had finished your errands earlier than expected and decided to wait for your appointment in the shop. It takes you a moment to realize that you are not alone anymore. There’s an old man leaning against the counter, quiet, watching you.

“Be with you in a minute.” Leon says from the other room.

The man doesn’t answer him. “Have you ever got your chassis appraised?” he asks instead, eyes fixed on you.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Military base frame. Old generation, but not cheap.”

You force a laugh, but the fact someone recognizes your base build is making you want to run away. Your fingers curl into fists, resting on your lap. “I think you are mistaking me for someone else.”

“Black market would love you,” he pushes off the counter. “Parts alone-” he takes a second to calculate in his head. “Yeah. You’d go for a lot.”

A sense of dread starts taking over you. You shift uncomfortably in your seat while your processor tries to come up with the best response, suddenly hyper aware of your surroundings.

“Back off.” Leon’s voice cuts in from the doorway, focused on cleaning his hands with a rag.

The man smiles at him, easy and casual, like he believes that whatever he’s saying is not wrong. “I mean, look at that,” he gestures toward you, “that’s a whole payout standing in your shop.”

“Not for sale. You can go somewhere else.”

“Relax,” the man replies, amused. “I’m joking.” He isn’t. He looks back to you, scanning you with his eyes from top to bottom. “Strip the mods and clean up the frame, you’re sitting on a small fortune,” he adds, still as if it’s normal conversation. “Shame to waste it on patch jobs.”

Leon sets the rag down on the counter next to a small knife. “You done?”

The man tilts his head, studying him now. “What? You getting attached or something?”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here.” You jump into the conversation, pushing the fear to the back of your CPU. It’s usually easy to stand up for yourself, except for when your past comes into play.

The old man shifts back to you, a grin plastered on his face. “Oh? It speaks.”

“Door’s behind you.” Leon snaps at him. “Don’t make me walk you to it.”

The man looks between the two of you. “What a waste.” Turning away, he pushes the door button and steps out without another word. It shuts with a dull click.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Leon stands there, shoulders tight, before exhaling and dragging a hand through his hair. “You good?” he asks.

You nod, a little delayed. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Sorry for jumpin’ in. Not that I think you can’t speak for yourself.” He picks up the rag again, wiping down a wrench. “I just can’t stand people like that.”

He lets out a long, heavy breath, his shoulders slumping as the tension of the confrontation fades. He doesn't go back to the workbench immediately. Instead, he looks at you, his eyes lingering on the way your fingers are twitching against your thighs. The creepy man’s words looping in your processor.

"Hey."

You look up, blinking as your sensors focus on him.

“Don't let him get in your head.”

You nod, barely visible, and your eyes wander to your hands again.

“Tell you what,” he walks away from the counter, signaling with his head toward the working room. “Let's get you inside where it’s cool. I think I’ve got some of that high grade coolant left. My treat.”

“High grade!?” You jump up from your seat at that, skipping as you walk past him, letting your arm brush against him as you go. “Are you trying to sweet-talk me?”

“Just move,” he grumbles and rolls his eyes, though the look he follows you with is anything but annoyed.

Day 25.

You come back. Again and again. You stop by every time you need an upgrade, a replacement, a routine maintenance or a simple check up. The conversations with him are nice and the way he always works on you with the utmost care makes you start to visit later, when the streets are calmer and he doesn’t need to rush that much to make it in time for the next customer. Soon, you find yourself staying longer, letting him run data and examine the oldest parts of you that he seems so interested in. You are enthralled by his fascination. When most people in this world are lost to the advances of technology and science, his heart seems anchored in the past.

“Hold still.”

“I am holding still.”

You look down to see him tap lightly against your knee joint with the handle of a screwdriver. There’s a soft clink and he huffs under his breath, shaking his head. “God,” he leans in closer, thumb pressing just above the joint “this thing’s ancient.”

You don’t even think about it, leg jerking to hit him on the side. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to knock him off balance where he’s crouched.

“The hell-” he catches himself on the edge of the bed, eyes snapping up to you.

You fail to contain your smile. “Careful,” you say, “might fall apart if you insult it too much.”

He stares at you for a second before letting out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Yeah, yeah,” he pushes himself back into position and nudges your leg back where he wants it. “Real funny. Keep that up and I’ll start chargin’ extra for attitude.”

A comfortable silence sets in as he gets back to work, fingers tracing along the seams of the joint, checking the alignment, testing the range with small, controlled movements and knocks.

“Why would you spend so much on replacements?” He asks casually after a while. “The old stuff works wonderfully.”

You don’t answer, your eyes drifting somewhere over his shoulder instead, unfocused. He doesn’t push, just hums softly and keeps working. You let out a slow breath, fingers tightening against the edge of the bed beneath you. A minute or two pass.

“You don’t have to tell me.” His thumb presses lightly against the side of your knee. “Really. Not my business.”

You laugh out loud at the way he acts like he isn’t trying to coax an answer out of you, his curiosity getting the best of him.

“I was in the military,” you say finally, the words coming out flat. There is a small pause on his hands, as if he’s debating whether it’s best to stop or keep on working as he listens. He decides on the latter and you keep going. “It wasn’t bad at first. It was what I was made for.”

A short pause as you try to figure out your next words. “My creator used to say I deserved more than that, that I should live a life that actually feels like mine. After the war, I realized people don’t look at you the same way when they know what you were. So I started changing things, piece by piece.”

“You know, people come in here all the time asking me to make them look like something else.”

You look down at him, brow faintly furrowed, and he adjusts the joint slightly, testing it again before continuing.

“Newer model, cleaner lines, better response time… whatever’s trending,” he adds, voice easy, “they want upgrades that make ‘em faster and flashier. They need to make themselves feel seen and useful out there.”

He shifts your leg, checking the stability. “You’re the first one who’s doing it to disappear.”

You shift slightly, getting defensive. “That’s not-”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he cuts in, finally looking up at you and meeting your gaze. “Nothin’ wrong with wanting something softer than what you were born with.”

“Softer.” You repeat, shoulders relaxing and fingers loosening their grip on the bed.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and gives you a smile, focusing back on the wires under the loosened casing of your joint.

“You don’t seem very interested in keeping up.”

“That so?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice, but he doesn’t look up.

“Your shop,” you gesture vaguely with one hand, “your tools, the way you work, it’s all…” You search for the right word, optics flickering faintly as you sort through options. “…outdated.”

He snorts. “Careful. That knee’s still in my hands.”

“It’s the truth,” you continue, softer now, less teasing. “You could upgrade everything. Work faster, take more clients, charge more. But you don’t. Why?”

He leans back slightly, one hand still resting against your leg while the other reaches for a different tool. He turns it between his fingers once, like he’s considering the question from all sides before deciding how to respond.

“Guess I just like things that last,” he says finally. “New stuff’s built to be replaced. Old stuff,” he taps lightly against the metal frame of your knee, “you fix it right, it sticks around.”

“That broken piece, the one you said was for your collection. Why do you keep things that don’t do anything?”

“They do.”

You frown. “How?”

“They remind me,” he says, voice more absent now, “of how things used to be.”

“You sound like you miss it.”

He doesn’t answer straight away, reaching for another tool first. “Sometimes.” Another pause, he applies oil on the joint and moves your leg up and down. “Just… things change too fast now.” He clicks his tongue and seals the casing back into place. “Alright, that should do it. Try it.”

You shift carefully, bending your knee. The motion is smoother immediately, no resistance, no delay. You extend, rotate, flex again. It responds like it’s supposed to. You slide off the bed, testing your weight properly. Everything holds, balanced and stable.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod, then realize he’s not looking and add, “Yeah. Much better.”

“Told you,” he says, a hint of satisfaction slipping through.

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

“Your collection, can I see it?”

He raises an eyebrow at that, clearly not expecting it. “You sure?” he asks. “It’s just borin’ old stuff.”

You stand there, staring at him with your head to the side. “Alright, alright.”

You follow him to the back of the shop and he pushes open a door you hadn’t noticed before. Just like that, it’s not a workshop anymore. Warm light spills across wood floors. Shelves line the walls stacked unevenly with books- actual books, worn edges, creased spines, some piled horizontally where they didn’t fit. Bits of machinery sit between them, carefully placed. Not scrap, not parts, but keepsakes. A low bed sits against one wall, blankets slightly rumpled. You notice a bottle of golden whiskey on the nightstand.

“You live back here?” you ask, the answer quite obvious.

“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little less sure of himself than before. “Saves time.”

You step further in, drawn toward one of the shelves, fingers brushing lightly along the spine of a book as you tilt your head to read the title. “It’s nice,” you say, and you mean it.

Behind you, he huffs a laugh. Everything in there is different, like the world has lowered its voice. Your optics adjust again, slower this time, your memory card pulling data that you thought was already corrupted by time.

A shelf of old components near the entrance catches your attention. A chipped casing with faded markings. A gear assembly that looks too intricate to still exist outside of diagrams in a file. A small, hand-sized device with a cracked plate that reflects the warm light.

“You fixed these?” you ask, glancing back over your shoulder.

“Some of them,” he replies, leaning against the doorframe now, arms loose at his sides, not watching you too directly.

You turn back to the shelf and your gaze drifts again, slower this time, catching details you missed at first glance. Small repairs. Reinforced joints. Replaced screws that don’t match the originals but fit anyway.

“You don’t just restore them. You preserve them. It is that special to you.” You look back at him again but this time he’s watching you properly. Not the shelf, not the objects. You.

You move further into the room, the shelves opening into a wider space you didn’t see from the doorway. A workbench sits there, but it’s different from the one outside. A lamp sits angled low, casting a soft amber light across tools and scattered pieces of metal and paper. Actual paper again, notes written by hand.

Diagrams with corrections layered over other corrections, ink smudges everywhere. The handwriting is rough. Not careless, just fast, like the thoughts moved quicker than the hand could keep up with. A circuit layout. Then revised. Then revised again. At the bottom, a note scratched in smaller text: don’t overcomplicate it. It takes you a moment to realize that these are about you, a warmth spreading across your chest.

He’s standing near the workbench now, arms loosely crossed like he’s just observing his own space. But his eyes flick to the drawings once, then away again, as if looking at it too long would make it mean something it’s not supposed to. “Just structural mapping. Keeps maintenance accurate. If I understand the system properly, I can service it better.”

You hum, not fully convinced, turning to face him. “Structural mapping,” you repeat.

“It’s- calibration.” He looks away. “If I don’t account for how the system behaves, I can’t keep it stable. That’s just basic maintenance.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “Oh, so I’m just a system to you.”

“No.” It leaves his lips a little too fast, then he clears his throat. “That’s not what I said.” He looks back at you, frustration and embarrassment mixed in his expression. “I meant that I need to map it correctly to avoid risking damage. Which is kind of the opposite of treating you like you’re just a replaceable system.”

His arms are still crossed, one hand flexes once against his own sleeve and then stills again. He looks around, eyes not settling anywhere for long enough. Even his voice, usually steady, has picked up in speed, like he is trying to escape. He is not defensive but nervous.

“I get it, sorry,” you give him a smile, “you don’t have to over explain yourself like that.”

You take a few steps around the room, shift your stance and wiggle your legs. “It’s way better,” you say, glancing down at your knee. “The adjustment.”

“Told ya.”

You both smile.

“Thank you.”

Day 31.

You arrive at the shop in a hurried pace, trying to make it in time for your appointment after being stuck at the city hall waiting for your paperwork. The neon sign is dim, flickering and reflecting against the small puddles of rain on the floor. The front door is unlocked, but when you step inside, the usual noise of machinery is drowned out by a thick, suffocating silence and most of the lights are off.

“Leon?” you call out, your voice echoing off the metal surfaces.

There’s no answer. You move toward the back, your sensors picking up a sharp, stinging scent of whiskey before you even reach the maintenance room. You find him hunched over the workbench, but he isn’t working. He’s just staring at a piece of rusted equipment, a bottle sitting next to it.

“Leon,” you say again, softer this time.

He flinches, the tool in his hand slipping and clattering against the metal table. He doesn’t look up. His bangs are a mess, shielding his eyes.

“Shop’s closed,” he answers, voice raspy, accent thicker than usual.

“I had an appointment,” you remind him, stepping closer despite the internal warning to keep your distance. You’ve spent your life avoiding people’s baggage, but seeing him like this makes your processor hitch.

He finally raises his head, and your heart (or the thing that passes for it) feels heavy. His icy blue eyes are bloodshot and unfocused, hollow. He looks at you, but for a split second you aren't sure if he actually sees you or if he’s looking at a ghost.

“Right,” he breathes. “The military grade unit. Always on time.” He reaches for the bottle, his fingers clumsy. Before he can take another swig you reach out, your hand closing over his shaking wrist.

He jerks to try and pull free, a sharp, irritated sound leaving him. “Don’t-” His grip tightens around the nearly empty bottle, stubborn, like he’s not giving it up without a fight.

“Leon,” you warn, firmer now.

“I’m fine,” he tries to tug his wrist back again, but it lacks strength. You don’t let go. There’s a brief moment where he just holds there, tension coiled in his arm, jaw tight, like he’s deciding whether to push it further or not. Then his grip eases on the bottle and his forehead drops until it almost touches your knuckles. You take it from him, setting it somewhere out of reach, and he doesn’t fight you again.

Your attention shifts to the workbench. Up close, it’s a mess. The casing is half pried open, screws scattered, wiring tangled up. The metal has warped edges, lifted and jagged, thin enough to slice if handled wrong. With the way his hands are shaking, it’s only a matter of time before he gets hurt. Leon’s hand moves away from yours and reaches for some pliers.

“Hey.” You step in, catching his hand again before he can grab them properly. “Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I know what I’m doin’.”

“You don’t,” you shoot back, “not like this.”

You glance past him at the handwritten calendar pinned to the wall. Today is marked with a heavy, aggressive 'X', his one day off for the month. Yet, right next to it in his messy, slanted scrawl, is your name. 6:00 PM.

"It's your day off, Leon," you mumble, the realization hitting you harder than a power surge. "Why did you write me down?"

He doesn’t answer right away, his eyes focused somewhere in between you and the table. He is trying to maintain that cool, detached persona he wears like armor, but is failing miserably. "You needed somethin’. Didn't want you wandering somewhere else.”

You crouch next to him, placing a hand on his knee, and you can feel the tremor in his leg. “You need to give yourself time to rest”. He looks small, just a man who spent his free day fighting with a piece of metal and a bottle instead of relaxing because he was too afraid to be alone with the silence.

“Gets loud,” he hiccups, “when it’s quiet.” He looks down at your hand on his knee. “Stop moving, and the noise starts.”

“Then we’ll keep it moving.” You give his knee a small squeeze. “But right now, we’re moving toward the bed. Come on.”

He doesn't protest when you slide your arm under his, then tries to push himself up from the stool but his legs have gone numb from hours of sitting in the dark. As he tries to find his footing, his knees simply buckle and you catch him before he can fall on his face, his heavy frame sagging against yours. You guide him through the narrow doorway into the back room. It’s a slow and clumsy process, his boots scuff against the floorboards and he clings to your shoulder with a grip that is surprisingly tight.

When you reach the low bed, the air smells less of chemicals and more of old paper and dust. You lower him down as gently as you can and he hits the mattress with a tired groan. He doesn't even try to get under the covers, he just collapses with his face half buried in a pillow.

You hesitate at the edge of the bed, thinking that you should leave now that he’s safe. But then you look at the way his hand is still twitching, at his boots still laced tight, and you kneel at the edge to unlace them and set them neatly next to what you suppose is a small closet.

For a moment you just stand there, caught in that familiar loop of your own programming. Task complete. Subject stabilized. Departure recommended. Your hand hovers near the doorframe, ready to leave, but then you look back at him. You remember the tremor in his leg and the way he talked about the noise that starts the moment things go quiet.

You look around the small room until your eyes land on a worn wooden chair in the corner. You move it quietly, the legs scraping softly against the floorboards, and place it right next to the head of the bed. On a small side table, amidst a stack of technical manuals, you find a weathered book. You don't even check the title, settling into the chair and finding a comfortable position. You open to a dog-eared page in the middle and begin to read.

Leon doesn't move, but you see his hand relax while you read about a world that has nothing to do with oil, rusted gears or mechanical parts. The tension in his jaw slowly melts away, his breathing syncing up with the rhythm of your voice. You don't stop until his eyes stay shut for good and his breath turns into a deep, rhythmic snore. Even then, you turn the page quietly, your thumb brushing the paper as you keep reading into the night, making sure the silence doesn't stand a chance.

Day 32.

The transition from low power standby to fully operational is instant, but you keep your vision dimmed. The room is quiet except for the steady, labored rhythm of Leon’s breathing. You are still sitting in the worn wooden chair you dragged over the night before, the weathered book resting closed on your lap.

Morning light, muted and gray, filters into the room. A quick search tells you it’s going to rain again, so the city will slow down. While you are deep in thought, Leon shifts.

“Jesus-” his voice cracks, rough and dry, and he presses his palm against his forehead. “What time is it?”

“7:12 AM,” you answer automatically.

He groans, dragging his hand down his face and stays like that for a few seconds, considering falling back asleep. Then he breathes in sharply, realizing he heard an answer to a question he threw into what he thought was an empty room. He forces himself upright, feet hitting the floor with less coordination than he’d probably like. That’s when he registers it properly. The chair. The book. You. Still there.

“…You stayed.” It comes out flatter than he probably intended.

“I didn't have anywhere to be,” you reply. “And someone had to make sure you didn't try to calibrate anything with a hammer while in that state.”

“Shit,” he hisses, squeezing his eyes shut, hand finding its way to press on his forehead again. “Head’s killing me.” He looks at his boots, set neatly by the closet. “Did I- say anything stupid?”

“You said it gets loud when it’s quiet.”

For a moment you think he might deflect, but he just looks at the floor. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

He stands up, swaying slightly. “I should open the shop,” he states, avoiding your eyes as he reaches for a fresh shirt. “Got people comin’ in.”

“You can barely stand straight, Leon,” you point out, rising from the chair. “I’m staying.”

He stops, one arm halfway through a sleeve, and finally looks at you. The professional mask is back, but there's a fatigue behind it that no amount of coffee will fix. “You don't have to do that. You’re a client, not an apprentice. Go home, get some proper charging time.”

“My battery is at 94%,” you lie. Your internal sensors actually read 68%, but he doesn't need to know that. “I’ll handle the heavy lifting and the filing. You just sit behind the counter and look grumpy. It’s your usual brand anyway.”

He snorts. “Fine. Just don't break anything.”

The morning is a series of skirmishes. Every twenty minutes, Leon wanders into the back under the guise of "checking your work." He’ll stand in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you effortlessly move an engine block. Then, driven by some restless need to prove he’s functional, he’ll reach for a heavy soldering iron or try to crouch down to inspect something. Each time he winces in pain, his face contorting as the blood rushes to his head.

“Leon,” you scold. “The counter. The stool. The water. Go.”

“I’m just looking,” he grunts and rolls his eyes when you don’t back down, but he retreats.

By evening, the shop is quiet and the neon OPEN sign flickers off. You’re leaning against the workbench, your movements finally showing a noticeable lag. Your vision’s tracking is a split second behind.

“Hey,” Leon’s voice cuts through the quiet. He’s looking at you properly now, the hangover finally beginning to recede into a dull ache. “You’re lagging. When was the last time you hit a charging port?”

“I’m fine,” you say, though your hand misses a tool by an inch.

“Don’t give me my own lines.”

“I'll plug in on one condition,” you counter, pointing a finger at him. “You actually eat something. Real food. Not just coffee and whatever is in that shake. You haven't had a meal all day.”

Leon looks ready to argue, his brow furrowing, but then his stomach betrays him with a low growl. “Fair enough. Deal.”

You settle onto the edge of the bed in the back room, connecting your cable to the wall. Leon disappears into the kitchenette and returns with a bowl of simple noodles. He pulls the wooden chair up across from the bed, sitting close enough that his knees almost brush yours.

"I think my internal processors are finally stabilizing. The lag is down to five milliseconds."

Leon looks up, a piece of noodle hanging off his fork. "Five milliseconds, huh? I’ve been buffering since this morning."

The silence that follows is deafening. You stare at him. He stares back, completely deadpan, though there's a tiny, mischievous glint in his blue eyes that suggests he knows exactly how bad that was.

"That was terrible."

"Yeah, well," he grunts, taking another bite. "I'm a mechanic, not a comedian.”

He finishes the bowl and sets it on the floor, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks at you and the defensive wall he’s been hiding behind all day, trying to not acknowledge the embarrassment from yesterday, finally has a visible crack in it.

"Look, about earlier... and yesterday." He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thanks for staying. Appreciate you sticking around to... keep the noise down."

"You don't have to thank me for that. We’re both just trying to get through the day. Today was a win. Let’s leave it at that."

Leon gives a slow, appreciative nod and stands up, his joints protesting. He reaches over, his hand hovering near the charging cable before he pulls it back, letting you disconnect it yourself.

"You're at a hundred," he notes, checking the readout on the wall unit. "Go home. Get some actual sleep."

As you walk toward the front of the shop, Leon follows a few paces behind. He reaches past you to unbolt the heavy security door, the humid night air rushing in.

"There’s a patch for the last update coming in two days.” You mention, standing outside of the shop now.

"Drop by, I'll install it. Besides, I still haven't found that rattle in your left shoulder plate. It's bothering me.”

"It's bothering you?" You laugh.

"My shop, my headache," he starts to pull the door shut, his hand lingering on the handle. "Two days. Try not to get yourself fried before then."

Day 45.

You sigh as you turn another page of an old anthology of Albert Camus’ works, sprawled across Leon’s bed. The paper is worn soft at the edges, faintly yellowed, and you trace a line absentmindedly while you wait for him to finish with his last customer of the day, trying very hard to ignore the constant twitching. You have to close the eye that keeps losing focus so you can read the words on the page.

“The only way to deal with an unfree world…” Leon quotes as he walks into the room, dropping onto the bed beside you, “...is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.” He taps your forehead lightly. “What’s got you twitchin’?”

You blink at him, then down at the book like it might answer for you. Nervous how stupid you will sound, you get up from the bed and put the book back in its place. He watches you as you pace a little circle around the room, trying to figure out how to start. “I might have… gotten a little too carried away this morning.”

Leon leans back on his hands, watching you with narrowed eyes. “That already sounds like a problem.”

“And installed something that wasn’t an update.”

He drags a hand through his face and stares at you in silence, which makes you shift your weight to your heels and give him a smile full of teeth. “You can’t be serious.”

“Well, I am. But look at it this way. I break things, you fix them. Infinite money glitch.”

His jaw tightens. “You could have died.” He states bluntly. He does it frequently yet it always surprises you, the use of words for living things on you.

“Come on,” you whine, “it was supposed to give me absurd amounts of knowledge! I’m sure you can fix it and then you can work on that curiosity of yours.” Your knee twitches and you trip as you follow him, already on the way to the workshop.

“I will need to shut you down for a while, are you ‘kay with that?” He asks, thick colorful wires already in his hand. You nod, laying down on the work bed and reaching to open a port behind your ear. You hear him say that it’s going to be thirty minutes before the world fades to black. When you come back, it’s like surfacing back from a long dive in a pool. You feel heavy but the twitching is completely gone.

“Forty five.”

“Don’t start.” He looks angry when he spins the chair to face you. “Could’ve been thirty if you wanted a complete memory reset.”

“Tempting,” you joke.

“Don’t.” His voice cuts in, sharper than before. He doesn’t smile back, staring daggers into you. “Not funny.”

“Sorry.” You mumble, suddenly feeling bad. If you had a human heart, you suppose it would feel like that when they say it sinks.

Leon reaches out to unplug the cable behind your ear, careful as ever even when mad at you. He sighs, expression softening. “Just be more careful next time.”

You nod in response and notice he’s tidying up. “Weren’t we going to do research today?”

“Are you sure you feel good enough for that after the whole day twitchin’?”

After some back and forth about it being too much for you, you settle back on the bed and he sits down on your left. You lift your shirt just enough to expose your lower abdomen where some of the original parts haven’t been replaced yet. It feels kind of nice to have someone that’s interested in the oldest parts of you, the ones that you want to hide and erase the most.

He works like he would normally do, always gentle with his fingers and tools but this time it feels… different. It starts small. A spark when the pad of his finger brushes along the edge of a battery casing, warm skin against cold metal. You inhale sharply, he keeps working. An unfamiliar warm feeling reaches your cheeks when he softly starts polishing the surface in circles with a cloth, each pass vibrating through your frame like a low frequency pulse, the faint scent of his skin mixed with machine oil wafting up as he leans closer. When he reaches the back of the battery pack you have to stop yourself from squirming and a small whine leaves your lips, your fans cycling air with a soft hiss. His hand stops.

“Are you really okay?” He looks concerned. “We can reschedule if it's too much. Once I start the full diagnostic cycle, I can't interrupt it in the middle. Could fry your boards.”

“Y-yeah.” Your processor lags for a second. “Keep going.”

He hesitates, examining your face, and then tries to focus on the last section of battery left to clean. He polishes the most fragile components of your body as you try to even your breath. His fingers trace along wiring, checking connections and solder joints, adjusting tension. Each drag of his skin leaves a ghost trail of warmth, the texture of his calluses rasping faintly against insulated cables. The slight pressure when he runs a thumb to test a bolt makes your hips stutter and you clamp down, trying to stay still. You close your eyes, head tipping back.

You have stopped noticing how loud your fans are working, but he does. He also notices the way you softly whine when a finger brushes over specific ports while he reconnects them, how your hips stutter when he reaches to tighten another bolt on the right side, the way your cheeks are flushed. He assumes you are uncomfortable, but it’s getting hard to ignore how everything sounds and feels like something else. He shakes his head, trying to push the thoughts away, a he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, steadying his hands.

“It’s okay.” He reassures you. “You’re doing great. We are nearly done.”

His hand slides lower, following a pipe that disappears beneath your abdominal plating and synthetic skin. Your body snaps upright, hand reaching for his wrist, a full moan tears from your throat. You both stay there for a few seconds, frozen, and when he looks at you he sees your pupils dilate. With your chest closer to his head he hears the fans better, working overtime. He feels his ears burning.

“I- fuck, I’m sorry.” He stutters and looks away, eyes darting to the floor. “I didn’t mean to.”

You take a good look at him. Hand buried wrist deep in the casing of your lower belly, the other one squeezing your thigh. His ears are flushed red, his lips parted to catch uneven breaths. “Is it… okay if we keep going?” you ask, coolant pooling around the area where his hand sits.

“You-” he swallows again, “you know this isn’t standard maintenance anymore, right?”

“Yeah.” You squeeze his wrist again.

Leon grunts and shifts on his seat.

“Please.”

That breaks him. He strokes that sensitive spot again with his thumb, gentler this time, testing the response. Your frame melts back against the bed, your hand slipping from his wrist. His touch changes. Still with a care that borders on reverence, but slower. He watches you as he moves, learns the ways your body reacts. A fingertip circles another bolt, earning another moan from you that makes him twitch under his pants. He starts toying with a wire that’s tangled in between pipes and you squirm when he unplugs it, his breath catching in his throat.

“Does that feel good?” he whispers, breath ghosting your thigh.

You nod, unable to speak. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the outside of your thigh as his hands keep working on untangling the cord. Your hand finds its way into his hair, fingers threading through the strands and your hips lift from the bed, making him miss the port.

“Careful, you’re gonna- shit.” He shifts, the friction of his jeans pulling a sharp hiss out of him. His forehead drops against your thigh and he gulps, a little embarrassed, staying there for a moment. Then something in him snaps. He leaves a trail of kisses on your thigh, stubble scraping silicone making you tremble. One hand keeps working inside you, slow, deliberate circles around an empty and sensitive port, earning more sounds from you. The other moves to his lap, palming himself through his jeans.

The rhythm builds up and the sounds of uneven breathing, moans and whines echoing off the workshop walls. Time slows down for both of you. When he feels himself tipping over the edge, he fumbles for the cable. Shaky fingers find the correct entrance and he pushes it into the port with the sound of a soft click. You both break at the same time, your hand tightening in his hair as he presses his face into your thigh, breath shuddering when he exhales. It feels like you have spent hours on a cloud before either of you moves.

“Now,” Leon licks his dry lips, trying to keep his hand steady, “need to finish this.” He curses himself for getting carried away in the middle of a job and making you struggle through the rest of it now.

His gaze flicks up to your face, catching the way you’re squirming and he exhales, shoulders tightening. “I’m- I’m sorry. Almost done. Just hold on, yeah?”

You whine as his hand shifts, every nerve cluster hypersensitive now. Every touch amplified, overwhelming. He is trying to minimize the contact, but the overstimulation of adjusting the last two ports has you cross eyed and shaking.

“It’s okay,” he soothes you, the thumb of his free hand caressing your hip while he holds you down. “You’re okay, doin’ so well. One more and we are done, yeah?” He’s trying his best to focus, to make this as comfortable as possible for you. He fails to realize that the way he is talking with that raspy voice now, even if you appreciate it, is only pushing you further towards the edge.

You nod weakly. The feeling comes back with the last quick twist of his fingers on a bolt. It washes over you, body tense, your hips buckle and tears pool at the corners of your eyes. You go slack when he takes his hand out of your body and reaches to caress your cheek. You nuzzle your face into the warmth of his palm.

“It’s okay,” he whispers softly. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

Your breathing evens out, the zaps in your body start to smooth under the rhythm of his thumb brushing lightly along your skin.

“Did good,” he adds, “held still for me.”

The praise quiets the last bit of tension you hold in and when you open your eyes again, everything feels heavy. Your processor takes a few seconds too long to catch the instruction to close the plates and skin over your exposed abdomen.

“You should rest,” he says, already shifting, one arm moving beneath you before you fully register what he’s doing. There’s a brief instinct to resist, to insist you’re fine, but your limbs stay still and you let him carry you. He lifts you with ease, one arm under your knees and the other steady on your back, your head tipping instinctively toward his shoulder.

“Easy,” he says under his breath, more to himself than you, lowering you carefully on the bed and covering you with the blanket. Then he steps back and you catch the seam of his shirt. For a moment, he doesn’t turn around. Like he’s giving you time to let go if you didn’t mean it.

“Stay.” You say, voice soft.

“Yeah,” for some reason, this makes him more nervous. “Alright.”

The bed dips again as he sits first, then lays down, settling beside you like he doesn’t know where to place his limbs. There’s a stiffness to the way he holds himself, like he’s not sure where to put his arms or how close is too close. You shift toward him anyway, the blanket rustling as you wrap your arm around his chest and pull it over him too. He goes completely still. His whole body tenses under your touch, breath catching in his chest.

You think you’ve made a mistake, that you’ve pushed too far. But then you feel it. Fast, uneven, human. The thump of his heart against your audio sensors, loud enough to drown out everything else. You shift a little closer, resting your head more comfortably against him, hand loosely wrapped against his chest.

The tension starts to leave him and he adjusts closer, an arm under your waist so you can rest your head on him more comfortably. His hand brushes along your arm once and you complain with a small sound when he stops.

“That okay?” he asks quietly.

“Very.”

He shifts just a bit closer after that, more certain now, his hand moving again in slow, absent strokes along your arm.