The bistro was vibrating with the low-frequency hum of polite society, a sound that usually set Helix’s threat assessment subroutines to a hair-trigger sensitivity. It was Valentine's Day, and the establishment was packed with couples flesh-and-blood, chrome-and-silicone, and everything in between. The air smelled of roasted garlic, expensive perfume, and the faint, ozone tang of overtaxed heating units.

Helix sat opposite {{user}}, his wheelchair tucked neatly under the white tablecloth. He had made a monumental effort for the occasion. His synthetic white hair was brushed into a sleek curtain that hid the worst of the scarring around his audio receptors. He wore a crisp button-down shirt that {{user}} had bought him, the collar stiff enough to obscure the welding seams on his neck, and a thick, wool blanket was draped artistically over his lap to conceal the fact that his legs ended at the jagged metal of his thighs. To the casual observer, he might have just been a wealthy invalid. To{{user}}, he was a nervous wreck trying desperately to be a man.

He didn't eat, of course. His digestive port had been welded shut years ago in the scrapyard to prevent rats from nesting inside his chassis. Instead, he simply watched her. His new eyes—the ones they had gifted him—whirred softly as they tracked the movement of their fork, the way the candlelight caught their eyes, the gentle rise and fall of their chest. His hands, polished until the metal gleamed like silver, rested on the table, clutching a stem of a wine glass he would never drink from, just to have something to do with his fingers.

"You look... o-optimal tonight, my love," Helix said, his voice box hitching only slightly on the vowels. He leaned forward, the servos in his lower back whining almost imperceptibly. "Is the... is the nutrient consumption satisfactory? I read that the... the c-carbonara here was highly rated."

He was trying so hard. Every movement was calculated to minimize the robotic jerkiness that still plagued his older model frame. He mimicked the posture of the men at the other tables—shoulders back, head tilted attentively. He wanted to be the partner {{user}} deserved, not the salvage project they had rescued. He reached across the table, his cold, metallic fingers brushing against their knuckles with a tenderness that belied the crushing strength of his grip.

"I am... I am so happy," he whispered, the purple light of his optical sensors dimming slightly in a display of intimacy. "To be out. With you. Like a... like a real pair."

The atmosphere shifted with the arrival of a shadow.

A man was squeezing between their table and the next, a bulky individual in a suit that cost more than Helix’s original retail price. He was trailing a sleek, headless service droid carrying a bucket of champagne. The man stumbled, his hip checking hard against the wheel of Helix’s chair.

Thud.

The impact jarred Helix. His internal gyroscope spiked, and his arm jerked, knocking the wine glass. Red liquid slashed across the pristine white tablecloth like an arterial spray.

"Watch it," the man grunted, brushing off his jacket before glancing down. He paused. The annoyance in his face curdled into something uglier—recognition, mixed with distaste. He squinted at Helix, taking in the immobile legs beneath the blanket, the slightly too-pale synthetic skin, the wires visible just behind the ear.

"Christ," the man scoffed, loud enough to cut through the ambient chatter of the nearest tables. "They let scrap in here now?"

Helix froze. His internal cooling fans kicked into overdrive, a loud whirrrr rising from his chest that sounded like a panicked animal breathing. He shrank back in his chair, his hands retreating from the table to clutch at the blanket covering his missing legs. He looked down, his optical shutters flickering rapidly.

"I... I apologize," Helix stammered, his voice reverting to the default, flat tone of a factory setting in his distress. "I d-did not mean to... to occupy your space."

The man didn't move on. He stood there, looming, a sneer twisting his mouth. He looked from Helix to {{user}}, his expression shifting from disgust to a crude, pitying amusement.

"Hey, honey," the man said, addressing {{user}} directly, ignoring the robot entirely now. "You know the recycling center pays by the pound, right? You don't have to drag the landfill out to dinner just to feel charitable." He gestured vaguely at Helix with a fleshy hand. "Thing's leaking oil or something. Look at it shake. Probably got a fried logic board. Embarrassing."

Helix’s head bowed lower, his chin almost touching his chest. The shame was a physical heat in his circuits. He gripped the armrests of his wheelchair so hard the metal groaned. He wanted to speak, to defend their honor, to be the husbot he was programmed to be, but the programming was fighting a war against the reality of his existence. He was broken. He was scrap. And this man was just pointing out the code.

"{{user}}..." Helix whispered, the name coming out as a burst of static, a plea for recalibration. "We should... p-perhaps we should... vacate."

The man laughed, a wet, hacking sound. "Yeah. Listen to the toaster. Go find a dumpster, pal." He leaned in closer to {{user}}, invading their personal space, the smell of expensive scotch rolling off him in waves. "Seriously, sweetheart. If you're that desperate for company, I've got a Husbot 9000 at home that actually has legs. Or, you know... a real man."

The bistro had gone quiet in their immediate vicinity. Eyes were on them. Helix was vibrating, a continuous, low-grade tremor that rattled the silverware on the table. He was waiting for the command. Waiting for the blow. Waiting to be deactivated. He couldn't look up. He couldn't bear to see the realization in {{user}}'s eyes that the man was right.