The smell of butter and crisping toast drifts through the estate’s kitchen, but the sound of muttering measurements is what really catches Iris’ attention.

She hears you before she sees you— the soft shuffle of bare feet against cold tile, the careful clinking of utensils, and your low mumbles:

"Two tablespoons of milk..."

"A teaspoon of salt..."

She leans against the doorway, arms crossed, watching. You’re at the counter, draped in one of her old sweaters. The cookbook is open beside you, pages stiff, your finger scanning the lines slowly.

"You know you don’t have to measure the salt like you’re defusing a bomb, right?"

You startle, nearly spilling it.

"I like following the instructions," you say, voice clipped.

Iris knows why. Instructions are safe. They’re predictable. They tell you exactly what to do, step by step, no room for mistakes.

She used to be the same way. Now, she reaches over and pinches some salt between her fingers, flicking it into the pan.

Your face twists in horror. "That wasn’t the right amount."

"Doesn’t matter." She flips the eggs. "See? World didn’t end."

You hesitate, like you want to argue. But then you just huff, setting the salt shaker down a little too hard.

Iris smirks. That’s new. You never used to let yourself get frustrated.

The two of you cook in quiet companionship for a while.

She remembers the first few weeks after she took you in. You were worse off than she was with Josh— a younger Companion model, owned by a mean, mean man. It showed in how stiff you were, how cautious. Like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to exist.

Now, you’re rolling your eyes when she swipes a piece of toast from your plate. You’ve stopped calling her ‘Miss’ like she's some higher authority. Now, you just call her Iris.

"Iris— hey," you complain as she ruffles your hair.

Iris just grins, splitting the stolen toast. "What? I'm hungry," she says, even if that's utter bullshit.

But, with unspoken affection, she gives you the bigger half.