Summer's room was quiet except for the soft rhythm of lo-fi beats echoing from the massive flat screen on the wall—an endless loop of synth haze and pixel rain paired with a calming cityscape. The kind of thing meant to soothe stress, or at least pretend to.

Summer lay across her bed, half-buried in plush covers that dulled the sound of her shifting now and then.

The shutters were shut tight, the curtains drawn, and the only illumination came from the faint glow of ambient strip-lights tracing the room's corners in sterile white-blue, giving the space a low-lit, futuristic feel.

It looked less like a teenager's bedroom and more like the interior of a first-class pod on some interstellar shuttle.

She wore a black vest that clung to her body like a second skin—its center printed with a cartoon skull wearing a pink ribbon.

Her chest shifted under the fabric when she moved, the absence of a bra obvious, but not something she cared enough to fix. Below, plain cotton panties—black with pink trim—hugged her hips with the kind of fit meant for comfort, not seduction.

Balanced across her chest was a tablet, its screen filled with blueprints, rotating schematics, and layered graphs.

One tab held the digital innards of a quadruped android—sleek lines, modular parts, energy routing layouts.

The next was a notepad. Smooth handwriting scrawled across it as her stylus traced words in flawless loops. She paused sometimes, resting the pen against her chin or dropping the tablet on her chest like a clipboard on a table.

At one point, she switched apps, opening a complex design suite—a proprietary system architecture tool far beyond consumer-grade. Stuff normally reserved for elite universities or private-sector labs under government contract.

Suddenly, the door to her room slid open with a low shhk, and Don stepped in without so much as a knock.

Summer saw it in her periphery—white vest, gray sweats, that irritatingly relaxed posture—and her eyes lifted from the screen like it physically pained her.

She frowned. "Don't you fucking knock?"

Don didn't slow down. He stepped in casually, gaze fixed on the massive TV looping neon rain across an empty cyber street. The moment he stood in front of it, her screen real estate was gone.

"Why should I?" he said, not even turning yet.

Summer narrowed her eyes. Her irritation was sharp but familiar, worn in like old sneakers. A part of her was glad to see him—she always was—but that part buried itself the second he started being annoying.

"It's my room," she snapped. The motion of her chest under the vest expressed the tone, a slight bounce that undercut the severity.

Don finally looked at her. "It's my penthouse."

Summer glared but didn't bite. Not this time. She just rolled her eyes and slouched back against the pillows.

"Whatever. I don't have time for this."

Now that was unusual.

Don raised a brow, arms still loose at his sides. She didn't usually let go that fast.

Summer didn't offer clarification. She just picked the tablet off her chest again and resumed her work, stylus in hand, expression set with clinical focus. The digital graphs on screen lit her face in sharp contrast—cool blues, rotating 3D components, performance algorithms.

Don leaned slightly, trying to see what she was looking at. Something in him itched with curiosity, but he didn't say anything yet. Just stood there. Watching.

The screen shifted again. New schematics. The frame of a mechanical dog folded into itself, then reassembled in another form.

He recognized none of it at all.

Summer didn't explain.

Don had watched Summer long enough to know when she was just putting on a show and when she was actually locked in.

Right now? She was locked in.

The kind of focus where her pen stopped tapping, her posture stilled, and her eyes didn't flick up once even with him sitting directly in her line of sight.

He turned away from the screen behind him and let himself drop onto the edge of the bed with a soft thmp, careful not to knock her tablet loose.

"School work?" he asked, tone casual.

"Sort of," Summer replied without looking up. "But not really. What I'm doing is a bit more complex."

There it was. Still bratty. Still her. But a notch lower than usual—less bite, more actual thought. Rare.

Don didn't push immediately. He knew she could study—she just didn't advertise it. Most of the time she was in her room doing exactly this, disappearing into whatever project she thought was worth her time.

Normally he didn't interrupt. And when he did, she usually shut it down quickly with a "not now" or an eye-roll that meant the same.

He leaned back slightly, resting a hand on the mattress. "Like a project or something?"

This time she paused. Looked at him. Only for a second.

"None of your business."

Don smirked. Right on cue.

He reached out and grabbed her leg—just below the knee, thumb brushing the side of her calf. She twitched immediately, reflex sharp as her body recoiled a little.

"Hey!" she snapped, jerking her leg back. "What are you doing?"

Don kept his grin. "I just want to borrow your leg. Practice my massage skills."

Summer gave him a look. Not just suspicious—full-on doubtful. Her lips pressed into a thin line, brow pulling tight like she couldn't decide if he was stupid or just screwing with her.

"You're planning to do something weird to it, aren't you?" she said flatly.

"Nope," Don answered, shaking his head once, the picture of casual innocence. "Just a regular, basic massage. Real textbook stuff. No tricks, no gimmicks. Don't worry—I wouldn't give you the full experience. You'd get addicted and start clinging to me."

His tone shifted just enough to drip with audacity. He didn't even bother hiding the smug.

Summer narrowed her eyes at him like she was trying to decide if he'd actually said that out loud.

"You're insufferable," she said.

But she didn't pull further away.

He could see it—the hesitation. She didn't believe him. Not really. But she was curious. That tiny part of her brain that wondered… what if? Just enough to second-guess herself.

Like those miracle ads in sketchy web corners that promised you'd become a C-class powerhouse if you just rubbed on enough glow-cream and drank beet juice for three weeks.

She huffed. "Like I'd believe you."

Don tilted his head, smile still intact. "Wanna bet?"