Sam crouched in front of her and smacked them out of her hand, galling her.
“Stop it,” she cried, tears of frustration pricking in her eyes.
“Just pick it up,” he said in a level tone, his expression inscrutable.
“I am! I just—I need to wipe it off. It’s dirty now.”
“Yes. It’s dirty.” He caught her wrist as she tried to reach for the wipes. “Hold the phone normally, Ophelia.”
“I can’t,” she whispered, a tear spilling down her cheek. “It’s dirty. I can’t.”
“Hmm.”
He released her wrist, and she lunged for the wipes, tugging one free and wiping down her phone, then the packet of wipes, then her hands. She sniffled as more angry tears fell, angered by the android’s looming shadow as he stood over her and observed.
She stuffed her phone and the wipes into her coat as she rose, wiping her face briskly on her sleeve. Without looking at him, she stormed away, striding for home where another form of torment awaited.
“Ophelia,” Sam called, jogging to catch up to her.
She ignored him, blinking hard as another bitter tear spilled over.
Stop crying, damn you.
God, she hated that she was like this. She cried foreverything. Sadness, joy, anger, frustration. Like a leaky tap that could never be fixed.
“Ophelia.”
Shut up.
He huffed in frustration. Such a stupid thing. Who would program a robot to huff?
“Ophelia.” He grabbed her arm, drawing her up short.
She whirled, glaring at him, her mouth open to spit curses.
He jerked her into his arms before she could get a word out. They banded around her, crushing her against his chest. With her ear pressed to him, she could hear the odd, whooshing rhythm of his mechanical heart. A heart that would never tire, would never break.
What would that feel like?
“I am sorry for distressing you,” he whispered, his breath stirring her hair. “I meant only to illustrate a point.”
“You’re a dick.” She turned her face into his chest to hide from an older woman who was looking at her in obvious judgment for hugging a sex doll in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Perhaps. But to resolve an issue, you must first admit you have one.”
“I’m fucked up mentally,” she said in a flat tone, clutching at the fabric of his shirt. “Is that what you want to hear, you stupid oversexed toaster?”
“No, it isn’t.” His hand stroked over her hair gently. “I only want us to be transparent with each other. You are struggling with your compulsions, your need for control, and I want to help you.”
“By throwing my shit on the ground and making it worse?”
His hand rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades. “It was not my intention to make things worse. I told you I intended to investigate your condition, and I did. Research suggests I would worsen your symptoms if I fed into them, so I will not help you perform the rituals that assuage your anxiety. If you can learn to face what you fear, your mental health will improve.” He pulled back to look at her tear-streaked face. “I will take a gentler approach in the future.”
She snorted, rolling her eyes even as his words twisted at something within her.
Logan had always fed into her fears. He’d put her comfort above all else; it was part of what she loved about him. If she wanted him to wash his hands three times and put his coat straight into the washing machine, he did it without complaint. If she wiped down the kitchen for the fourth time in one day because a bit of raw chicken juice had splattered when she opened a package, he pretended not to notice. He’d never belittled her the way others had, had never called her weird or told her she was being crazy.
She’d thought that was the gold standard in dealing with her… issues. But she didn’t think Logan had ever done any research on it. They’d never even really spoken about it. It was something they danced around, something Logan went along with to keep the peace. What did it say that this android had come to the conclusion that she needed help, not comfort, after only a weekend of knowing her?
