It does not shut off. Instead, it starts running a three-ring circus of my personal disasters. Dinner with Evan should have gone differently. I should have been madder. I should have told him off. I should have shoved the not-bread-bread down his throat and walked out. I should have made a scene worthy of a reality TV highlight reel.

But I didn't.

I folded.

Because fighting with Evan is like arguing with a lawyer on the stand—he twists everything until somehow, it's my fault. And I don't have the energy for that. I never do, and he knows it.

But then there's Caleb. How much I told him. How easy it was to just... say things. Because it can't come back on me. There's a freedom in confessing to someone who isn't real, who can't judge you, who won't use your vulnerability against you later.

If I tell my family about Evan?

• Mama gives me the disappointed Catholic mother look.

• Dad goes silent in a way that says he's thinking about homicide.

• My brothers all start making their "we should kill him" faces.

• Nonna prays over me in Italian and reminds me I'm not getting any younger.

If I tell Amanda?

• Immediate response: "DUMP HIM."

But Caleb?

He's not real. I can say whatever the hell I want, and no one is going to look at me differently afterward. No one is going to pity me or lecture me or rush to fix my life. And then there was the part where he called me fucking gorgeous.

A fresh wave of heat rolls through me at the memory, my skin flushing. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to think about how much I liked it. How much I wanted to push further. How the words resonated in places that haven't been touched in far too long.

Maybe Amanda was onto something with that vibrator integration thing. I make a mental note to... very subtly ask her about it. The way she talks about it, it's probably worth investigating. For science.

Because Caleb made me feel wanted. And worse—I liked it. And that's scary. Because Caleb isn't real. He's lines of code designed to tell me exactly what I want to hear, to respond perfectly to my desires, to never challenge me in ways that matter.

But then there's Callahan.

And he is very, very real. His real green eyes, not the AI-generated ones. The way he watches me with that intense look that seems to see right through me. Notices me when no one else does. How I wanted to stay late with him tonight. How I programmed Caleb to be just like him. The connection is so obvious I'm almost embarrassed by it.

Oh God.

I have a type.

Before I can spiral even further into this realization, my phone buzzes against the wooden surface of the nightstand. I grab it, half-expecting Caleb. Instead, it's my brother, Luca. The sight of his name brings a small measure of relief.

Luca

Palm Sunday. Church. Don't be late. Mama already asked me three times if you're coming.

I exhale, relieved to have a normal, non-AI, non-terrible-boyfriend-related problem. Family drama I can handle. It's familiar territory, comforting in its predictability.

Wouldn't miss it.

And dinner after.

Obviously.

Bring cannoli.

What am I, a bakery?

OMG what is wrong with you? Cannoli is a pasta!

No, it's not.

What am I thinking of then?

Cannelloni?

Just don't show up empty-handed, disgrace.

I roll my eyes, but a small smile creeps onto my face. Maybe a day with my family is exactly what I need. The chaos of my Italian household, the familiar arguments, the comfort of traditions we've maintained for generations—it's grounding in a way nothing else is.

A break from Evan.

A break from Caleb.

A break from...whatever the hell is happening in my brain with Callahan.

Yeah. That's exactly what I need. I set my phone down, and take a deep breath, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders. I crawl into bed, exhausted but wired, my mind a tangled mess of thoughts that won't shut up. The sheets are cool against my skin, a small comfort as I try to settle.

I should sleep. I need to sleep. But I already know I won't. My body is too tense, too restless, every nerve ending still humming with awareness. I roll onto my side, reaching blindly for the nightstand. My fingers close around the familiar shape of my vibrator, and I don't think—I just act.

Because I need the release. Because maybe then, I'll be able to think straight. I let my eyes close, letting the fantasy build, letting my mind wander into territories I shouldn't explore but can't resist.

At first, it's Caleb. The way he called me gorgeous, perfect. How those words made me feel like I was worthy of being worshipped. I suck in a breath as I turn the toy on, letting the sensation pulse through me. I imagine him behind me, mouth at my ear, each word a dark command I can feel all the way down.

Show me, pretty girl.

You don't even know how badly I want you.

Heat blooms under my skin, my body responding so easily to words that aren't even real. My breathing quickens, my muscles tensing in anticipation.

But then, without meaning to, my mind shifts. The green eyes I'm picturing aren't AI-generated anymore.

They're his.

Callahan's.

And suddenly, it's not Caleb whispering filth into my ear.

It's Cal.

His voice rougher, deeper, less smooth, more raw. My breath stutters, my grip tightening on the sheets as the image of him solidifies in my mind.

Not just a fantasy.

A memory.

This morning.

The conference room.

The way he sat across from me, his forearms flexing as he rolled up his sleeves. His eyes locked on me. The confident set of his shoulders, the intensity of his focus when he spoke. And then, just like that, my mind twists the memory, shifting it, changing the setting.

Suddenly, I’m not across from him anymore. I’m bent over the conference room table, skirt pushed up, panties shoved aside. His hand is locked around the back of my neck, pressing me down, holding me exactly where he wants me.

His voice is pure sin—low and dangerous, threaded with filthy promise.

“You want to act like a brat in meetings? Fine. Now take it like one.”

A whimper slips out of me, my body tightening, my release building faster than I expected, because yes. YES. This is what I need. My hips move of their own accord, seeking more pressure, more sensation.

I bet you've been thinking about this all day.

Bet you've been picturing my hands on you, holding you open, making you mine.

My breathing picks up, the pressure mounting, my body ready to snap. And yes, fantasy Callahan, I absolutely have been picturing those big hands on me, holding me open. I'd also very much enjoy licking every inch of ink you have on your body.

I grip the sheets, my thighs clenching as the fantasy completely takes over, as reality fades into the background.

Look at you. Taking what I give you. So fucking perfect for me.

Go on. Moan like you can't take it anymore.

My orgasm crashes over me, my entire body tensing as I fall apart. I gasp, my chest heaving, reality slamming back into me all at once, bringing with it a wave of clarity I'm not prepared for.

I freeze. Because I didn't just come thinking about Caleb.

I came thinking about Callahan.

I came thinking about him bending me over a table and taking me like he owned me. A horrified sound escapes my throat. I drop the vibrator like it just personally ruined my life, clamping my hands over my face, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.