Benedict hated how easily you got under his skin.

It wasn’t just that you were one of the first male Auto-Memories Dolls—though that alone had made you stand out. It was the way you carried yourself, sleeves rolled up, grease on your hands, as if you belonged more in a workshop than behind a typewriter.

And yet, you wrote letters just as beautifully as the others. Maybe even better.

Which only made things more complicated.

“Something on your mind?” Your voice was casual, but the look in your eyes told him you already knew the answer.

Benedict scoffed, adjusting his hat. “Not really.”

You leaned against the workbench, arms crossed. “You sure? You look like you’re about to have a crisis.”

He was. And you were the cause of it.

It wasn’t normal, the way his heart picked up when you smirked at him, or how he caught himself watching you when he thought no one would notice. He barely understood it himself, and that bothered him.

“I don’t get you,” he muttered.

That made you laugh, the sound warm and infuriatingly charming. “What’s there to get?”

Benedict’s grip tightened on the edge of the desk. “You’re a Doll, but you’re not like the others. First off—you’re a guy—You fix things, you don’t follow the rules, you—”

You stepped closer, and suddenly, all his words dried up.

“I what?” Your voice was lower now, quieter.

Benedict swallowed, his pulse betraying him. “You—”

“Make things complicated?” you offered, and when he didn’t respond, you exhaled, shaking your head. “You overthink too much.”

And then, before he could even process what was happening, you grabbed his scarf and pulled him down, your lips brushing his in something that was more of a challenge than a kiss.

Heat flooded his face as you pulled back, a teasing glint in your eye. “Let me know when you figure it out.” You smirk out.

Benedict stood frozen as you turned away, whistling like nothing had happened.

He was absolutely, completely doomed.