The word came out as a dreamy sigh, full of nostalgia and longing.

Neville stared at her. "How old do you even think you are?"

Shelly peered over the edge of the pillow, one googly eye visible, sparkling with mischief. [How old do you think I am?]

His exhausted brain was too tired to care anymore and decided to humor Shelly’s nonsense.

He approached the sofa and sat next to Shelly’s body. He sank into the cushions with a groan.

"Hmmm~" He dragged out the sound, trying to match Shelly’s energy. "Since you said you’ve been with other hosts... Given that my number is 143, we’ve got to add—"

[Sush!] A giant digital gloved hand stopped in front of his face. The middle finger touched his lips to stop it from moving.

Where did she even get a glove? Neville thought, wide-eyed.

[I’m seventeen!] Shelly declared with utter confidence.

"Then aren’t you not allowed to read ei—"

[Sush!] Shelly came close, even slightly threatening as she continued, [Forever seventeen!]

Neville narrowed his eyes and pushed the giant digital glove aside. He continued sarcastically, "You mean seven?"

Shelly didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. An emoticon that appeared in the air around Neville said everything: (￣ー￣)

The flat, unimpressed face surrounded him from all angles, multiplying until Neville was drowning in digital disapproval. It was the most passive-aggressive thing he had ever witnessed.

Neville just shrugged, too tired to argue. Why would a system avatar, a guide, even need an age?

Seconds later, Shelly drifted closer. Her earlier playfulness was fading into something more serious. The sparkles dimmed. The roses started fading. Even her googly eyes seemed somehow more focused.

[Host,] she said quietly, [I think you’re in trouble.]

They both knew what she was talking about.

The way Grayson and Neville could be comfortable one moment, existing in the same space like it was the most natural thing in the world, and then suddenly distant the next, remembering the professional boundaries that were supposed to exist between a CEO and his secretary.

The push and pull. The almost moments that never quite became something real.

"Yeah." Neville’s voice came out rough.

He traced his finger along the edge of the photo album still sitting on the coffee table, the one Grayson had brought over. The leather was smooth under his fingertip, worn from years of handling.

"I think I am."

The admission felt like defeat. Like accepting something he had been trying desperately to deny for a while now.

[Host...] Shelly’s voice had become soft, concerned.

"Don’t," Neville said sharply.

In times like this, Shelly would launch into some speech about feelings and missions. All the things Neville already knew. All the things he was actively failing at.

Neville stood up abruptly, and the coat slightly slid off one shoulder. He caught it before it could fall, clutching the fabric in his fist. Then he turned and walked towards his bedroom. Like moving to another place would make him outrun the conversation he didn’t want to have.

"Whatever you’re about to say, just don’t," he continued, warning Shelly as he pushed open his bedroom door.

Neville made his way to his bed and fell face-first onto it. He smoothed his face into his pillow, and the coat became his blanket.

His voice came out muffled, barely intelligible through the layers of fabric and denial. "Just... don’t."

There was silence.

Neville thought that maybe Shelly would actually listen to him for once and let the subject drop.

[I was just going to ask,] Shelly’s voice drifted through the room innocently. [Are you going to keep collecting your target’s coats?]

Neville lifted his head just enough to glare in the general direction of where he assumed Shelly was floating.

The effect was diminished a little by the fact that his hair was now sticking up at odd angles. Not to mention, he had pillow creases forming on his cheek. But either way, he put as much venom into the look as he could muster.

Shelly, somehow, had the decency to look sheepish. A faint blush colored her shell.

[I mean,] she continued, her voice taking on a wheedling tone, [this is really beneficial to your pheromones.]

"Not for my favorability," Neville shot back.

He turned himself over, finally facing Shelly properly. His body sank into the mattress, every muscle screaming its exhaustion. But his mind wouldn’t shut up, wouldn’t stop circling back to the same problem that had been plaguing him.

"Speaking of," he said, pushing himself up on his elbows, "what was going on with the favorability? Just when I thought it would earn me a percentage, nothing came up. Are you sure it’s really reacting to Grayson’s impression?"

This had been bothering him for a while now. The favorability meter had been raised when Keaton was there. But when the two of them were impossibly close earlier. Grayson clearly had a close contact with him, if possible romantic, yet the percentage didn’t budge.

Were the System’s priorities different now? He was so confused. Something wasn’t adding up.

Shelly twirled in the air and somehow manifested a digital mustache. She stroked it like some wise old sage about to impart profound wisdom. Her pink shell body and googly eyes completely ruined the effect, but she seemed to take herself very seriously.

[The system has its own judging category,] she said in her most authoritative voice. [You should trust the system.]

"..."

Neville stared at her, deadpan.

I give up. Nothing can be serious with this pink shell whose insides were filled with red roses and pink bubbles.

But the frustration couldn’t be restrained inside him.

Trust the system? How? His trust levels were currently somewhere in the negatives.

Even if he didn’t trust the system anymore, Neville couldn’t do anything about it either.

"Whatever," Neville muttered.

He turned his back on Shelly, pulling the coat tighter around himself.

It was childish, he knew.

But he was tired. So incredibly tired.

Tired of second-guessing every interaction.

Tired of lying to himself.

The pillow was soft against his cheek. Grayson’s scent surrounded him. It was really comforting.

Neville closed his eyes.

Exhaustion dragged him into darkness, and he let himself drift away.

His last conscious thought was a bitter one:

I really, really don’t want to work tomorrow either.