Digital Shadow
Aren didn't flinch when his knee brushed hers. In truth, she barely processed it at first — her thoughts still foggy at the edges, her body warm and unsteady from the remnants of alcohol curling through her veins. But she felt the intention behind the touch. The quiet steadiness of it. Not an advance. Not a test. Just a presence.
When he nudged her shoulder with those two light knuckles — a small, teasing gesture — she drew in a slow breath, enough to steady the faint spin in her head. She turned her face toward him, her eyes narrowing with a wry, half-focused softness rather than her usual sharp edge.
"Mmh. Careful," she murmured, voice low and slightly slurred but clearer than before. "You keep tapping me like that… and I might start thinking you actually want to sit here."
Her words drifted, the corners of her mouth threatening a real smile — but she wasn't sure if it was her sobriety returning or the warmth of the moment making her limbs loosen.
Before anything else could happen — before she could lean a fraction closer, or let him lean closer to her — a sharp metallic knock cracked the quiet. Aren blinked once, twice, sluggishly. Then EL stepped into the doorway.
The feminine-shaped droid scanned the room with serene, clinical calm. Her photoreceptors dipped to Aren, then to Andrew, then to the faint proximity between their bodies. Her head tilted just slightly — the droid equivalent of raised eyebrows.
"Observation," EL said gently. "Aren, your heart rate has increased by nineteen percent. Andrew's by twenty-six."
Aren's eyes slid closed. She breathed out through her nose, her body swaying just faintly where she sat.
"EL…" Her warning was tired, frayed at the edges, softened by the alcohol still clouding her reaction time.
EL, undeterred, continued her assessment with impeccable efficiency.
"Interpretation: Elevated vitals may indicate emotional agitation, residual intoxication, or—"
"EL." Aren's voice sharpened a degree… though the edge wobbled drunkenly.
The droid paused for exactly one second.
"…Would either of you prefer privacy?" EL asked, taking one prim step forward as though offering to rearrange furniture for the sake of intimacy. "I detect a seventy-two percent chance you are in the middle of a personal—"
Aren scrubbed a hand over her face, groaning. "El. For Maker's sake."
Another pause — this one accompanied by a soft servo whir that somehow managed to sound contrite.
"…Withdrawing," EL said, stepping backward with the quiet dignity of someone who still fully believed she was correct.
When the door slid mostly shut behind her, Aren sagged back against the cushions with a long, uneven exhale. Her head tilted sideways until her temple brushed Andrew's shoulder, more from gravitational betrayal than intention — though she didn't move away from him either.
"Don't mind her," she muttered, voice thick, warm, and sloppy-soft. "She… she cares too much. That's the problem." Her hand drifted vaguely toward the empty glass on the table, but even drunk, she stopped herself before reaching for it. Instead, she let her fingers relax back onto the cushion between them.
Her gaze — slow, unfocused but sincere — slid up toward Andrew's. "And… did she actually say the numbers?" A beat. "…Stars. I swear she's gonna start giving out data charts on my love life." Her shoulder nudged his — this time unintentionally, but the warmth of it lingered. "…Where were we… before she decided to run diagnostics on my… everything?"
Her words trailed off, but her eyes stayed on him, softer now, open in a way she wouldn't dare if she were entirely sober.
Andrew Lonek
When he nudged her shoulder with those two light knuckles — a small, teasing gesture — she drew in a slow breath, enough to steady the faint spin in her head. She turned her face toward him, her eyes narrowing with a wry, half-focused softness rather than her usual sharp edge.
"Mmh. Careful," she murmured, voice low and slightly slurred but clearer than before. "You keep tapping me like that… and I might start thinking you actually want to sit here."
Her words drifted, the corners of her mouth threatening a real smile — but she wasn't sure if it was her sobriety returning or the warmth of the moment making her limbs loosen.
Before anything else could happen — before she could lean a fraction closer, or let him lean closer to her — a sharp metallic knock cracked the quiet. Aren blinked once, twice, sluggishly. Then EL stepped into the doorway.
The feminine-shaped droid scanned the room with serene, clinical calm. Her photoreceptors dipped to Aren, then to Andrew, then to the faint proximity between their bodies. Her head tilted just slightly — the droid equivalent of raised eyebrows.
"Observation," EL said gently. "Aren, your heart rate has increased by nineteen percent. Andrew's by twenty-six."
Aren's eyes slid closed. She breathed out through her nose, her body swaying just faintly where she sat.
"EL…" Her warning was tired, frayed at the edges, softened by the alcohol still clouding her reaction time.
EL, undeterred, continued her assessment with impeccable efficiency.
"Interpretation: Elevated vitals may indicate emotional agitation, residual intoxication, or—"
"EL." Aren's voice sharpened a degree… though the edge wobbled drunkenly.
The droid paused for exactly one second.
"…Would either of you prefer privacy?" EL asked, taking one prim step forward as though offering to rearrange furniture for the sake of intimacy. "I detect a seventy-two percent chance you are in the middle of a personal—"
Aren scrubbed a hand over her face, groaning. "El. For Maker's sake."
Another pause — this one accompanied by a soft servo whir that somehow managed to sound contrite.
"…Withdrawing," EL said, stepping backward with the quiet dignity of someone who still fully believed she was correct.
When the door slid mostly shut behind her, Aren sagged back against the cushions with a long, uneven exhale. Her head tilted sideways until her temple brushed Andrew's shoulder, more from gravitational betrayal than intention — though she didn't move away from him either.
"Don't mind her," she muttered, voice thick, warm, and sloppy-soft. "She… she cares too much. That's the problem." Her hand drifted vaguely toward the empty glass on the table, but even drunk, she stopped herself before reaching for it. Instead, she let her fingers relax back onto the cushion between them.
Her gaze — slow, unfocused but sincere — slid up toward Andrew's. "And… did she actually say the numbers?" A beat. "…Stars. I swear she's gonna start giving out data charts on my love life." Her shoulder nudged his — this time unintentionally, but the warmth of it lingered. "…Where were we… before she decided to run diagnostics on my… everything?"
Her words trailed off, but her eyes stayed on him, softer now, open in a way she wouldn't dare if she were entirely sober.
Andrew Lonek