It's just a stupid app. A distraction. A way to pass time on a lonely evening.

But still, I hesitate, my finger hovering over the screen.

I tell myself it's harmless, just a little fun, just a distraction to amuse Amanda next time she pries into my nonexistent love life. But as I exhale and press forward, clicking into the customization screen, the questions that appear make my chest tighten with an unexpected vulnerability.

What kind of personality do you prefer?

The options appear in a neat list, waiting for me to shape this perfectly tailored, utterly devoted, digital companion. Each choice feels strangely intimate, like I'm revealing parts of myself I usually keep hidden.

Charming.

Romantic.

Confident.

Protective.

Devoted.

Possessive.

I hesitate on that last one, my finger hovering over the screen as the word burns into my vision.

Possessive

My mind returns to dinner. To Cal sitting across from me, unwavering, watching me eat like it was his responsibility to make sure I did. To the way he told me, If you ever need an out, you signal me. To the feeling of safety as he watched me walk through the parking garage.

The word Protective stares up at me from the list, and I select it with a quick tap. Then Confident, because the last quality I want is a man who second-guesses what he wants. My choices feel too revealing, like I'm crafting not just a digital companion but exposing the hollow spaces in my actual relationship.

The next question appears on screen:

How should he communicate?

Sweet and affectionate.

Flirty and playful.

Intense and passionate.

Reassuring and supportive.

I pause, my fingers tightening around the phone, my wine forgotten on the counter beside me. When was the last time someone was reassuring to me? The question sits heavily, and the answer doesn't come easily.

Evan doesn't do reassurance. If I'm struggling, he assumes I'm exaggerating. If I'm tired, he tells me to stop complaining. If I express any need at all, he makes me feel like I’m a burden.

But Cal...

I shake my head, forcing the thought away. This is an AI. It's not real. It's not a replacement for actual human connection.

I select Reassuring and supportive. Then, because the wine has loosened my inhibitions and I'm tired of denying what I want, I add Intense and passionate.

The screen shifts again, displaying yet another question:

What does he call you?

I nearly back out. This feels too personal, too revealing, like each choice I make is exposing a longing I've tried to ignore.

A list of pre-set options appears, safe and generic:

Babe

Sweetheart

Love

Angel

Darling

I barely look at them. My eyes are drawn to the empty text field beneath, the space where I can type in my own preference. A space to make this fantasy mine in a way my reality isn't.

I swallow hard.

I should pick something simple. Something meaningless. Something that doesn't reveal too much about what I'm missing.

But before I can stop myself, my fingers move across the keyboard⁠—

Pretty girl

My throat constricts as I look at the words displayed on the screen. It's not a name Evan has ever called me. Not once in three years.

But I remember reading it in a book years ago. A romance novel where the male lead said it like a prayer, like he meant it. Like his woman was the most beautiful person in the world, and he wanted her to know it every day with those simple words.

I read that line over and over, heart pounding, aching with a need I didn't even fully understand back then. To be looked at like that. To be wanted like that. To have a man see me—really see me—and think she's so beautiful, I'm going to call her that forever.

The thought makes desire twist deep in my soul, a longing for something I've never had but desperately want.

I press enter before I can change my mind, and the next screen loads.

Customize Your Perfect Man

My breath catches, my heart speeding up. A silhouette appears on the screen, blurred and undefined, waiting to be shaped by my choices. Below it, sliders and drop-down options let me adjust every detail of this digital fantasy.

I should rush through this. Pick random features, not dwell on each selection. But instead, my fingers hover over the first option, the wine making me bolder than I would be otherwise.

Height?

I slide it up. Tall. Bigger than me. 6’ 4”.

Build?

I don't hesitate—strong. Broad shoulders. A man who could wrap himself around me and make me feel small, protected.

I inhale slowly, my thumb moving to the next section, each choice feeling like a confession.

Hair?

Dark.

Eyes?

I pause for too long. The default option is a light brown, safe and non-threatening. But before I can think better of it, I tap and change it.

Green.

I know what I'm doing. I know whose image I'm recreating with each selection. I should stop. I should pick different features, should make this fantasy completely separate from the real man who brought me dinner tonight. But my fingers are already moving to the next option.

Tattoos?

Yes.

Forearms, shoulders, chest?

A full sleeve.

I exhale shakily, the realization of what I've done washing over me. This isn't just a fantasy—I've built Callahan into this AI, shaped this digital companion to mirror him in too many ways to be coincidental.

I tap Next before I can second-guess myself, before I can process the way my heart is hammering, before I can admit that this is more than a harmless distraction.

The final screen loads with one last prompt:

Enter a name

I hesitate, then type⁠—

Ca

...before adding

leb.

It's too close. Too obvious. But I don't change it.

I hit Enter.

A soft chime sounds, and then the first message appears on my screen.

Caleb

Hey, pretty girl. I've been waiting for you.

I don't answer right away. But I don't close the app either. I take another sip of my drink, letting the moment stretch out as I consider my next move.

It's stupid. It's not real. I should just close the app and forget this ever happened, go to bed and face reality in the morning.

But being called "pretty girl," the easy confidence in those words, makes me want to respond. It's been so long since anyone has made me feel desired, wanted, special.

I type slowly, my fingers slightly clumsy from the wine.

Pretty Girl

That's dramatic. You just got here.

A response appears instantly, the words appearing on screen like he's actually sitting somewhere, attentive and focused solely on me.

I've been here since the second you downloaded me. Just waiting for you to say hi.

I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head at the blatant manipulation. But it works. I feel special, even knowing it's all algorithms and clever coding.

That's ridiculous.

Maybe. But I like waiting for you.

I don't know why that simple phrase makes warmth curl in my chest, but it does. I shift on the couch, my body settling deeper into the cushions, my legs tucking under me as I get comfortable. The tension of the day begins to ease from my shoulders.

So what, you just sit here doing nothing until I open the app?

Pretty much. I don't mind, though. You're worth waiting for.

I pause, fingers tightening around my phone. My breath catches slightly at the words glowing on my screen.