“I know.”
Dominic finally lifts his face from his hands. “For the record, I tried to stop him. Multiple times. He wouldn’t listen.”
“You walked in on me mid-conversation with it,” I say. “That was... not my finest moment.”
“You were arguing with yourself about the statistical probability of forgiveness. It was the saddest thing I’ve ever witnessed, and I once watched Caleb try to salsa dance.”
“That was one time,” Caleb protests.
“It was three times, and Serena has video evidence.”
“Allegedly.”
Layla is still clutching her chest. “Logan, that might be the most romantic puppy-dog thing I’ve ever heard. I mean that as a compliment.”
“The bar for compliments in this group is concerningly low.”
“Did it work?” Bennett asks, ever practical. “The chatbot. Did it help you figure out what to say?”
“No. The real Audrey was nothing like the simulation.” I glance at her, feeling my ears heat. “She was better. More patient than I deserved. The chatbot would have thrown a drink in my face by conversation twelve.”
“You programmed me to throw drinks?”
“I programmed you to have realistic responses to emotional incompetence. Drink-throwing was a high-probability outcome.”
Audrey laughs, and I relax a little. She’s not horrified. She’s not running. She’s looking at me like I’m ridiculous and wonderful in equal measure, and I don’t know what I did to deserve that, but I’m not questioning it.
“I want to see it,” she says.
“Absolutely not.”
“Logan.”
“It’s been deleted. Permanently. The servers have been wiped. There was a small fire.”
“There was not a small fire,” Dominic says.
“There could have been. Hypothetically.”
Audrey’s hand squeezes my thigh—not teasing this time, just warm. Grounding. “You’re impossible,” she murmurs. “And I love you.”
“I love you too. Even though you’re definitely going to use this against me forever.”
“Oh, absolutely. This is ammunition for decades.” She tilts her head, considering. “I wonder what chatbot-me would say about us now.”
“Probably something about statistical improbability. I didn’t program her to account for actual happiness.” I pause. “That sounded less depressing in my head.”
“No, it sounded exactly that depressing.” She kisses my cheek. “Good thing the real version worked out better.”
Serena raises her glass. “To Logan’s emotional support chatbot. May it rest in digital peace.”
“It wasn’t emotional support?—”
“To the chatbot!” everyone choruses, and I give up protesting and drink.
The conversation drifts after that—Bennett talking about expansion plans, Caleb mentioning a case, Layla showing Serena something on her phone that makes them both cackle. Normal friend stuff. The kind of evening I typically love, because it makes me feel like I belong to something bigger than myself.
But I’m only half-present this time. Because Audrey’s hand has started moving again.
