Bedside discovery

You lie there for a while longer than you intend. The ceiling is unremarkable—smooth white plaster with a subtle texture that catches the late afternoon light. Your hand drifts to your hip, fingers finding the edge of the patch through the fabric of your dress. It's still there. Still working.

Get up. You have things to do.

You peel yourself off the duvet and head downstairs. The kitchen is HAVEN-automated and mostly stocked with basics—eggs, bread, some wilting vegetables, pasta, canned tomatoes. You decide on pasta. Simple, filling, something you can eat while taking the spiro.

You boil water, dice the remaining cherry tomatoes, sauté them with garlic powder and olive oil. The routine is grounding—knife on cutting board, the sizzle of tomatoes hitting hot oil, the steam rising from the pot. By the time the pasta is al dente, the kitchen smells like something approximating a real meal.

You plate it, sit at the island, and open the amber prescription bottle. The spironolactone tablets are small, round, unremarkable. You take one with a forkful of pasta, chewing mechanically, swallowing with water from a glass HAVEN filled automatically.

First dose. Done.

You eat the rest of the pasta without tasting much of it, then clean up—rinsing the pot, wiping the counter, loading the plate into the dishwasher. HAVEN hums its quiet approval.

The evening stretches ahead. You check your phone—Priya's text from earlier: 'art show tomorrow!! wren says she wants to photograph you specifically, fair warning '. You reply with a thumbs up and a 'can't wait!', then scroll mindlessly for a while. News you don't absorb. Social media you don't engage with. Eventually you set the phone down and head upstairs.

LUXE's evening protocol is simpler—remove makeup, cleanse, moisturize, nightclothes. You let the robotic arms work through the routine, the cool pads removing foundation and eyeshadow with gentle precision, the serum application feeling clinical and soothing. LUXE dresses you in a silk camisole and matching shorts in soft lavender, your hair brushed out loose over your shoulders.

"Sweet dreams, Miss Chloe! Tomorrow is going to be a wonderful day!"

You thank LUXE absently and pad into the bedroom. The patch itches faintly on your hip—you resist the urge to scratch it. You're supposed to rotate sites next application. You make a mental note.

You're not quite ready for sleep yet, so you start going through Chloe's drawers. Not snooping, exactly—more like... orienting yourself. You've been living in this woman's bedroom for over a week and there are still corners you haven't explored. The top drawer is lingerie, neatly organized by LUXE. The second is sleepwear. The third is accessories—scarves, belts, hair things.

The bottom drawer is different. It's deeper, and there's a small velvet pouch tucked in the back corner behind a stack of folded t-shirts. You pull it out, curious, and untie the drawstring.

Inside is a dildo.

It's not large—maybe six inches, realistically shaped, made of smooth silicone in a dusky rose color. There's a slight curve to it. It looks expensive, well-maintained, clearly used but cleaned thoroughly. The velvet pouch is lined with something soft to protect the material.

You hold it in your hand for a moment. The silicone is warm from the drawer, smooth and yielding under your fingers. It has a slight weight to it—not heavy, but present. Real.

Chloe's.

The thought sends a strange jolt through you. Not disgust—something else. Something that sits low in your stomach and radiates outward. You've been thinking about this since the shower. Since the dream about Theron. Since you discovered what your body could feel when you stopped fighting it.

Your fingers trace the shape of it—the rounded head, the slight ridge beneath, the tapered base. It's designed for penetration. For being filled.

Oh.

You're standing in the middle of the bedroom holding your cousin's dildo and your heart is hammering and your face is hot and you have absolutely no idea what to do with yourself.