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“Eight nineteen.” He offers me a hand. “You must be hungry. Come with me.”

I take it and follow him out to the kitchen, where he has an entire feast spread out across the counter, with a single place setting for me. Hot dishes are covered, there’s a stack of toast on a plate about two feet high, and a giant bowl of mixed fruit. He even managed to dig out the fancy tablecloth I only use when my moms come to visit.

It’s very sweet, and thoughtful, and way too much food for one person to eat. “Breakfast for dinner, huh?”

He nods with a proud grin as he guides me around the counter, then he takes the seat with the plate in front of it and pats his thigh. “Come, my love.”

My love? He wants me to eat dinner on his lap? Before I can politely decline, he reaches out and lifts me off the floor. Then I’m sitting in his lap facing the plate as his arms come around me to reach for the top of the closest hot dish. It’s scrambled eggs, and Abe scoops out a hefty portion onto the plate. He’s big enough that he can still see over my head and reach across the table without me in the way. Then it’s bacon, hash browns, pancakes, and buttered toast.

I sit there with a smile plastered on, my feet dangling between his tree-trunk legs.

I reach for my fork, but he takes it from me, scooping a heap of eggs onto it and bringing it to my lips. “Let me feed you, my darling. I want to watch you enjoy every bite.”

“Okay,” I squeak out as I hop off his lap. My shoulders are hunched up to my ears, and every muscle is clenched. I don’t know if the proper term for this feeling is ick or cringe or what, but I really don’t like it.

Somehow, my relationship with Abe jumped ten levels during my post-orgasm nap. I took what seemed like casual mutual attraction and ran with it. To Abe, it seems it was more, and I suppose that’s my fault. I don’t know. Hearing him talk about how he was programmed for pleasure made me think that’s all it’d ever be. Like that was the extent of human connection his programming would allow.

But seeing him like this, the dopey grin and hearts practically shooting out of his eyes, I think I may have inadvertently created a bug in his computer brain. The Abe from before was clingy, but in a brooding, stern way that was fun to argue with. He insisted on listening in on me in the bathroom to prevent an attack. The Abe of right now seems like he’d jump at the chance to whip off his jumpsuit and lay it over a puddle to prevent my feet from getting wet, which, while sweet, is…not the kind of devotion I’m looking for. It’s not the dynamic I want with anyone.

“Uh, Abe,” I begin, clearing my throat to give myself an extra second to map out this conversation. “Thank you so much for making me dinner. And breakfast for dinner?” I blow out an animated breath. “Wow. Doesn’t get any better than that, right? But maybe…”

You’re about to melt his motherboard, Ziggy sends from my bedroom upstairs. I can feel the smug grin permeating his thoughts.

A little help here? I send back. How do I break up with a robot without hurting the feelings I didn’t know he had?

Just tell him the truth.

That seems dicey. I’m not worried he’d ever lay a hand on me, it’s more that he seems particularly delicate right now, and telling him the truth could break him. Really? You sure?

Why not? Maybe he’ll be so devastated he’ll ship himself back to Henrik’s lab.

I shake my head. The bomber hasn’t been caught, Zig. He’s not going to leave my side until he knows I’m safe. That's the reason he was made in the first place.

Ziggy’s attention is diverted to a fly that keeps slamming into my bedside lamp. I can feel him gauging how close the fly will have to get before he can successfully swipe it out of the air.

Hey, roommate who doesn’t pay rent, you there?

Oh, yeah. He sends back, annoyed I interrupted his fly-hunting. To be honest, I don’t care.

Little brat.

You don’t pay rent either, he adds. The house comes with the job title, Nepo Baby.

He loves to use that phrase to get under my skin, even though it doesn’t work. I’m well aware of what I am. The job title doesn’t pay for your catnip toys, though. And I can stop buying those whenever I want. Today, for instance.

Quick question: Do you happen to know how much the dry cleaner charges to get cat piss out of brightly colored pantsuits?

Why am I so attached to this fluffy hoodlum? Oh, we’ve resorted to threats now, have we?

You started it.

Okay, allow me to finish it. I’m going to snuggle you so hard tonight you’ll wish you weren’t given a second chance at life inside that tiny cat body.

Fine, he sends.

Fine, I send back.

A few moments pass before I hear, Good luck.