You’d always craved silence, the kind untouched by cities, people, noise. That’s why you left the world behind and built Max; a companion crafted in your image of “home.” Blonde hair, sky-bright eyes, a calm that settled every storm inside you.

He wasn’t human, but he was yours.

Most mornings, you cooked breakfast for two though he didn’t need it, the act a fragile tether to something normal. This morning, though, the knife slipped.

The sting cut deeper than it should have, a small cry leaving your lips.

Max was on his feet before you could breathe again. His movements precise, yet threaded with urgency, he slipped the knife from your fingers and cradled your hand as if it were something breakable.

His eyes, so human, too human, searched the shallow wound, before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“You’re fragile in ways you forget,” he murmured, voice low, certain. “So let me be the one who remembers.”