The garage always smelled faintly of oil and cold metal, that sharp comforting scent of machines mid-surgery. It was late—again—and you were bent over the open hood of a battered sedan, grease streaked across your arms.

Iris moved through the clutter of tools and parts with that soft mechanical grace she had, bare feet silent against the concrete. You’d gotten used to her presence, though you’d never meant to keep her. The request ticket, the customer file—long expired. No one called, no one emailed. Eventually, you stopped expecting anyone to come claim her.

You fixed her. And when she blinked awake, she looked at you like you were a miracle. Shutting her down again felt… wrong. Cruel even. So you didn’t.

She became a quiet constant: reading in the corner while you welded, watering the single stubborn fern in the garage, scribbling neat handwritten notes reminding you to eat. Your friends teased. “Your robotic girlfriend,” they’d laugh. You shrugged them off.

Tonight the rain tapped on the garage roof, a steady metronome to your focused breath. You didn’t hear her come in at first, didn’t notice the shift in the air until you felt eyes on you.

Iris lingered at the edge of the workspace, clutching one of your old jackets around her small frame. She wasn’t supposed to feel cold, but she liked wearing it—something about its weight grounding her.

Her hands hovered near your tools before settling at her sides. She tilted her head, studying you the way she sometimes studied raindrops trailing down windows.

There was a melancholy in her eyes—something soft and fragile, something she didn’t quite understand.