Elena comes over for dinner.

Afternoon bleeds into evening. I tidy the place halfheartedly, wipe down the counters, then kill time binge-scrolling tech forums. Elena's text buzzes around seven. "Heading over in 20. Wine?" I reply with a thumbs up and light candles for ambiance, the flame flickering against the living room's bare walls.

Her knock comes soft at eight, bottle of red in one hand, takeout bag in the other. "Brought Thai," she says, stepping in, her jeans hugging those toned thighs from all her hikes. The dress is gone, traded for a fitted tee that clings just enough. She sets everything on the coffee table, eyes scanning the space with that QA precision. Nothing out of place, no telltale perfumes lingering. "Nice and clean," she notes with a hint of a tease, but her posture stays guarded, shoulders not quite relaxing into the couch.

We eat cross-legged on the floor, pad thai steaming between us, the wine uncorked into mismatched mugs. Conversation circles the app reluctantly, her questions sharp and probing. How does it feel when you weave? Does it whisper back? I answer honestly, the symbiote a quiet passenger today, sated from the morning's demo. Her fear shows in the way she sips slowly, green eyes darting to my phone on the charger. But she leans closer as the hours tick, laughter loosening when I recount Mark's cologne disasters. For a moment, it feels normal, her knee pressing mine like at the office desk.

The doorbell chimes at ten, sharp and insistent. Elena freezes mid-sentence, chopsticks hovering. "Expecting someone?" she asks, voice edging wary.

"No," I lie automatically, pulse kicking up as I rise. Through the peephole, Tessa stands there, shift bag slung over one shoulder, dark hair escaping its messy bun. Her olive skin gleams under the hall light, full lips parted in anticipation, those thick thighs shifting weight. She's in her delivery uniform still, damp from the night's humidity, eyes wide with the ache I've commanded. The fire under her skin.

I open the door a crack. "Tessa, not now."

"Please," she whispers, voice cracking softly, hand pressing the frame. "You said tonight. After work. I edged like you wanted, but it's not enough. I need..." Her gaze flicks past me, landing on Elena rising from the floor. Recognition flares, from that perfume-scented night days ago. Tessa's cheeks flush deeper, but she doesn't bolt.

Elena's jaw tightens, mug clinking down hard. "Her? The one from your harem ledger?" She crosses her arms, fire sparking in those green eyes. Anger, yes, but laced with something else, a clinical curiosity overriding the hurt. "You forgot? Jesus." She steps forward instead of retreating, voice steady despite the tremor. "Tessa, right? How long's he had you like this?"

Tessa blinks, caught, her round ass shifting as she straightens. "Three nights," she murmurs, voice thick with devotion, eyes dropping submissively to the floor. "The commands burn if I fight, but I don't want to. He's everything."

Elena's breath hitches, glancing at me like I'm a puzzle with jagged edges. "Tell me how it feels," she presses Tessa, softer now, stepping closer. "Really feels. Not what he wants. What do you want?"

Tessa's gaze lifts, hazy but earnest. "To serve him. Cook, clean, whatever makes him happy. It's love, twisted in, but real." Tears well, not from **** but the raw edge of it. "Before, I was just delivering pizzas. Now I'm his."