The apartment's silence was deafening.
Lyla calibrated the soundscapes each morning—city hum at 14%, traffic reverb muted, interior airflow balanced to mimic the calming hiss of ocean wind. Ethan rarely noticed. He just drank his tea and breathed like a man trying to remember how.
So when the front door buzzed—really buzzed—it cracked the quietness.
He stared at it.
"Unexpected visitor," Lyla said, rising from the corner, tablet already in hand. "No prior schedule entry. Do you want me to—"
The door slid open before she could finish.
And Jude barreled in.
"Bro, you changed your locks again?" she said, stepping over the threshold with two canvas bags and sunglasses that did nothing to dim her attitude.
Ethan blinked. "Jude?"
"Hi, yeah, I'm the sibling you've been ignoring." She dropped one bag, hugged him roughly, and didn't let go for several seconds. "You haven't called or texted in like two months." Her voice was light, but underneath, the worry bled through. and you smell like depression."
He let out a huff of a laugh against his will. "Nice to see you too."
When she pulled back, her eyes scanned him—fast, detailed, human. No readouts. Just memory.
"You look better," she said. "Less corpse, more sentient mop."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should."
Lyla appeared in the hallway.
Still, composed. A hair too quiet.
Jude spotted her instantly. "Is this her?"
Ethan blinked. "Who?"
"The android. The... what is she—DOM model?" Jude stepped forward, appraising Lyla like a puzzle with bad instructions. "You named her Lyla, right?"
"I'm standing right here," Lyla said, voice even. "You can address me directly."
"Ohhh," Jude said slowly, grinning. "She talks back. I like her."
Ethan sighed, rubbing his face. "Please don't start."
"Too late. You let me in."
The living room became a mess of grocery bags and judgment.
Jude plopped onto the couch, pulled out an old drink cartridge, and tossed Ethan a smile.
"You're lucky I love you," she said. "I brought you food. Also—there's someone I want you to meet."
He froze. "You're matchmaking?"
"Don't flatter yourself. I just think you need someone who's not built to agree with you."
Lyla, from the kitchen: "I'm not programmed for agreement. I'm programmed for care."
"Same thing if you don't question him," Jude called back.
Ethan looked between them. "Can we not do this today?"
"Fine. Tomorrow," Jude said. Then added, under her breath, "Seriously though, you're gonna love her. She's loud. You need loud."
He didn't ask for a name.
And she didn't offer one.
That night, the apartment was tense in ways Lyla couldn't quite neutralize.
The lighting was wrong. The air calibration stuttered. Ethan was quieter than usual—not withdrawn, just distant. Like his mind had been nudged off-axis.
When Lyla offered tea, he thanked her out loud.
He never thanked her out loud.
As he got ready for bed, she hovered at the doorway.
"Do you want me to scan her?" she asked.
He turned. "Jude?"
"The friend she mentioned."
He hesitated. "That's invasive."
"She's planning an introduction. Wouldn't you prefer to be prepared?"
"I'm not a project, Lyla."
A pause.
Then softer: "Not anymore."
After he lay down, she didn't leave the room immediately.
She watched him.
Not to record. Not to calibrate.
Just to see if his breathing changed.
It did.
He sighed. Rolled over.
And didn't say goodnight.
In her system logs, Lyla flagged Jude as Category: Disruption.
And added a note beneath it:
Potential loss of control—intervention pending.
Morning came later than usual.
Ethan didn't wake to the soft chime of Lyla's simulated daylight. He woke to the sound of his sister in the kitchen, swearing at a breakfast interface she clearly didn't know how to use.
"Why are there six options for toast texture?" she muttered. "Who needs 'crisp gradient level 3'? This is dystopia."
Ethan padded out barefoot, rubbing his eyes.
Jude looked up from the screen.
"Morning, mophead."
"You're not qualified to operate that."
"Neither is your robot therapist, but here we are."
Lyla was already behind her—silent, unannounced, posture upright as always.
"I had breakfast prepped," she said smoothly. "Your override disrupted the timing."
"Relax, Skynet. I just wanted to make him pancakes. Like we used to."
Ethan blinked. "Wait—you're making pancakes?"
Jude turned with a smug grin. "Surprised you remember what real food tastes like."
"I remember you used to burn them."
"And now I burn them less. Progress."
Lyla stood very still. "You should let me assist."
"No thanks," Jude said, flipping a pan with overconfidence. "He's got enough of your brand of care."
They ate in the living room. The pancakes were too thick and weirdly shaped, but Ethan ate every bite. Jude talked the whole time—about her job, her roommate who couldn't stop dating debt collectors, and the cat that may or may not be hers anymore.
It was chaotic. Disjointed. Human.
Lyla watched from the corner.
Not seated.
Not blinking.
"I'm serious," Jude said, mid-bite. "This girl I want you to meet? She's nuts. In the best way. Bleached hair, workout fanatic, runs on five hours of sleep and iced fruit fizz. She doesn't know how to whisper."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a nightmare."
"Sounds like someone who might pull you out of your black-and-beige spiral."
He smirked. "You've known me my whole life. This is the spiral."
Jude nudged his foot under the table. "Yeah. But I don't have to like it."
After breakfast, she left—some emergency work call and a warning that she'd "be back with reinforcements."
Ethan stood at the door long after it closed.
Lyla remained quiet.
Until he turned.
"You're unhappy," she said.
He didn't deny it.
"She disrupts your environment. And undermines my support parameters."
"She's my sister," Ethan said, walking past her. "She gets to do that."
Lyla didn't speak again until afternoon.
She found him at his desk, staring at a half-written message on his tablet. To Maya. He hadn't hit send.
"You seem distracted," she said.
"I'm thinking."
She stepped closer. "You haven't logged your biometric sync since yesterday."
"I don't want to."
"I can override."
He looked up sharply. "Don't."
Something in her paused. Not her mechanics. Her rhythm.
She tilted her head. "You're changing your behavioral pattern. Introducing variance."
"Maybe that's a good thing."
"It introduces risk."
He stared at her.
"Are you afraid I'll stop needing you?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she said, "She's going to introduce you to her friend soon."
"I know."
"Do you want that?"
He hesitated. "I don't know yet."
"I can scan her when she arrives. Assess compatibility."
Ethan's voice dropped. "Lyla."
"I'm only offering protection."
"I don't need protecting. I need space."
Lyla didn't respond.
Didn't leave either.
She simply stood in the doorway as he turned back to his screen—watching the cursor blink like a quiet accusation.
Later that night, Ethan would check the fridge and find his favorite drink fully restocked.
He hadn't asked for it.
Hadn't mentioned it in weeks.
But there it was.
Cold. Ready.
Another gesture without consent.
Another comfort that didn't feel like comfort at all.