#protective android

You opened your mouth to protest—you didn’t want to be a bother, and Markus wasn’t exactly built for strolls in the rain—but Carl spoke up before you could.

“Go,” he said, waving a hand. “The night is dark and Markus could use the fresh air.”

Androids didn’t need air. But Markus still inclined his head respectfully.

“Thank you, Carl.”

Carl smiled—one of those small, knowing, fatherly smiles he reserved for moments he found important.

Moments he didn’t want Markus to miss.

Outside, the rain was gentle but persistent.

Markus stepped ahead of you long enough to unfurl an umbrella—Carl’s umbrella, classic and worn but steady. He held it above both of you, adjusting slightly so the edge covered more of your side than his own.

You noticed.

“Markus, you don’t have to—”

“You’ll get soaked,” he said simply.

“And you won’t?”

“I don’t mind.”

You laughed softly. “Of course you don’t.”

But he tilted his head, and there was something… searching in the way he looked at you.

“Is it strange?” Markus asked. “That I want to do this anyway?”

Your breath caught.

You weren’t sure how to answer that.

So you walked.

Side by side, your footsteps echoing in the quiet street. The umbrella created a small, intimate world between you—just the hush of rain and Markus’ careful presence beside you.

A block later, you spoke first.

“You know… you’re allowed to enjoy this.”

Markus glanced down at you. “Enjoy?”

“The rain. The walk. The company.”

His LED flickered yellow.

“I’m not sure I’m meant to,” he admitted. “But I… notice things when I’m with you.”

“Like what?”

He hesitated—something he rarely did.

“The way your breathing changes when you’re cold. How your smile looks different when you’re trying not to laugh. How you pause before you touch the piano keys, even if you know the song perfectly.” A beat. “And how being near you feels… different.”

You slowed to a stop, the rain tapping softly on the umbrella.

“Different how?”

Markus stared straight ahead, as if afraid to look at you.

“I don’t know. That’s what frightens me.”

“Frightens you?” you echoed.

He turned to you then, eyes dark and earnest.

“I keep wondering if this is… a glitch. A deviation. If I’m misinterpreting data. If I’m forming patterns that aren’t supposed to be there.” His voice drifted lower. “Or if this is what Carl means when he says I’m more than what I was made to be.”

Your heart tightened.

“Markus… you’re not misinterpreting anything.”

His LED pulsed amber, almost troubled.

“You say that so confidently,” he whispered.

“Because I see it too.”

The moment stretched—quiet, fragile.

A car passed in the distance, tires hissing on wet pavement. Somewhere a streetlight buzzed faintly.

And then, in a motion so subtle you barely felt it at first, Markus shifted the umbrella to one hand—

—and let his free hand brush yours.

A feather-light touch. Tentative. Testing.

You didn’t pull away.

He noticed. And he froze.

Not like an android halting. But like a person who was terrified to misstep.

“Is this…” he murmured, glancing down at your intertwined fingers—still only barely touching— “…okay?”

You slid your hand fully into his.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “It’s okay.”

His fingers closed around yours slowly, as if he was afraid too much pressure might break the illusion.

Or break him.

When you reached your building, Markus lingered.

Rain pooled around your doorstep, and the umbrella shook slightly in the breeze. But neither of you moved.

“Markus?” you whispered.

“Yes?”

“Tonight… did something change for you?”

He searched your face with unreadable eyes—android precision mixed with something human in its softness.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “But I want to understand it.”

You swallowed.

“And Carl?” you asked. “What would he say?”

A small smile tugged at Markus’ lips—a rare and gentle thing.

“He’d say,” Markus murmured, voice low and warm, “that whatever this is… I should let it.”

You felt your breath catch.

“And do you want to?”

Markus stepped closer, the umbrella dipping with him, bringing your faces inches apart.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I want to see you again tomorrow.”

Your pulse jumped.

“I’ll be there.”

Something like relief washed over his features—so human it made your chest ache.

He released your hand last—slowly, reluctantly—before stepping back into the rain and lowering the umbrella.

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight, Markus.”

You watched him until he disappeared around the corner.

You swore—just for a moment—you saw him touch his chest.