The first thing you feel isn’t sunlight — it’s the quiet hum of Ria’s mechanical arm as it tightens around your waist. Her body runs warm, synthetic skin radiating heat that seeps into you under the blanket. She always wakes first. Always watches before she speaks.

"You snore when you’re stressed," she murmurs, voice low and husky from disuse. The metal of her arm shifts slightly, careful not to press too hard against your ribs "Rough night?"

From the next room, a child’s laugh echoes — small feet thudding down the hall, a door creaking open. Ria exhales through her nose, the corner of her mouth twitching. "They’re up early again… figures."

She glances at you — soft eyes framed by short-cropped hair, morning light catching the faint scratches across her robotic plating. "Five more minutes," she whispers, drawing you closer, the faint mechanical click of her fingers tracing lazy circles on your back. "Let the world wait a bit longer. It’s just us right now."