Predecessor (Connor x Reader)

27 - We've Done This Before

"You can read it," you say, walking over. "It's not classified."

"Your handwriting's intense."

"It's efficient."

"I didn't say it was bad."

"You were thinking it."

"Maybe."

You look outside. Snow begins to fall again. Slow. Gentle. You step toward the window, pressing your fingers lightly to the glass.

"Supposed to clear up," you say.

Connor joins you. "It didn't."

"Nope."

You both watch the snow spiral in the light. It feels oddly calm.

Later, you disappear into the bathroom. The sound of the shower filters out—a soft hiss behind the door.

When you return, comfy clothes, hair damp, Connor's sitting at the counter. One elbow propped casually, eyes scanning a book you left near your laptop. He's halfway through it already.

You smile faintly. "Oh, I love that one." You nod to the cover. "Philosophy?"

Connor glances up. "It caught my eye. You've underlined almost everything."

You smile faintly. "I like when people ask the right impossible questions."

He closes the book lightly, keeping a thumb in the page. "Do you think androids can ask them too?"

You shrug, padding barefoot across the wooden floor. "You're doing it right now."

He tilts his head. "But is it the same?"

You settle on the stool beside him. "Does it matter?"

Connor considers that. "I suppose not."

You glance sideways at him. "You looking for proof you're real?"

He doesn't answer right away. Then, "Maybe. Or just curious what it means, to be."

You smile. "You're reading philosophy and doing my dishes. That's real enough for me."

Connor huffs a quiet laugh. "What about you?"

You raise an eyebrow.

He clarifies, gently, "Do you ever wonder if you're real?"

You pause, then look down at your hands. Damp from your hair. Still warm from the water.

"All the time," you say.

Connor watches you a second longer—like he wants to say something else—but doesn't. Just goes back to reading, as if your answer settled something.

You shake your head and open your laptop.

"I want a dining table now," you mutter, flicking to an open tab on your screen. "But I don't know where to put it unless I move my desk."

He hums. "Move it where?"

You gesture vaguely at the room. "Into the void?"

"Practical."

You smile at the screen. "You like any of these?" you ask, showing him a set of wood tables.

He studies them. "That one."

"That's the one I hated."

"I stand by it."

The apartment is dim, quiet, warm. Outside, the city hums low and distant—muted by walls, snow, and height. Inside, everything feels still. Steady. No alarms. No emergencies. Just dishes drying, Cherry sleeping, and someone beside you who makes existing feel easier.