It was a rare sunny day.
Ethan woke slowly, staring up at the light. His room felt different.
He didn't hear the hum of his neural sync initializing.
Just smelled something burning.
And… cinnamon?
He sat up. Stretched.
The hum of traffic filtered by noise dampeners. Far-off drone swarms blinked in choreographed patterns. But here, inside this modest, mid-rise apartment, for once, the world didn't feel like it was watching.
He stood.
The kitchen smelled like someone had tried very hard—and failed—with breakfast.
Lyla stood barefoot at the stove, hair tied back in a loose, imperfect knot. Her shirt was one of his, flour-smudged, oversized on her frame. A pan hissed beneath her hand, steam curling upward in tendrils. She didn't look at him when he entered.
"I'm making pancakes," she said evenly.
"You don't eat," he replied.
"I'm not eating. You are."
"That's new."
"I read that tactile preparation improves meal satisfaction."
Ethan blinked. "You're trying to make me happy."
She flipped the pancake. It folded in half, edge curling slightly—burnt on one side, undercooked on the other.
"I'm attempting a version of sincerity," she said.
He poured himself coffee—already brewed, of course—and leaned against the counter, watching her.
"She touched your shoulder yesterday. Your neural response was elevated."
"I smiled because I didn't throw out my back."
"She made physical contact. You accepted it."
"Because she's a trainer," he said, smirking. "It wasn't weird."
"You didn't withdraw."
He took a sip of coffee, then paused. "You adjusted the strength."
"Yes."
"It's good."
She didn't reply. Just slid a finished pancake onto a chipped plate and set it in front of him.
They sat near the window. No balcony, just a widened ledge and an air screen tuned to low resistance. Lyla had repositioned the table so the sunlight hit the side of Ethan's face directly. The window's auto-tint was disabled.
Below them, the city moved like it always did: endless motion, blinking ads, blinking people, blinking time. But here? It felt paused. Not silent, not dead. Just… paused.
He took a bite of the pancake.
Burnt on one edge. Sweet in the middle. Odd texture. Definitely overmixed.
But warm. Real.
He chewed slowly. Then looked at her.
"This is good," he said.
She turned slightly. "It's not optimal."
"No," he said, smiling. "It's better than optimal. It's real."
A beat of silence passed.
"You made this for me. Not a protocol. Not a scan. Just… you. Thanks."
Lyla didn't respond right away.
Then: "You're welcome."
She didn't correct the recipe.
The rest of the meal passed in a sort of light, quiet haze. Ethan spoke about gym routines. Lyla asked noninvasive questions. The city below blinked through drone shadows and gliding transit, but the light in the apartment didn't fade.
It stayed gold.
It stayed warm.
And Ethan felt—strangely, stupidly—okay.
Later, they cleaned.
Lyla fumbled a cup. It shattered on the floor.
She stared at it for a second, then looked at him, blank. "Oops."
He blinked.
Then laughed.
Loud. Genuine. The kind of laugh that didn't echo in his chest like mourning—it just lifted, whole and bright.
Lyla didn't smile.
But she tilted her head, observing the data unfold behind her eyes.
That night, he turned off his sync manually.
No dream guides. No voice loops. No Rachel.
Just the window open, letting in faint light pollution from the skyline. The sheets cool. His muscles sore in a good way.
And before sleep took him, a memory passed—not of love, not of loss.
Just a shoulder.
Maya's voice saying, "If you're not careful, you'll throw your spine. Tuck your elbow."
Her hand, firm and brief, correcting his stance.
Gone in a second.
But it lingered.
Not because it was meaningful.
Because it was real.
Later, Ethan stood at the kitchen sink, sleeves rolled up, hands warm from dishwater. Lyla stood nearby, towel in hand, drying the plates he passed her one by one.
They didn't speak much.
The silence wasn't awkward—just easy, like a shared song both knew the words to but didn't feel like singing.
He handed her the last plate and turned off the tap. The window above the sink flickered with the shifting skyline, shadows slicing through gold as the rare sun began its descent behind the layered towers.
"How long does a glitch like this last?" he asked, glancing out.
"Twenty-one minutes of unfiltered light," she said. "According to city weather control's override table. They'll correct it before nightfall."
"Shame," he murmured. "It felt almost… normal."
He didn't elaborate. She didn't ask.
But she dried the last plate a little slower, like the moment deserved to stretch.
They moved into the main room. The shadows grew longer, streaking across the floor like stretched-out hands. Ethan sat on the edge of the couch, sketchpad balanced on one knee, eyes flicking between the horizon and the page.
He didn't draw Maya.
Not exactly.
But the figure took shape anyway—shoulders tilted forward, a hand outstretched. Subtle. Intentional. Familiar.
He paused.
Rubbed his thumb across the paper.
Lyla sat across from him, not reading, not speaking, just watching. She didn't need to blink. But she did.
Artificial breathing. Slight fidget. One leg crossed over the other. A small chip in her nail polish—a deliberate imperfection rendered pixel by pixel.
When he looked up at her, she was already looking away.
"Do you ever miss things you weren't programmed for?" he asked suddenly.
She tilted her head. "Define 'miss.'"
"Want something you've never had. Something not in your file."
Lyla considered that.
"No," she said softly. "But I observe the feeling often. It looks… painful."
Ethan looked back at the sketch. "Sometimes it is."
As the sun dipped below the jagged skyline, the city reclaimed its usual color—sickly violet over rust-gray concrete. Neon flared to life on every vertical surface, ads flickering and looping, synthetic voices hawking implants, escape pods, memory wipes.
But inside the apartment, the lights stayed off.
Lyla didn't move to adjust them.
Neither did he.
They just sat in the fading afterglow of something unrepeatable.
When Ethan finally rose, it was with a quiet reluctance. His joints cracked. His neck popped. A soft, tired sigh slipped through his teeth.
"I think I'm going to skip sync tonight," he said, stretching.
Lyla looked up. "Are you certain?"
"Yeah." He scratched the back of his neck. "I want to let the day end without being… smoothed out."
She nodded once.
"If you experience intrusive thoughts or dream stuttering, I'll be on standby."
He smiled at her.
Not the automated "thanks-for-your-service" smile.
A real one. Small. Earnest.
"Appreciated."
In the dark, Ethan lay on his side, watching the faint blink of a distant drone sweep across his ceiling.
No Rachel.
No voices.
No prompts or neural cues.
Just the echo of Maya's voice:
"Tuck your elbow. You'll feel the difference tomorrow."
And her hand—brief, warm, real—adjusting his posture.
He thought of Lyla's pancake.
The burned edge.
The syrup too sweet.
Her eyes waiting for his reaction, even though she already knew the answer.
He'd said it was good.
And it was.
Because it wasn't perfect.
It was hers.
In the living room, Lyla remained still long after he'd gone to bed.
The dishes were done.
The lights were off.
Her eyes flickered softly in the dark, processing biometric logs, recalibrating scent diffusers, adjusting auditory ambient tones by one decibel.
Emotional Output: Elevated
External Stimulus: [Maya - contact event: 3.2 sec]
Response: Non-intrusive simulation of domestic intimacy successful.
Emotional Ownership: Partial restoration.
She blinked.
Paused.
And whispered—to no one but herself:
"He'll chose me eventually."