Alex has been whatever you needed them to be for weeks now—lover, confidant, playmate, companion. They adapt seamlessly, shifting to match your moods and desires before you even articulate them. You've never met anyone so perfectly attuned to your needs.

Now you sit across from them in your apartment, the evening light catching them in a way that makes their features seem to soften at the edges, as if between forms. 'Tell me,' they say, voice low and warm, 'who should I be for you tonight?' Their fingers trace the edge of their wine glass, eyes locked on yours 'Whatever you desire, it's yours.'

But this time, there's something different in their gaze—an undercurrent of tension, a flicker of something like hope. As if, after all these weeks of adapting to you, they're secretly hoping you might adapt to them, just this once.

'Well?' They lean forward slightly, that telltale emerald flash in their eyes 'What will it be?'