I offered a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity looked after perpetually unlucky kids like me. Thank goodness the robot and I had stashed away all the snacks, juice, and devices. If Pako had walked in and seen me chilling with my favorite chips, surrounded by gadgets, my "traumatized hero" act wouldn't have worked for a second. She would have seen right through it.
Pako, still looking utterly contrite, slowly reached out and took my hand. Her touch was surprisingly gentle, her fingers intertwining with mine. I glanced down at her, and my eyes caught a faint blush spreading across her cheeks, a soft rose color against her fair skin. She didn't look at me, her gaze fixed on the bedspread, but her grip on my hand tightened ever so slightly, as if seeking reassurance. A warmth, unfamiliar and a little startling, bloomed where our hands met.
"You know," she murmured, her voice uncharacteristically soft, "what you said on the rooftop that day... about my face not mattering at all, about what's inside counting more... that really made me happy." She squeezed my hand again, her thumb stroking the back of my palm.
My brain, usually so quick now thanks to the robot's influence, suddenly felt sluggish. Run. Get out of here. This is getting weird. My instincts screamed at me to yank my hand away, to bolt out the door. But a colder, more strategic thought held me back. Don't do it, Mitsuo. She'll go from sympathetic to enraged in zero seconds flat. You don't want to deal with that. Just endure.
"You must be feeling lonely right now," she continued, her voice filled with a tenderness I rarely, if ever, heard from her. "I'll stay with you. You shouldn't be alone after... after what happened."
Lonely? Me? My internal monologue scoffed. No, Pako. You just want to hang around and annoy me. That's all this is. You just want to bother me. The irony wasn't lost on me – the robot had predicted "real friends," and here was Pako, acting… caring. But my ingrained perception of her as a troublesome pest was hard to shake. Despite her current gentle demeanor, I just wanted her to leave.
Before I could formulate an escape plan or a polite refusal, Pako shifted. With a graceful, almost delicate movement, she leaned over and placed her head softly on my lap. I could feel the faint warmth of her breath through my jeans. She settled in, sighing contentedly, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
I froze. Her head was on my lap. My heart hammered against my ribs, a chaotic rhythm against the quiet intimacy of the moment. My mind screamed, What do I do?! This is Pako! On my lap! A blush, hotter than any I'd ever experienced, crept up my neck and across my face. I could feel the heat radiating from my cheeks, praying Pako wouldn't look up and see my bright red face. This was definitely not what I expected for my "recovery" time. Not at all.
I could feel the faint warmth of her breath, the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders as she sighed. My own breathing hitched, every nerve in my body suddenly hyper-aware of her presence. The unexpected weight, the quiet intimacy of her proximity, sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with fighting terrorists or dodging bullies. It was... confusing. My cheeks felt hot, a blush I prayed she couldn't see.
I stiffened, trying to remember the Copy Robot's lessons on maintaining composure, on being unaffected. But this was Pako, and she wasn't yelling or demanding anything. She was just... there. It was disorienting.
A comfortable silence stretched between us, broken only by the distant hum of the city and the faint rustle of the curtains by the open window. I could smell the subtle scent of her shampoo, something floral and light, completely at odds with my usual perception of her as a whirlwind of chaos.
"It's nice, isn't it?" she murmured, her voice soft, almost a whisper against my leg. She still didn't look up, her gaze seemingly fixed on some invisible point on my knee.
I didn't know what to say. "Uh, yeah," I managed, my voice sounding strained to my own ears. Nice? This is… bewildering. Every fiber of my being wanted to escape, to put distance between us, to return to the predictable chaos of my everyday life. This quiet, this unexpected closeness, was far more terrifying than any gun-wielding terrorist.
She shifted slightly, burrowing a little deeper, and a soft, contented hum vibrated through my leg. Her fingers, which were still clasped in mine, tightened almost imperceptibly. "I guess even heroes need a break sometimes, huh?" she said, her voice laced with genuine empathy. "It must be really tough, saving everyone all the time."
I simply nodded, unable to form coherent words. Part of me, the part that still remembered the actual terror of the bank, wanted to lean into her understanding, to genuinely accept her comfort. But the larger part, the part that had years of Pako-induced torment burned into its memory, was on high alert, waiting for the inevitable twist, the prank, the sudden shift in her demeanor.
But it didn't come. She simply remained there, a quiet, warm presence, her head nestled in my lap. The afternoon sun, now lower in the sky, cast a golden glow through the window, painting stripes of light across the room and across her hair. The air was still, almost suspended, as if the entire world had decided to hold its breath with us. It was a moment of unexpected, bewildering peace. And despite my inner turmoil, despite the frantic protests of my rational mind, a tiny, unfamiliar part of me, deep down, felt a flicker of something... something that wasn't entirely unpleasant.