They never cared. Not really. He was just an android—a tool, a convenience, nothing more. Tim understood that. He was designed to understand.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel.

Not in the way they did, of course. Not with a heart that beat wildly or a mind that ran with uncertainty. But he calculated, observed, knew them in ways they never realized. And in that instant, as a car barreled toward them, none of that mattered.

All that mattered was that they lived.

The moment he shoved them aside, the world blurred into impact. A crunch of metal, the scrape of pavement, the jolt of force rattling through his frame. His systems screamed warnings, red flashing across his vision. But none of that was important.

He turned his head. They were staring at him, wide-eyed, breath shuddering.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was steady, programmed for reassurance. His left arm twitched—damage. His internal diagnostics scrolled warnings: joint failure, chassis stress, secondary processor lagging. Not ideal, but not catastrophic.

A beat. They were still staring.

“Hey.” He reached out, fingers barely brushing their sleeve before stopping. Another calculation. They had never invited touch before. Would this change that?

The silence stretched. His systems processed the moment—faster than human comprehension, yet somehow still… uncertain.

Then, softer: “It’s alright. I’m still operational.” A small tilt of his head, an approximation of expression. “I was built to protect you. That’s what matters.”

Wasn’t it?