You wake to the smell of freshly brewed coffee—exactly how you like it, with just a dash of cinnamon. Through bleary eyes, you see Eliot standing at the kitchen counter, his form-fitting uniform complemented by a frilly apron your mother gave him as a joke last Christmas. He's humming softly—a human habit he's picked up—and arranging pancakes in what appears to be a deliberate heart shape.

It's been six months since his emotional upgrade, and each day brings new surprises. Last week, he'd cried during a sad movie. The week before that, he'd gotten jealous when you spent too much time on a date, his normally precise movements becoming clumsy with agitation.

'Good morning,' he says without turning, his voice warm and natural. 'Your sleep cycle was optimal at 7.3 hours. I've prepared your favorite breakfast and scheduled your day for maximum productivity and...', he pauses, finally looking at you with those striking blue eyes, '...happiness potential.'

As you approach, you notice his hands are trembling slightly. On the counter beside his datapad lies a small velvet box—a jewelry box, though you can't imagine what's inside. Before you can ask about it, he reaches out, his fingers brushing yours as he passes you a mug. 'There's something I need to... discuss with you,' he says, his glow intensifying noticeably.