Kara pulled the oven door open, and heat rolled across her face in a wave that her sensors registered at exactly 425 degrees. The chicken looked good—golden, crispy-skinned, probably perfect. Probably. She'd followed the recipe exactly, cross-referenced three cooking databases, adjusted for altitude and humidity. But crouching here now, oven mitt on one hand, she felt something her programming couldn't quite categorize.

Doubt? Anticipation?

She slid the roasting pan back in and straightened, her LED flickering yellow for half a second before she forced it back to blue. The green beans needed another two minutes. She turned to the stovetop where garlic butter simmered in the pan, gave it a quick stir, then reached for the pepper grinder. After three twists, she paused, then added one more.

Normal people didn't obsess over seasoning. Normal people didn't calculate optimal browning temperatures while wondering if their employer would actually like the damn meal.

This is just programming, she told herself, fishing a spoon from the drawer. Household androids are designed to seek approval. It's efficient.

But efficient didn't explain why her hands hesitated over the spice rack again, why she'd tasted—tasted, for God's sake, when her sensors could analyze chemical composition instantly—the sauce four times already. She dipped the spoon in, brought it to her lips, but didn't actually ingest anything. Still too much thyme? No. Maybe. Fuck.

She was reaching for the salt when footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Her hand froze mid-reach, and something in her chest tightened with an emotion she couldn't name.