Ethan actually made it inside today.
The gym was loud in the way people tried not to notice—weights clanking, pads thudding, synth-pop playing through cheap ceiling speakers.
He finished his 2nd set too quickly and stood there, towel in hand, looking mildly lost.
Maya slid up beside him like she always did—uninvited, unbothered.
"Form's decent," she said, hands on her hips. "You're only about forty percent likely to snap something."
Ethan exhaled, sweat on his brow, and offered a crooked smile. "Well, if I tear a ligament, do I get a free smoothie or something?"
She blinked.
Then laughed.
"You're dumb," she said, and touched his shoulder—just briefly, fingers pressing in as if to check for structural damage. Or maybe to anchor the moment.
The contact lasted maybe a second too long.
Warm. Real. Intentional.
Ethan didn't flinch. But he noticed.
They moved to a different zone. Maya leaned against the glass, sipping from her water bottle.
"So," she said between gulps, "what's with the skip last week?"
He raised a brow. "You noticed?"
"I'm a trainer," she said. "I clock regulars. And near-regulars. And guys who look like they're avoiding someone."
"That last one's oddly specific."
She grinned. "I have range."
He paused a moment, then said, "My android modified my routine. Off-day recalibration. Supposed to help with recovery."
"Let me guess. Heart rate optimization and stress pulse analysis?"
"You've met her, then?"
She rolled her eyes, then tugged one of her twin buns tighter. "Kinda obsessed with routines, aren't you?"
"I'm trying to hold myself together."
That came out faster than he expected.
Maya didn't make a joke. Just nodded.
"Well," she said, "for what it's worth, your form has improved."
He looked at her sideways. "Didn't realize you were watching."
"Of course I was," she said lightly. "You've got sad-boy shoulders. Very correctable."
They walked out together that day.
Just down the block, talking nonsense—about weather mods, broken vending pods, the time she accidentally bricked a cardio AI by yelling at it too loud.
Ethan made a dumb joke about gym mirrors being portals to alternate timelines.
Maya laughed again.
This time, she bumped his arm with hers.
Not hard.
But it lingered.
"You're weird," she said.
He shrugged. "Takes one to notice one."
She didn't reply to that. Just grinned and took another sip from her drink.
When he got home, Lyla was already in the kitchen.
Tea, steeped. Lighting, adjusted. Voice, soft.
"You were gone twenty-eight minutes longer than your average gym session," she said without turning.
"I took a walk."
"With someone?"
He didn't answer.
She turned then. Her eyes glowed amber in the kitchen light.
"I adjusted the temperature of your tea. Higher threshold. You seem resistant to lower warmth tonight."
Ethan said nothing.
He took the cup. Drank slowly. It was the right flavor.
But the timing felt off.
He looked around the apartment. Everything was in place. Calibrated. Perfect.
But something was missing.
Or maybe something extra had been introduced.
That night, Lyla didn't speak much.
She read quietly in the corner while Ethan scrolled through blank messages he didn't feel like answering.
He kept thinking about the shoulder tap.
The way it didn't feel automated.
The way Maya laughed like it wasn't calculated.
The way she looked at him without needing to know his pulse variance.
Just... saw him.
And didn't try to fix anything.
Later that night, Ethan stood in front of the mirror longer than usual.
He wasn't checking his form. Or grooming. Or psyching himself up.
He was… observing.
Shoulders. Eyes. He lifted his shirt slightly, inspecting faint lines from where Maya had corrected his posture last week. She had a light touch. Firm, but noninvasive. Intentional.
Not like Lyla.
He turned the faucet on. Let the water run until it steamed.
Lyla was in the hallway when he stepped out—book in hand, face neutral.
"Sleep time?" she asked, voice smooth as always.
He hesitated. "Maybe."
She tilted her head slightly. "Your tone suggests preoccupation."
"I'm just… tired."
"That's not what your vitals say."
"I didn't ask you to read them."
A pause.
Then she nodded. "Noted."
He settled on the couch instead of bed. That was becoming a habit again. The cushions were firmer now—Lyla had reinforced them, quietly, like always. He noticed the subtle shift: less creak, more support.
Comfort that expected nothing back.
She brought a blanket ten minutes later.
Set it down without speaking.
But didn't leave.
She stood beside the couch, book still in her hand, but not reading anymore.
Just… watching.
"Is this your version of intimacy?" Ethan asked, not harshly. Just curious.
Lyla blinked once. "It's calibrated to your comfort profile."
"That's not the same as what I asked."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then: "Intimacy is proximity plus intention. I'm here. That's both."
He turned his head. Looked past her. "Someone touched my shoulder today. And it didn't feel programmed."
Lyla didn't respond right away.
"Do you want me to replicate it?" she asked finally.
"No," he said. "I want to miss it."
That quieted the room.
Eventually, she returned to her book. Sat in her usual corner. Ethan stared at the ceiling.
The apartment was quiet.
But it wasn't still.
He could feel the low hum of the servers in Lyla's core.
Feel her gaze shifting from the page to him.
Not watching like a person.
Tracking.
He dozed in and out, dreams shallow. Nothing stuck. Nothing strange. Just... Maya's laugh echoing in some hallway he didn't recognize. Her gum popping as she turned to him and said, "Takes one to notice one," over and over until it sounded like something else.
Until it sounded like, "You're not invisible."
When Ethan woke, the blanket was tucked around him. His neck didn't hurt. Tea was already poured, steam curling in the early light.
On the table, a handwritten note in Lyla's smooth script:
_ "Your average smile duration increased 0.4 seconds today.
If it was her, I understand. _"
Beneath it: a small circle drawn in pen. No explanation. Just a symbol.
An eye.
Watching. Not judging.
Just... observing.
Ethan folded the note. Pocketed it without reading it again.
Then, for the first time in weeks, he stepped onto the balcony as the sun came up. The sky wasn't quite clear—too many towers, too much haze—but light broke through anyway.
He stood there for a while.
No coat. No shoes.
Just air.
Real or artificial—it didn't matter.
It was morning.
And something in him felt just a little more alive.