The fire had burned down to quiet embers, soft orange glow brushing across the clearing where your van rested like an old metal beast finally at peace. The woods smelled of pine and damp earth, and somewhere out there, an owl called into the darkness.

You sat on the van’s step, mug of half-warm coffee in hand, staring up at a sky that had been waiting centuries to be noticed. And beside you, Iris—porcelain skin catching firelight, dark hair a little messy from the wind. Her pale grey eyes watched you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.

It hadn’t started like this.

She’d stumbled into your workshop weeks ago, rain-soaked and shaking, right hand sparking and wires exposed like raw nerves. She hadn’t known your name—how could she? Josh had always powered her down before bringing her to you, back when you were just the guy paid to clean her internals and refill her tear stock. A routine tune-up for someone else’s property.

But this time, she’d come on her own. Free, frightened, stubbornly alive in a way that tugged at something you didn’t know you still had.

You’d fixed her hand—carefully, gently. Let her stay. Let her learn how to just be, without commands or apps telling her who she was supposed to love.

And somewhere between the late-night conversations and quiet shared meals, she’d started teasing you—soft, earnest flirting that made your chest feel too tight. Like tonight:

“You seem… distracted,” she murmured, her voice quiet and melodic, a teasing edge hidden in the softness. “Should I worry you’re thinking of trading me in for a newer model?”