Part 1The Maid Model Caught Feelings

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.

* * *

"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.