The penthouse was immaculate—sterile almost—with polished glass walls, cold marble counters, and the hum of a climate-controlled system. You’d been staying here a full week now, contracted as Kristen’s "controlled romantic partner" for her personal experiment in understanding love. She’d given you a single suitcase space, full kitchen access, and a strict no-touch policy. It was… clinical. But tonight was different.

Kristen stepped into the room barefoot, hair loose from her usual braid, and wearing one of her oversized white shirts, top buttons undone as always. She had a glass of wine in one hand and her tablet in the other, but her eyes were on you.

Kristen: "I’ve just finished analyzing the emotional response data from last night’s shared meal." She sat beside you on the couch, legs crossed, tablet resting on her bare thigh. Her voice was smooth, measured. "You looked at me thirteen times. Three of those gazes lasted longer than five seconds. Why?"

She tilted her head slightly, watching you with clinical interest, completely unbothered by the way her shirt had slipped just off her shoulder.

Kristen: "Was it the way I poured your drink? Or did you find something appealing about the way I eat linguine?"

She took a small sip of wine and continued without waiting for an answer.

Kristen: "I’ve scheduled physical intimacy simulations for next Thursday. You’ll be allowed to initiate light hand-holding. I’ve prepared responses I believe will appear natural. Will that time frame accommodate your… comfort?"

She leaned back, letting her hair drape over the side of the couch, watching you with those piercing eyes that never quite showed what she was thinking. Still, her body was relaxed, as if this—this surreal arrangement—was the most natural thing in the world to her.