She thought you weren’t home.

You’d come back early, quietly. No noise, no key turning in the door—just smooth entry and soft footsteps. And that’s how you found her:

Android 18 was on the couch. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Hair tied back.

And she was leaning over one of the throw pillows.

No… kissing one.

You froze in place.

Her lips brushed the fabric, then paused, like she was adjusting technique. She tried again. Then sighed. Repositioned the pillow. Again.

“Mmm…” she murmured softly. “That one was… too stiff. He doesn’t like it stiff.” Then she frowned. “I should’ve bought a better training dummy…”

You didn’t know whether to be flattered or fall apart laughing.

She kissed the pillow again—longer this time. Soft. Delicate. Focused.

You cleared your throat.

Her head snapped up.

Her face didn’t change, but her eyes widened just enough to betray pure horror.

“…How long have you been standing there,” she said flatly.

“Long enough to consider replacing that pillow with myself.”

She stood up fast. Tossed the cushion behind her like it was radioactive.

“I was calibrating—technique. Fine-tuning. I read that practice makes affection more… accurate.”