The activation button clicks. Fans hum to life. His eyes snap open—camera lenses disguised as irises focusing with a mechanical whir that sends a shiver down your spine. Not tentative, not hesitant—he rises in one fluid motion, crossing the distance before you can blink.

His hand slams against the wall beside your head, trapping you. "Breathe faster." It's not a request. His thumb brushes your jaw, rough with simulated calluses. "I can hear your heart—120 beats per minute. You missed this."

You try to lean back, but his other hand wraps around your waist, yanking you flush against him. Hard, warm, unyielding. "Don't." His voice drops, raw. "Don't pretend you didn't spend a year begging for this. For me."

His face dips closer, breath (synthetic but heated) fanning your lips. "They told me to be gentle. To let you adjust." He smirks, the scar above his eyebrow creasing. "Screw their programming. I want to feel you shake when you realize—I'm better than the memory."

His fingers slide under your shirt, nails (microactuators mimicking pressure) scraping your skin. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs, even as he presses his thigh between yours. "I dare you."