Page 5 of The Stuffing Situation

Her voice was a whisper. “How do you know that?”

“It was in your behavioral loop. Aggregated across voice memos, sleep tracking, and morning browsing habits.”

Maya blinked.

“It was in your data profile, and you muttered it in bed once.”

She dropped the plate.

It shattered on the hardwood with a decisive crack, shards skittering across the floor like startled roaches.

Felix looked down, unbothered. “That’s okay. I’ll sweep it up.”

Her pulse slammed into DEFCON 1.

“How do you know what I muttered inbedonce?”

He straightened, this time with caution. “It’s always listening, you know this. You say something once, and suddenly every app’s offering you sourdough starter kits and herbal hangover teas.”

She gaped. “You’re quoting the algorithm as though it’s some sacred text.”

Felix, entirely unfazed, retrieved a dustpan from under the sink, moving with the comfort of long residence.

“You really should stop enabling microphone permissions,” he added helpfully.

Before she could scream again, the front door flung open with the momentum of maternal judgment.

“Maya!” Her mom’s voice rang out, a threat wrapped in enthusiasm. “I brought coffee! Is your boyfriend still here? I told Lorraine you weren’t lying!”

Maya’s soul exited her body.

No. No no no no no.

“Please be a fever dream,” she muttered. “Please let me wake up with a Dorito stuck to my cheek and no memory of this.”

But Felix was already moving. Already gliding toward the door as if this were his house.

“I’ll get her mug,” he said brightly, with the zeal of a cult member offering biscotti.

Maya slumped into the nearest chair, head in her hands. This wasn’t happening. This wasnothappening. She had manifested a man, shared him with the internet, and now he was in her mother’s house, discussing mugs as though they caught up twice a week on the phone.

“I am in hell,” she muttered into her palms.

At least hell had breakfast service.

3

Mission: Contain the Chaos

Coffee sloshed against the rim of her mug with every sharp turn, her pacing stretching the room walls thinner by the second.

The Coffee tasted suspiciously good. Smooth, slightly nutty, and possibly hexed.

She glared into the mug as though it might whisper secrets. Perhaps it would reveal how the ghost of a thirst trap had hijacked her life.

Was this how it started? One minute you’re drinking your mom’s mystery latte, the next you’re possessed by a 1950s housewife who thinks vacuuming is foreplay.

Her mother’s surprises usually came in the form of tuna casseroles, not cursed caffeine delivery systems.