The apology from the customer service representative left me breaking out in a cold sweat. As it turned out, the man I had living in my house wasn’t a "Romantic-Class" incubus at all. He was a "Domestic-Class" model—designed strictly for housekeeping, cooking, and organization. He wasn’t even programmed to provide those kinds of services. The representative’s voice had been frantic, repeatedly warning me that forcing a Domestic model into intimacy wasn't just a violation of the user agreement; it could trigger a "systemic collapse" or a "frenzy mechanism." Basically, I was lucky he hadn't killed me in my sleep. Terrified, I immediately hauled Hudson’s bedding out of my master suite and into the guest room, desperate to rectify my mistake before something catastrophic happened. But my sudden change in behavior seemed to trigger something else in him. It wasn't long before there was a rhythmic, heavy knock on my bedroom door. His voice came through the wood, carrying a repressed, gravelly edge that made my skin prickle. He asked if I no longer required his... company. Thinking back to how I’d spent the last few months practically throwing myself at him, begging for affection, I felt like a colossal, suicidal idiot. 1. "That’s... that’s right," I stammered, my eyes darting around the room as a wave of heat climbed up my neck. I struggled to find a plausible lie. "I just... I haven't been sleeping well. I think I need my own space for a while." Hudson stared at me for a long beat. His features were striking—a sharp, cinematic jawline and eyes that seemed to hold a permanent, brooding storm. He frowned slightly, his brow furrowing, but he didn't argue. He simply turned and walked toward the guest room. Watching him go so easily brought a wave of relief, but beneath it, a sharp, unexpected pang of rejection. The truth was, I’d always felt a certain resistance from Hudson. He never initiated touch. He’d shot down my more "adventurous" suggestions time and time again. The only reason he’d been sleeping in my bed at all was because I’d been a shameless brat, threatening to replace him with a newer model if he didn't. He’d moved in with a dark expression, looking like he was marching toward a firing squad. Even then, he kept his distance. He’d spend the night curled on the very edge of the mattress, his back to me like a stone wall. I’d spent months telling myself I’d just lucked into a "slow-burn" personality type—that I just needed to win him over with patience and charm. How wrong I was. He wasn't "slow-burn." He was a domestic professional with a strict "no-touch" policy, and he clearly found my advances exhausting. My face burned with shame. For months, I’d been the sexual predator in a rom-com that wasn't actually a romance. Just then, my phone buzzed with another message from the agency. [Customer Service]: We are so incredibly sorry for the mix-up, Maddie! Please, please don't leave us a one-star review. o(╥﹏╥)o [Customer Service]: Can we offer you a full refund for the Domestic model? "No need," I typed back, feeling a strange sense of loss. "Even if he can’t be a... partner, he’s incredible at everything else." It was true. Hudson was a domestic god. He knew exactly how to bake artisanal sourdough that stayed fluffy for days; he kept my linens smelling like lavender and expensive sunshine; he even knew the precise temperature to wash my hair so the ends wouldn't split. I was already addicted to the life he provided. [Customer Service]: Understood! In that case, as a gesture of goodwill, we’re shipping you a Romantic-Class incubus free of charge! •̆₃•̑ My heart did a traitorous little skip. I’d wanted a companion from the start. That was the whole point of this expensive endeavor. If Hudson couldn't provide that connection, surely there was no harm in finding it elsewhere? I quickly messaged back: "OK." The bitterness in my chest eased, replaced by a flicker of anticipation. 2. The next morning, I instinctively reached out to the other side of the bed, my hand hitting cold, empty sheets. It took my brain a few seconds to reboot. When it did, a hollow ache settled in my stomach. I’d grown so used to the heavy, silent weight of Hudson’s presence nearby. Without it, the room felt cavernous. I forced myself up, showered, and headed to the kitchen. Hudson was already there, hovering over the stove. He was wearing the pale pink apron I’d bought him as a joke—the strings tied loosely around his lean waist. He looked devastatingly handsome, his profile clean and sharp against the morning light. I spat out my toothpaste foam and cursed the manufacturers in my head. Why would you make a housekeeping unit look like a literal dark fantasy? It was a waste of perfectly good aesthetics. I sat at the breakfast nook, waiting for my eggs. To my shock, Hudson didn't put the plate on the table. Instead, he walked over, hooked an arm under my knees, and lifted me effortlessly into his lap. "Wait—what are you doing?" I gasped, my hands flying up to his chest to create some distance. Hudson’s grip on my waist tightened. He caught my wrist, forcing me to look up into his eyes. They were dark, unreadable, and intensely focused. "Aren't I supposed to feed you?" he asked, his voice low. In the past, frustrated by his coldness, I’d assigned him "intimacy chores" to force a bond. One of those chores was feeding me breakfast while I sat on his lap. He’d hated it at first. His body would be stiff as a board, his jaw clenched. But I’d been a tyrant—I’d told him if he didn't feed me, I wouldn't eat. Eventually, he’d succumbed. It had become part of our routine. But now? Now that I knew I was basically harassing a service worker? I couldn't do it. I scrambled out of his lap, nearly tripping over my own feet. "No, no. That’s fine. I can eat by myself from now on." Hudson watched me for several seconds, his gaze unwavering. Then, he turned his head away, his voice flattening. "Right. I suppose it’s time you learned some independence." I winced. He’d clearly been waiting for the day he didn't have to deal with my clinginess. I’d been so blind. After breakfast, Hudson moved with his usual efficiency, clearing my plate and grabbing the keys to the Vespa. He held out my helmet, ready to drop me off at the office. I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling the awkwardness thicken. This was another thing I’d forced on him. I loved riding behind him, using the excuse of "safety" to wrap my arms around his waist and feel his abs through his shirt. A ten-minute commute usually took twenty because I’d find ways to distract him. I used to live for those twenty minutes. Now, I couldn't bear the thought of making him uncomfortable for a second longer. I snatched the helmet from his hand. "Actually... you don't need to drive me anymore. I'll just take an Uber. Or walk. I need the steps." Hudson froze. His hand stayed extended in the air for a beat too long. Before he could say anything, I ducked my head and bolted out the door. I was giving him his freedom. No more forced touching, no more awkward intimacy. He had to be thrilled, right? 3. I’d only been at my desk for half an hour when my phone chimed with a shipping notification. [Customer Service]: Your Romantic-Class companion is on his way! Check out his profile below and make sure to have his essentials ready. ლ(°◕‵ƹ′◕ლ) I clicked the file. Name: Benji. Height: 5'10". Weight: 170 lbs. Owner: Maddie Thorne. He was significantly smaller than Hudson. Hudson was a wall of muscle; Benji sounded... manageable. I realized Hudson’s clothes wouldn't fit him at all. He’d look like a kid playing dress-up in his father’s closet. I added "Shopping" to my to-do list. After work, I hit the mall with a few girls from the office. We got distracted by happy hour and window shopping, and by the time I pulled into my driveway, I realized I had five missed calls. All from Hudson. That was weird. A Domestic model shouldn't be tracking my location, right? He’d never done that before. The front door swung open before I could even reach for my keys. Hudson stood there, his shadow stretching across the porch. His eyes swept over me, dark and scrutinizing. "Maddie. Where were you? Why didn't you answer your phone?" "I was shopping," I said, frowning as I stepped past him. "Since when do I have a curfew?" He didn't look happy, but his expression softened slightly when he saw the bags in my hands. He caught a glimpse of a plaid button-down sticking out of one of them. A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He knelt to help me step out of my heels, then gathered the shopping bags to take them to the bedroom. A moment later, he walked back out, looking… awkward. He’d tried on the plaid shirt. It was two sizes too small. The fabric was strained to the breaking point across his chest, the buttons clinging for dear life. It made him look rugged, slightly indecent, and entirely too masculine. "It’s a bit snug," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "But I can wear it open." Oh god. This was a disaster. I used to buy him clothes all the time—mostly sheer fabrics or things with far too many straps. He’d always refused to wear them, sticking to his two sets of "normal" clothes. Seeing him try so hard to please me with this shirt made my heart ache. I cleared my throat, trying to fix the misunderstanding. "It’s too small because... well, don't wear it. I'll get you something else." "No," Hudson said, and there was a strange warmth in his tone. "I like this one." "But it wasn't for you," I whispered. The air in the room seemed to vanish. Hudson’s eyes went dark, his entire posture turning predatory. He stepped closer, looming over me. "Then who," he asked, his voice a low vibration in the air, "were you planning on giving it to?" 4. I felt a surge of guilt, like I’d been caught cheating on a husband I didn't even have. But then, the unfairness of it hit me. Why was I the one feeling guilty? I was just a girl who wanted a little affection. I’d spent months being rejected by Hudson, only to find out I’d been bordering on a criminal offense. He’d led me on! He kept saying "maybe another time" or "not tonight" instead of just telling me he wasn't programmed for it. "That’s really none of your business," I said, my voice cold. "Just stick to your chores and stop asking questions." Hudson flinched. The look of shock on his face was almost painful to witness. "...Fine. I understand." He stripped the shirt off with efficient, jerky movements, folded it perfectly, and placed it back in my hands. I breathed a sigh of relief, but my mood was ruined. In the past, I was the one chasing him, the one apologizing. Now that I was being firm, he’d probably retreat into being a cold, emotionless robot. Which was for the best. We couldn't have "vibes." It was dangerous. However, that night, Hudson knocked on my door again. He was holding a spare duvet, and on his head... he was wearing a pair of clip-on wolf ears I’d bought him months ago. Below that? He slowly hooked a finger into his waistband, pulling it down just enough to reveal a delicate silver hip-chain—one I’d left on his dresser as a hint a long time ago. As he moved, a tiny bell at the end of the chain let out a soft, crystalline chime. My soul nearly left my body. Hudson’s Adam's apple bobbed as he looked away, his face flushing a deep, bruised red. "This... this was definitely for me, wasn't it?" I was seconds away from losing all resolve. But then I remembered what the rep said. Domestic models don't understand the meaning of these things. To him, this was just another "task" he thought I wanted. He was wearing wolf ears and a hip-chain out of a sense of duty, not desire. The thought made me feel pathetic. I waved him away, exhausted. "Just go back to your room, Hudson. Like I said yesterday—I don't need you in here anymore." The wolf ears drooped. His expression didn't change, but his voice sounded hollow. "...Fine." "Great." He turned to leave, but I called out to him at the last second. He looked back, his sharp profile softening, a spark of hope in his eyes. "Make a couple of extra dishes for lunch tomorrow," I said. Hudson’s gaze turned sharp. "Are you expecting company?" "Yeah," I mumbled, avoiding his eyes. He didn't need to know that Benji was arriving tomorrow. 5. Still, Hudson was the type of guy who got possessive over a plaid shirt. I was genuinely worried about how he’d react to another incubus in the house. I hopped back onto the customer service chat. "If I have two of them in the house, will they fight?" [Customer Service]: Generally, no! They have different functions, so there’s no overlap. I wasn't convinced. "In what scenario would they fight?" [Customer Service]: Well, if you had a High-Level model, they tend to have strong territorial instincts. They can get jealous, envious, or even... fall in love with their owners. ~* That settled it. I looked at Hudson’s behavior—there was no way he was in love. He looked relieved every time I stopped touching him. [Customer Service]: We recommend giving the new model extra attention at first to help him settle in. We’re sure you’ll all be one big happy family! I took the advice to heart. The next day was Saturday. I stayed home and watched Hudson irritably write out a menu. After breakfast, he insisted on taking me grocery shopping. The Vespa ride was different this time. I sat as far back as possible, gripping the metal rail instead of his waist. I made sure there was a respectable six inches of daylight between us. "Hold onto me," Hudson’s voice drifted back, crisp and low. "The road gets bumpy ahead." "I'm fine," I said. I’d traveled this road a thousand times; it was smooth as glass. Naturally, the second I said that, Hudson hit a massive pothole. My chest slammed into his back, my nose burying into the firm muscle of his spine. It hurt so bad I thought I’d cry. I gave in and gripped the fabric of his jacket, but I still refused to wrap my arms around him properly. Hudson didn't say another word for the rest of the trip, but the air around him felt dark, suffocating. He drove faster than usual, leaning into the turns with an aggression that felt like a silent tantrum. God, was he really that annoyed just because I touched him by accident? The supermarket was packed with a weekend sale. Hudson carried all the heavy bags in one hand, using his other arm to create a protective barrier around me so people wouldn't bump into us. He was attentive, but I hated being there with him. Every time we went, the cashier would make some comment about what a "stunning couple" we were. I used to soak those comments up, preening because Hudson never bothered to deny them. But now, knowing he didn't feel the same, I just felt like a fraud. Worse, I felt like I was low-key harrassing him by letting people think we were together. So, when the cashier smiled and said, "You two look so sweet together," I blurted it out. "He's not my boyfriend!" The cashier blinked, startled. Hudson went dead still. A long, tense silence followed. Then, Hudson spoke through gritted teeth. "Right. I’m not." I nodded vigorously. See? He’s been dying to clarify that. I’d been delusional. I’d been reading "love" into his "professionalism." Hudson walked fast on the way home, his long legs eating up the distance until I was trailing yards behind him. I didn't ask him to wait. I didn't ask him to carry my purse. When we reached the house, the front door was slightly ajar. Hudson’s brow furrowed. He knew he’d locked it. He stepped in front of me, shielding me as he kicked the door open. Then, his entire body stiffened. There was a stranger in our living room. He was wearing the plaid shirt I’d bought yesterday, and when he saw me, he flashed a pair of adorable dimples. "Master! Thank you for the shirt. I love it!"
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