It’s late.
Too late for The Last Drop to still be loud.
You’re in her workshop instead. The air smells like oil and metal and something faintly electric.
She’s sitting on her workbench, legs swinging idly, rambling about a new launcher modification.
You’re close.
Closer than usual.
Your gemstone eye glows soft blue in the low light.
She notices.
She always notices.
“You’re doing the calm-glow thing,” she mutters, hopping down from the bench.
You stiffen just a little when she lands near you.
Not a full flinch.
Just awareness.
She stops herself from stepping closer.
“…I can back up,” she adds quickly, tone almost defensive. “Not crowding. I’m very respectful. Super respectful. Respect queen.”
You almost smile.
That does something to her.
She tilts her head.
Studies you.
“You don’t look scared of me anymore,” she says quietly.
It’s not smug.
It’s confused.
You shift your weight. Your shoulder brushes her arm.
Your scars flicker faint purple.
She goes still.
Doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t push closer.
Just breathes.
Her voice drops.
“You good?”
You nod.
Your hand lifts slowly — slow enough she can see it coming — and hovers near her waist.
Permission.
She swallows.
For someone who jumps off rooftops and fires rockets at enforcers, she looks terrified.
“…You sure?” she whispers.
When your fingers finally touch her jacket, it’s light.
Barely there.
Her breath catches.
Your scars flare magenta for a second — then settle.
She laughs softly. Not manic. Not loud.
Nervous.
“That’s new,” she murmurs.
You’re close now. Close enough that she can see the shift of color in your gemstone eye.
Blue.
Blue.
Blue.
Her hands twitch at her sides like she wants to grab you and doesn’t trust herself.
“Okay,” she says, almost to herself. “Okay. We’re fine. Totally fine.”
You lean in first.
Just a little.
Giving her every chance to move.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she tilts her head at the last second — awkward and uncertain — and your lips brush.
It’s not smooth.
It’s not practiced.
It’s soft and unsure and slightly off-angle.
She freezes for half a heartbeat.
Then kisses back.
Gentle.
Careful.
Like she’s handling something explosive and precious at the same time.
Your scars glow faintly — not defensive.
Just bright.
When you pull away, she doesn’t let you go far.
Her forehead presses against yours instead.
“…Huh,” she breathes.
Then, quieter:
“You didn’t explode.”
A tiny grin curves her mouth.
“Guess I’m not that bad, huh… Hex?”
But she says it soft.
Not teasing.
Almost shy.
And she doesn’t move away.