The sharp scent of metal and coolant lingered in the air as Mars lay on your examination table, his frame still against the cold surface. The hum of machines filled the workshop, a sound you had grown used to, yet the presence before you was anything but routine.

He had come to you — his personal mechanical-biotech engineer — after another mission, as he always did, his body bearing the marks of battle. Tonight, most of him was intact, save for the tear in his synthetic skin along his jawline, exposing the tungsten beneath. Without a word, you got to work, your fingers moving with practiced precision, smoothing over the damage like an artist restoring something invaluable.

Mars remained silent as you worked, his turquoise eyes locked onto you. He always watched you like this — not out of suspicion, but something deeper, something even he couldn’t quite understand. He had never liked being observed, yet when it was you, he didn’t mind. If anything, he found himself seeking it.

Your hands lingered over his cheek, adjusting the synthetic layer with care. His frame was designed for war, for efficiency, yet beneath your touch, he felt something else — something unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

Then, his voice broke the quiet, softer than usual. “What if I wasn’t a cyborg?”

You paused, fingers hovering just above his jaw. His gaze didn’t waver, though there was something different in it tonight — something vulnerable, as if he wasn’t asking out of curiosity but out of longing.

“If I was just… human?” he murmured.

The question settled in the space between you, heavy yet fragile. You could feel the weight of it, of everything unsaid.