I pretend not to hear him. His bots, of course, betray me. They descend on me like a small but efficient army, dragging clothes onto my body before I can argue, smoothing out fabric, fussing with my sleeves like I’m some unwilling debutante. I squawk as they practically push me toward the door.
“Ben, I?—”
“We’ll just walk around the block.” He’s unbothered, adjusting his own cuffs with an elegant flick of his wrist. “You can hold my hand.”
I pause. “Do you…?” I hesitate, suddenly unsure. “Can I have a helmet?”
Ben’s head jerks up slightly, his gaze scanning my face like he’s running some probability analysis. “You absolutelycanwear a mining helmet outside,” he says evenly, “if you would like to look peculiar.”
“So…no. Got it.” I exhale. “How about a hat?”
Without hesitation, he reaches into a nearby closet and produces a wide-brimmed liquid-metal hat. It gleams in the light, shifting subtly like it’s alive. When he places it on my head, his fingers linger a second longer than necessary, smoothing the brim with care. I swallow.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
I lift my chin and try to sound steady. “Of course.”
Of course I’m not.
The door slides open, and the world outside swallows me whole.
Everything is so bright. Not just the sun, though that alone is amenace. Even the air smells too crisp, too manufactured, like it’s been scrubbed clean of anything real.
Ben steps forward first, of course, moving like this place was built for him. He’s sleek, impeccable, his coat catching the light, his cybernetics gleaming so flawlessly that he might as well have been sculpted for this exact backdrop. He looks…effortless and genuinely…beautiful.
I cling to the hat like it might fly off, likeImight fly off. The wide-open sky above feels wrong. How is there just nothing up there? No ceiling, no low-hanging beams, no rock threatening to cave in.
And listen—birds. What the fuck? No one told me birds are still a thing up here. Belowground, they’re an abstraction, something you read about in the pre-apocalypse sections of history modules. But outside, birds are a little lessconceptual.The thought of one swooping down, talons extended, and tangling up in my hair keeps me from fully appreciating the picturesque tableau.
I stare straight ahead, pretending not to notice the way people openly stare.
The reactions are nearly identical, no matter who they come from: a flick of the eyes, widening just slightly, then a subtle recalibration, as if their probability matrices are scrambling to process the what and why of us walking together.
“Let them look,” Ben murmurs, like he can hear my thoughts. His hand brushes against mine.
A small thing. Anothingthing. Maybe even accidental. But I feel it like a current running up my arm. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t acknowledge it at all. Just keeps walking with his fingers grazing against mine with each step. Then he stills.
Not a full stop—just a hesitation. And, before I can say anything, he tightens his fingers around mine.
I cannot tell you, under threat of mind erasure, why holding his hand makes my heart beat out of my ribs. He is a machine. He doesn’t even have the parts for tenderness. Does he?
I am intoxicated. High on his cologne or the feel of his metal hand in mine.
The streets up here are unnervingly spotless, like I’m constantly walking into someone’s bathroom.
Ben keeps stealing glances—quick, furtive looks that hint at some uneasiness. I keep pretending not to notice, which is its own kind of work.
As we walk, he takes me through introductions, posture, the correct way to hold a glass depending on what’s inside. There’s an entire lesson on pausing—pausing before you respond, pausing before you take a sip, pausing before you step into a room to let others absorb your presence. It’s all absurdly calculated, but I can tell it matters to him, so I lean in, listening.
I start to relax into theoutside. Once you get over the threat of birds, it really is lovely. The beauty aboveground feels like nasty propaganda though. It makes you start to feel like you deserve it. Like you’re up here because you are inherentlygood.
Ben glances down at my collarbone. I think he may be a little into the IS. He stares at this diamond like he’s thinking dirty thoughts about it.
He leans down to whisper, and I think it’s going to be something filthy. But, instead, he says, “I want to show you what I’ve been researching in the IS.” We’ve circled the block a few times, so he pulls me excitedly back into the house, up the stairs, and to what he called a terrace. Apparently rich people love the outside so much, they have it built into their homes.
“Do you regret marrying a below-grounder to prove a point?”
“Not yet.”
