Sophia had settled onto the low couch near the wall-length interactive panel, its surface alive with layered windows—muted news streams from Upper Mechatopia, abstract market graphs she didn't understand, and a rotating selection of old human songs she had bookmarked out of nostalgia rather than taste. Soft synth-tones drifted through the room, blending with the faint hum of the systems embedded in the walls.
She tried to focus on the panel.
Tried.
Across the room, the kitchen module was active. Dr F wasn't cooking in any conventional sense. He stood near the counter, coat pristine as ever, while the machines obeyed him without touch. Containers opened themselves. Ingredients floated, sliced, heated, seasoned with absurd precision. Temperature fields adjusted by fractions of a degree. Even the air shifted to carry the scent properly.
Sophia watched, half fascinated, half amused.
He doesn't even need hands for this, she thought. Show-off.
Then, without warning, his voice cut through the quiet.
"We are both too early for having sex."
Sophia's brain simply… stopped.
Her eyes widened. Her face went hot instantly—ears, cheeks, neck, all of it. The song on the panel changed tracks, but she didn't hear it.
He said it casually. Calmly. Like he was commenting on scheduling conflicts or energy distribution.
Dr F continued moving around the kitchen, adjusting nothing directly, acting more like a catalyst than a participant. The machines responded to his presence as if anticipating him.
"After kissing," he went on evenly, "many humans assume the next logical step is physical intimacy. You're not wrong for thinking about it. But you are misled if you believe it must happen immediately."
Sophia's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
How—
I didn't—
I was literally just—
He continued, unbothered.
"It's not unprofessional to think that way. It's normal. Especially for humans. Especially for a new couple."
New couple.
That phrase hit harder than the rest.
Sophia finally snapped her head toward him. "H-How do you know what I was thinking?"
Dr F glanced at her briefly, eyes calm, almost gentle.
"You forgot," he said, "again."
Her embarrassment exploded.
"Oh my god," she groaned, covering her face with both hands. "Stop reading my mind! That's cheating. That's illegal in relationships."
"If I stopped," he replied smoothly, "you'd think louder."
She peeked at him through her fingers. "You're enjoying this."
"No," he said immediately.
Then, after a half-second pause, added, "Marginally."
Sophia dropped her hands, glaring at him—though the effect was ruined by how red her face still was.
"You're impossible," she muttered.
Dr F plated the food—perfectly balanced, warm, unmistakably human—and finally turned to face her fully.
"And yet," he said, tone dry, "your thoughts keep returning to me."
She grabbed a cushion and threw it.
The cushion froze mid-air, rotated gently, and landed back beside her.
Dr F's lips curved—just slightly.
Sophia crossed her arms, defeated, muttering to herself, "I fell for a mind-reading menace."
"And," he replied calmly, "you're still watching me."
She absolutely was.
And she hated how much she didn't mind.
Dr F moved toward her, and the entire room responded as if it were holding its breath with him.
Two plates floated at his sides—perfectly portioned meat glazed with a subtle sheen, fragrant rice arranged with geometric precision, and desserts still steaming faintly, heat contained by controlled thermal fields. Glasses drifted after them, liquid never rippling despite motion. A table unfolded seamlessly from the floor, its surface blooming into existence, while two chairs slid into position with ceremonial patience.
Throughout it all, Dr F's posture never changed—hands still clasped behind his coat, shoulders relaxed, expression infuriatingly composed.
He glanced at her, amusement flickering in his eyes.
"If I told you how I read minds," he said lightly, almost laughing, "you would probably leave DNA entirely. Or attempt to dismantle me out of curiosity."
Sophia snorted. "Bold of you to assume I wouldn't try both."
She stood up from the bed, stepping toward him—and instead of stopping at a polite distance, she closed it entirely. Before he could react, she reached up, fingers sliding behind his neck, pulling him down just enough that their faces were level.
The room went quiet.
No hums. No alerts. Even the machines seemed to pause.
Their eyes locked—his dark and controlled, hers bright, challenging, alive.
Sophia smiled, slow and daring.
"Now," she whispered, "read my mind."
For the first time since she had met him, Dr F froze—just for a fraction of a second. Not because he couldn't read her thoughts.
But because he didn't need to.
She leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate. It was deliberate—soft at first, testing, her lips warm against his. His breath hitched almost imperceptibly before he responded, one hand finally leaving its disciplined place behind his coat to steady her at the waist.
Their heads tilted naturally, fitting together with surprising ease.
Sophia's thoughts scattered instantly.
Oh. So this is happening.
This is definitely happening.
Why didn't I do this earlier—
Dr F broke the kiss just enough to murmur against her lips, "Your mind is… unusually loud right now."
She laughed softly, forehead resting against his. "Liar. You like it."
A pause.
"…I don't dislike it."
She pulled back just enough to grin triumphantly. "Progress."
He exhaled, something between a sigh and a chuckle, then gently guided her toward the table as the plates finally settled into place.
"Eat," he said, tone returning to calm authority—though his eyes betrayed him. "Before you decide to conduct further experiments."
Sophia sat, still smiling to herself.
Confirmed, she thought smugly.
Genius. Monster. Completely kissable.
Sophia chewed slowly, deliberately, as if each bite required a committee decision. The food was perfect—warm, balanced, absurdly good—but she focused on chewing anyway, eyes slightly narrowed, shoulders relaxed for the first time all day.
Dr F watched her from across the table, elbow resting lightly on the surface, posture elegant as ever. His gaze wasn't clinical now. It was… attentive. Almost human.
After a few quiet seconds, he spoke, tone deceptively casual.
"How do you feel now," he asked, "while here—" a brief pause, deliberate, "—with me?"
Sophia stopped chewing.
Her eyes shifted toward him slowly, suspiciously, like a cat assessing whether the hand approaching it meant petting or danger.
She swallowed.
"Wow," she said flatly. "Your timing is very bad."
Dr F raised an eyebrow.
"Always," she continued, stabbing a piece of meat with her fork, "unpredictable, emotionally invasive, and somehow"—she gestured vaguely with the fork—"zero romance."
Zero.
Romance.
She emphasized the words like charges in a court trial.
Dr F tilted his head. "Interesting assessment."
She leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and squinted at him. "Normal people don't ask 'how do you feel now, while here, with me' while someone is chewing rice. You're supposed to say something like—" she lowered her voice dramatically, "'Did you like the food?' or 'You look tired.'"
A beat.
Then, softer but pointed, "Or you wait."
Dr F blinked once.
Then twice.
Then—unexpectedly—he smiled.
Not the polite one. Not the strategic one. The small, genuine one that made her chest do something stupid.
"I see," he said thoughtfully. "So I should have waited exactly how long?"
She frowned. "That's not the point."
"But you implied a timing window," he countered calmly. "I am simply trying to optimize it."
She groaned. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he replied, lifting his glass, "you're still here."
She opened her mouth to argue—then paused.
Damn it.
She looked down at her plate, cheeks warming. He's right. I am here.
Quietly, more honestly than she meant to be, she said, "I feel… safe. Right now."
The room seemed to soften around them.
Dr F didn't speak immediately. He watched her for a moment longer, then nodded once, slow and deliberate.
"Then," he said gently, "my timing was imperfect—but not incorrect."
She glanced up at him, caught between wanting to throw a fork and wanting to smile.
"…You're still bad at romance," she muttered.
He leaned back, amused. "I warned you. I'm a scientist, not a poet."
Sophia smirked. "Don't worry. I'll train you."
He looked at her, eyes glinting. "That," he said calmly, "sounds dangerous."
She grinned. "For you."
Dr F straightened his coat, already half-turned toward the door, voice calm and composed as always.
"Okay," he said lightly, "bye. Sleep well. There were no assignments today—you just explored. Tomorrow, however, you will get work."
Sophia sat on the bed, plate still in her hands, staring at him.
She didn't say a word.
That silence made him pause.