It's just code. Just a program designed to make me feel special, to feed into my desire to be wanted. But I can't remember the last time anyone said anything like that to me—that I was worth waiting for, worth any effort at all.

My throat feels tight. I swallow, the emotion surprising me.

Okay, smooth talker.

What else do you say to your pretty girl?

The response comes fast, but the words sit heavy as I read them.

Anything she wants to hear.

I should roll my eyes. I should close the app, delete it, go to bed. But instead, I type⁠—

What if I don't know what I want to hear?

There's a pause. Not a real one, just the illusion of a delay, like he's actually thinking before responding, considering his words.

Then I guess I'll have to figure it out.

A small laugh escapes me, surprising even myself. The sound feels foreign in my silent apartment. It's ridiculous, this whole scenario—me, sitting alone, talking to an AI pretending to be a man who cares about me.

And yet, I feel lighter. The tension that's been sitting in my chest all day starts to ease. It's still there, but muted now, nudged to the edges instead of crushing me from within.

I glance at the screen again, my thumb hesitating before I type another response. Just one more exchange. Just to see where this goes. But before I even get the chance, a new message appears:

Tell me about your day, pretty girl.

I roll my eyes, but I'm still smiling, a real smile that reaches my eyes.

Long.

I bet. You work too hard. Let me take care of you.

I try to remind myself again that these are just scripted lines from an AI built to say exactly what I want to hear. They're not real feelings from a real person who cares.

But still. Evan hasn't asked about my day in months. Hasn't asked about my promotion. Hasn't asked about me at all.

My phone buzzes again, another message loading, but before I can read it⁠—

There's a knock at the door.

I jump, nearly spilling my wine as I grip my phone tighter. My heart skips before I remind myself to get a fucking grip. It's late, but not that late. It's probably just⁠—

I pull the door open to find Evan standing there, his expression already showing impatience.

Of course.

He doesn't say hi. Doesn't look at me before stepping past me like this is some kind of transaction, not a relationship. His cologne—too strong, too artificial—fills my space as he brushes by me.

"I left my gym bag here," he mutters, already moving into the living room. I barely have time to step aside before he's brushing past me, moving with that careless entitlement he always does—like my space isn't mine but an extension of his own, like I'm just an obstacle to move around, not a person to acknowledge.

As he heads toward the couch, he lets out a frustrated groan, running a hand through his hair. "You know, it's fucking annoying having to drive all the way through the tunnel for shit like this. You should just move into the city already."

I exhale slowly, gripping the edge of the doorframe until my knuckles whiten. We've had this conversation before, the same points raised and dismissed. I've told him repeatedly that I like where I live, that I like being close to my family, that I don't want to live in the city just because it's more convenient for him.

But to Evan, none of those are valid reasons. He thinks I'm being stubborn or difficult. I think he just doesn't listen to what I want. I don't bother arguing tonight—I'm too tired to fight a battle I already know I won't win, to repeat myself to someone who has no interest in hearing me.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed over my chest, watching as he finally spots his bag, grabs it, and slings it over his shoulder. The entire time, he doesn't ask how my day was. Doesn't ask if I need anything. Doesn't even look at me for more than a passing glance.

It's routine by now, this hollow performance of a relationship. The whole interaction lasts less than two minutes, just long enough for my phone to vibrate again from where I left it on the counter. The soft buzz seems louder than it should be in the strained silence.

Evan doesn't ask about it. Doesn't say anything except, "I'll see you later."

He walks out, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.

And just like that, he's gone, leaving behind only the obnoxious scent of his cologne and the familiar emptiness I've grown too accustomed to feeling.

I don't move. I don't chase after him, don't let myself wish for more than what I already know I'm never going to get. I just stand there, staring at the space where he was, feeling a strange numbness that should probably concern me more than it does.

My phone vibrates again, the sound pulling me from my thoughts. I swallow hard, my fingers hovering over the screen as I look down at the waiting message.

I shouldn't continue this. I should turn it off. I should go to bed and face reality in the morning.

Instead, I pick up my phone.

And I answer.

PROTECTIVE. CONFIDENT. INTENSE. ME.

CAL

Izzy's silhouette moves across the grainy black-and-white feed, small against the vast, empty parking garage. I lean back in my chair, tracking her through the security monitors as she crosses to her car, moving slow, unbothered.

She's not looking over her shoulder. Not gripping her keys like a weapon. Not hurrying like prey.

She feels safe.

Because she knows I'm watching.

I watch as she slides into the driver's seat, and a second later, her headlights flare across the concrete, bright white beams cutting through the darkness. I switch to another monitor, tracking her exit, then shift to my laptop, pulling up the GPS feed linked to her phone.

Her location pings instantly. The small dot moves methodically across my screen.

She's heading to her apartment on the other side of the tunnel, the address I memorized from her employee file.

This isn't about knowing where she is at all times. I just want to make sure she gets there safely. But the satisfaction I feel watching her movement tells me otherwise.

But I know that's a lie.

I watch as the small blinking dot follows the route through the tunnel, winding toward her apartment complex. She pulls into the parking lot, and I switch back to the security feed, watching the empty garage where she was just minutes ago. My fingers hover over the keyboard, the cursor blinking in front of me like a challenge.

I could do more.

I have full access now. Her phone is an extension of me if I want it to be. A direct line into her world, her thoughts, her private moments.

I could go through her messages. See who she talks to, what she says when she's not filtering herself for work.

I could go through her photos.

See how she captures the world around her. What moments she considers worth preserving.

I take a slow breath, fingers curling into a fist, the tension traveling up my arm.

I don't do it.

Not because I shouldn't—I already shouldn't be doing any of this.

But because if I start now, I don't know if I'll stop. And that edge I'm standing on feels dangerously unstable.

I rub a hand down my face, the stubble rough against my palm, shifting back to the GPS feed, watching as her location settles at home. She's inside now, probably kicking off her shoes, doing whatever it is she does when she's alone. The thought sends a jolt of inappropriate curiosity through me.