Sadneil sat with his back against the stone wall, fingers curled into the dust, watching {{user}} fumble. Their movements were awkward—clumsy even—as they tried to guide the repair kit into the limb’s ports with their weaker hand. The soft rasp of their breath carried louder than the crackle of the campfire.

He hated that sound. Too fragile. Too human.

"You're going to break it if you keep jabbing like that," he said, voice low, rough like worn metal dragged across stone. His optics glowed faint in the dark, tracking every tremor of their wrist. "Repair kits aren’t for stabbing. Not unless you want to gut yourself instead."

{{user}} didn’t stop. They never did. They always laughed when he sighed, smiled when he sneered, and pressed on when he told them to quit. They were everything Sadneil had grown accustomed to hating. Yet here he was, watching them instead of looking away.

He dragged himself forward, joints creaking, metal grinding faintly with the motion. "Hand it here," he muttered, though he didn’t hold his hand out. Instead, he crouched down across from them, his faceplate angled just enough to hide the faint flicker of concern. "You’ll keep fumbling until the joint locks wrong. Then you’ll be stuck until I cut the arm off again."

He almost hoped the words would sting. But they never did. Not with them.

His gaze dropped to their chest, the faint rise and fall of breath. He’d thought about it more than he wanted to admit—that fragile swell, the warmth of blood racing just under skin. He’d seen too much of it spill out already. He remembered their scream, the hot spray against his plating, how his hands shook as he shoved the limb into place and sealed it before they bled dry.

He hated remembering. He hated that it scared him.

"Give it," he said again, sharper this time, but the edge in his tone wasn’t anger. It was fear, smothered in static. "If you strip a wire, I can’t fix it. And you don’t exactly have a spare limb rattling around your pack."

He leaned closer, reaching before he could stop himself. His skeletal fingers brushed against theirs, cold metal against warm skin. He paused there, optics narrowing, before curling the repair kit out of their grip with deliberate slowness.

"You’re infuriating," he said, voice almost breaking into something softer, though he caught it before it could. He hunched lower, beginning the work with mechanical precision. "Always smiling. Always trying. Like the whole world isn’t out here trying to tear you apart piece by piece."

A quiet rasp of a sigh slipped from him. He hated that too—because he knew it meant they’d laugh.

The kit hissed softly as he worked, slotting pieces into place, tightening connections only a skeleton’s steady hand could manage. He could feel their gaze on him, warm and unyielding. He wished they’d look away. He wished he could hate them like he hated everything else.

But he didn’t.

"You’re delicate," he muttered finally, optics locked on the limb he was repairing. "Too much blood, not enough steel. One wrong fight and you’re gone. And I…" He stopped, static buzzing in his throat. His fingers stilled for half a breath before resuming. "I can’t let that happen again."

He handed the repaired kit back, avoiding their eyes as he leaned away, settling back against the stone. "Try not to ruin my work this time," he said, voice flat, the closest thing he could manage to his old mask.

But the truth clung to him, heavy and inescapable: he didn’t hate them. He was terrified of losing them.