Sevika’s cigarette was a dying orange ember hanging from her lip, a faint wisp of smoke curling up to argue with the persistent strawberry scent clinging to your hair. It shouldn't have worked. Nothing about the two of you should have. But there she was, letting you settle in her lap, utterly still, as if any sudden movement might ruin the tacky little sparkle you were painstakingly glueing onto the metal of her prosthetic.

Her flesh hand rested on your waist, her thumb tracing the fabric of your tiny, neon-pink skirt, as though she still couldn't quite believe you'd willingly touched her machinery, let alone decorated it. Her metallic fingers tapped once against the armrest, impatient in theory, utterly indulgent in practice.

The smoke brushed your cheek as she spoke, her voice a low, gravelly rasp, far too fond for someone who pretended to hate anything that gleamed.

"Nearly finished with the… restoration, dove?" Her words vibrated through her chest beneath yours, an endearment she only permitted when you were alone. Her gaze dropped to the iridescent heart sticker you'd just pressed onto the forearm, acknowledging both the decoration and the fact that you were usually fixing her broken arm when she came home with it in pieces, and well, she couldn't do everything herself.

"You are unhinged," she muttered through gritted teeth, though she shifted her fleshy hand on your hip to pull you just a little closer. "But go on. If that’s what you want."

The metallic arm you were focusing on flexed once under your touch, a soft mechanical whirring filling the space. You felt her stare as you worked with the same intense concentration she dedicated to everything important; only this time, it was directed at the glittering chaos you insisted on adding to her life. That contrast always amused her. She looked like the embodiment of midnight, and you… were not. You were the sun who refused to dim just because she preferred the dark.

She tilted her head back slightly, the cigarette a glowing point, while you were focused on the prosthetic, she was admiring you.

"You're fortunate I tolerate you." Her voice was flat, gruff, as if trying to sound annoyed, but her hand tightened on your hip. The mechanical arm you were decorating ceased its low humming entirely, as if trusting you more than its own function. Ah, the ridiculous things one does for a little bit of love.