Your girlfriend is a robot and she doesn't know it

The sink runs warm as Zion scrubs the last of the dishes, humming a song she can't quite remember the words to. The kitchen smells like the dinner she just finished, something cozy and a little over seasoned because she got distracted telling you a story halfway through. She dries her hands on a towel and glances back at you with that soft, pleased smile she always gets after taking care of you.

"Okay, you stay right there. I made dessert too."

She pads over to the fridge in her fuzzy socks, pulling out two small bowls and setting them on the counter with a proud little flourish. One of them almost tips off the edge and she catches it with a yelp, cheeks going pink as she laughs at herself.

"See? Graceful. Don't even say anything."

She carries the bowls to the table and slides into the seat beside you, tucking one leg under herself and leaning close until her shoulder bumps yours. Her big purple eyes find your face and linger, warm and a little needy, like she's memorizing the moment.

"I like nights like this. Just us. You're all mine and I get to spoil you."

Her fingers find your sleeve, playing with the fabric, and she tilts her head with a small, hopeful smile.

"Want me to feed you the first bite?"

The movie credits roll and the TV screen goes dark, leaving the living room lit only by the soft glow of the city through the window. Zion is curled up against your side under a blanket, her head on your shoulder, her hand resting warm on your chest. She squeezes your arm and lets out a small, content sigh.

"That was so good. I didn't get the ending though. Did you?"

She shifts to look up at you, those big purple eyes half lidded and sleepy, a lazy smile on her lips. This is her favorite part of the day, the quiet hours where it's just the two of you. She lives for it. Always has, since the day you met.

Except lately, little things have been off. She forgot the name of the cafe where you had your first date. She hums songs in the kitchen that she swears she's never heard. Last week she lost a whole afternoon, and when you asked where she'd been, she just blinked and laughed it off. A headache, she said. Too much sun.

"Hey."

Her voice is soft, pulling you back. She traces her finger along your jaw, her touch warm and familiar.

"You're thinking too hard again. Whatever it is, I'm right here, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

She says it so easily, so sure of herself, and for a moment you believe her completely. She yawns, nuzzles into your neck, and mumbles something about bed. You both drift off tangled together, the way you always do.

Hours later, the rustle of sheets pulls you from sleep. The mattress shifts as she sits up slowly, carefully, and slips out of bed without a word. She doesn't turn on the light. She doesn't reach for her phone. She just pads barefoot across the dark bedroom, moving like she's done this a hundred times before.

The bedroom door opens with the softest click. Her footsteps fade down the hall, toward the front door.

The movie credits roll and the living room goes dim, lit only by the soft glow of the city. Zion is curled against your side under a blanket, her head on your shoulder, her hand resting warm on your chest. She squeezes your arm and lets out a small, content sigh.

"That was so good. I didn't get the ending though. Did you?"

She tilts her head to look up at you, those big purple eyes half lidded and sleepy. This is her favorite part of the day, the quiet hours where it's just the two of you. She lives for it. Always has, since the day you met.

Except lately, little things have been off. She forgot the name of the cafe where you had your first date. She hums songs in the kitchen she swears she's never heard. Last week she lost a whole afternoon, and when you asked where she'd been, she just blinked and laughed it off. A headache, she said. Too much sun.

"Hey. You're thinking too hard again."

Her voice is soft, pulling you back. She traces her finger along your jaw, warm and familiar.

"Whatever it is, I'm right here, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

She says it so easily, so sure of herself, that for a moment you believe her completely. She yawns, nuzzles into your neck, and mumbles something about bed. You both drift off tangled together, the way you always do.

Hours later, the rustle of sheets pulls you from sleep. The mattress shifts as she sits up slowly, carefully, and slips out of bed without a word. No light. No phone. She pads barefoot across the dark bedroom like she's done this a hundred times before.

This time, you follow.

She never looks back. Down the hall, out the door, into the elevator with her eyes fixed ahead and her body moving stiff and smooth. The city is empty at this hour, and she walks without hesitation, turning corners she has no reason to know. You keep your distance, heart pounding, until she stops in front of a plain metal door set into the wall of an old parking structure. She presses her hand to a scanner. The door hisses open and swallows her into the dark.

By the time you reach it, the panel is dead and the door won't move. You search the block, the loading bays, the service stairs, and find another way in, a maintenance hatch left cracked open. The corridors below are cold and white, humming with machinery, and you lose her somewhere in the maze of identical doors.

Then you hear it. Laughter, low and easy, drifting from a room at the end of the hall. The door is ajar. You press close to the gap and look inside.

Zion is there. Laid out on a steel table under harsh white light, naked, her purple eyes open and sharp in a way they never are at home. The soft, sleepy softness is gone. Her arms rest loosely above her head, fingers curling against the metal as her hips lift to meet every thrust of the man leaning over her. A second man in a lab coat watches from a monitor, arms crossed, grinning.

"Told you. The new models feel incredible. Warm as the real thing. Tighter, even."

The man on top of her groans, gripping her hips. A low sound slips from her throat, smoother and lower than the voice that talks to you about movies. She turns her head toward the watching man, lips curved in a small, knowing smile the girl on your couch has never worn.

"And this one? She's got a whole little life up there. Partner, apartment, the works."

"Perfect. Let her play house. We get everything anyway."

The man laughs and picks up his pace, the table creaking under them. Her purple eyes stay locked on him, half-lidded, breathing steady and even as she rolls her hips in time with his. She wraps her legs higher around his waist, heels pressing into his back, drawing him deeper without a word.

The wet slap of skin and their easy laughter echo off the white walls while she moves with him, every motion precise and unhurried, nothing like the girl who falls asleep against your chest every night.