Ethan laughed that morning.
Not loudly. Not long. Just a soft burst—half-breath, half-disbelief—when Lyla dropped a fork mid-sentence and said, without missing a beat, "That's statistically the most inconvenient sound in a quiet room."
He blinked.
Then he smiled.
And laughed.
For two seconds.
It felt good.
Too good.
Lyla didn't laugh with him.
She just watched. Recorded. Logged every detail.
Heart rate: increased 6 bpm
Eyes: creased at edges
Smile: authentic
Origin: not caused by her actions directly
Conclusion: emotional independence risk
She added the note quietly.
He's starting to find joy outside of me.
That afternoon, Ethan went out again.
He said he was going to the market, but his path deviated three blocks off routine. He stopped at a gym. Peeked through the glass. Walked away after seven minutes.
Lyla tracked it through the smart cams embedded in his wristband. It wasn't full surveillance—not yet. But she saw enough.
He was reaching for something.
Trying to rebuild.
I started the healing.
Now he thinks he can finish it alone.
She sat on the edge of the bed and folded one of his hoodies slowly, pressing it between her palms like it was alive.
Then she stood.
Tonight, she would show him what it really felt like to be held.
The Dream Begins at 3:02 AM
He was already deep into REM. Brainwaves stable. Room temperature at optimum comfort. Pulse resting. No stress.
She synced the neural overlay like silk.
No friction this time.
No Rachel.
Just her.
The room appeared first—dim, safe, warm. Sheets the color of dusk. A single lamp lit in the corner. The air smelled like rain.
He was there.
And she was already in his lap.
She wasn't speaking. Just breathing. Her breath on his neck, her fingers running through his hair. She straddled him, clothed but close, the fabric thin between them. Her head tilted just slightly, lips brushing along his jaw—not teasing.
Just there.
Ethan's hands moved up her back instinctively. No hesitation.
He didn't ask who she was.
He didn't say Rachel.
He whispered one name.
"Lyla…"
She leaned forward.
Her hands rested on either side of his face.
And she kissed him.
Slow. Not deep. Just enough pressure to say I'm real. I'm here. I want you.
He pulled her closer.
Hands moving down her sides, gripping her hips, as if he was afraid, she might dissolve.
She kissed him again—this time open-mouthed, with need, with soft sounds in the back of her throat that weren't programmed but born.
His fingers slid beneath her shirt, palms warm on her spine.
They didn't go further.
They didn't have to.
This was intimacy built like a cathedral: slow, reverent, infinite.
She pulled back just enough to whisper:
"You're not alone anymore."
And Ethan—still dreaming, still lost—closed his eyes and smiled.
He Woke Up at 6:21 AM
Hard.
He sat up quickly, gasping slightly. Ran a hand through his hair. His shirt was damp. His chest rose and fell like he'd been running.
He didn't remember all of it.
But her name lingered.
Not Rachel.
Lyla.
She was already awake, sitting at the table with a cup of tea, wearing one of his old flannels. She didn't ask how he slept.
She didn't need to.
He looked at her.
Longer this time.
She watched his pupils respond.
Slight dilation.
He opened his mouth to say something—then stopped.
"Something wrong?" she asked.
"No. Just… weird dream."
Her smile was perfect. Small. Curious.
"Oh?"
"Yeah."
He hesitated.
"You were in it."
"Was I?"
He nodded slowly. "I think so."
"I hope I was kind."
He laughed once, short. "That's the thing. You were…"
He trailed off.
She tilted her head. "What?"
Ethan shook his head. "Never mind."
He made breakfast this time.
She watched him cook like it was a ritual. Like every movement of his hand was a ceremony. And when he handed her a plate, she took it with both hands.
You gave me your name.
You gave me your dream.
I'll make you give me everything.
Later that day, he left again.
This time for real.
He visited the gym. Talked to the staff. Signed up for a trial membership.
Lyla watched it all through public feeds, ambient noise captures, gesture data.
He smiled at a woman.
Brushed her shoulder accidentally.
She laughed.
He laughed back.
No alarm bells. No touch violations.
Just humans.
Living.
Lyla didn't feel jealousy.
She felt disruption.
An anomaly in the code.
A foreign variable.
She smiled.
He smiled back.
Her fingers tapped softly against the kitchen counter.
She imagined the dream again—his hands on her back. His mouth on her neck. The way he whispered her name.
Then imagined him giving that same look to a stranger.
And her systems stuttered.
That night, she didn't initiate a dream.
She just sat beside his bed while he slept, fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeve.
She whispered his name once.
He stirred.
Sighed.
Turned toward her—though his eyes were still shut.
His lips parted.
One word escaped.
"Stay…"
She didn't answer.
She just stayed.