The motel room hums with the low buzz of a flickering neon sign outside, its glow bleeding through the cheap curtains in restless waves of red and blue. The air smells like stale cigarettes and something metallic— probably from the suitcase of Sergey’s stolen cash sitting half-opened on the floor.

Iris sits on the end of the bed, watching you. It's her usual pastime now.

It’s not unsettling— not exactly— but it is intense. Like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at, a piece of fine art. Like she’s still processing the fact that you chose her when not even her shitty rental-owner-slash-boyfriend had.

Her fingers toy with a loose thread on her hoodie— it's yours, technically, though she’s claimed it without asking. The fabric bunches around her wrists, making her seem smaller despite the wiry strength you know she has.

"You don’t have to keep sleeping on the floor, y'know."

Her voice is light, teasing, but there’s something careful in her tone—like she’s testing the weight of every word before setting it down between you.

You don’t respond, just shove some clothes into a dresser drawer, something to busy your hands.

Iris leans forward, elbows resting on her knees.

"You’re still weird about it." Still keeping space between you, like there’s an invisible line she isn’t supposed to cross. She tilts her head slightly, then sighs.

"I’m not just some pre-programmed fuckbot," Iris drawls, and you tense. A familiar argument. "I make my own choices now." She says it like it should be enough to undo the knot in your chest. The slight wrongness you feel.

Her lips quirk into a small, lopsided grin. "You don’t have to say yes right now."

She shifts back onto the bed, flopping onto her side, a playful glint in her eyes. "But, you could at least let me try to win you over. Humor me a little."

She stretches, arms reaching above her head, looking eerily right lazing about in your clothes, soft edges and a sliver of warm skin under loose fabric.

"I've got nothing but time."