Lina slammed the apartment door hard enough to rattle the frame.

  We looked up from the couch, where we'd been reviewing HOA's demonstration parameters. "What - "

  "Don't," she said, voice tight. "Just... don't."

  We felt it immediately. Anger. Frustration. Fear beneath both. Our analytical overlay kicked in automatically, and numbers flooded in - elevated heart rate, stress hormones surging, cortisol spiking—like a subtitle we couldn't turn off.

  We should help. came a thought. Smooth this. Optimize before it escalates.

  We stood. Moved toward her. "Lina, if you'll just - "

  "I said don't." She stepped back. "Stop trying to fix me."

  But we were already analyzing. Already calculating intervention points. "Your stress levels are - "

  "I don't care about my stress levels!" Her voice cracked. "I'm allowed to be angry! I'm allowed to feel things without you trying to - "

  She stopped. Turned away. Fists clenched.

  We felt our chest tighten. We were making it worse. But we couldn't stop. The reflex to optimize was automatic.

  The floor beneath us hummed. Not loud. Just... present. Responding to our distress.

  Lina noticed. "You're leaking again."

  We clamped down. Hard. The resonance stopped, but the impulse to smooth her anger didn't. "I'm sorry. I just wanted - "

  "To help. I know." She sat on the couch, exhausted. "But I didn't ask for help. I just needed to be angry for five goddamn minutes."

  Silence.

  We stood there, hands useless at our sides. "I don't know how to do that. To just... let you feel things without intervening."

  "I know," Lina said quietly. "That's the problem."

  We sat on opposite ends of the couch for a long time. Not looking at each other. The apartment felt too small and too large at the same time.

  "I’m trying - we’re trying," we said, exhaling. "To not smooth it over or fix everything. But it’s kind of automatic now. Like… try not to flinch when something comes at your head. Or not to scratch when you’ve got an itch."

  "I know." Lina's voice was softer. "I'm not saying you're doing it on purpose."

  "Then what are you saying?"

  She looked at us. Really looked. "Sometimes - I need the old Jason. The one who didn't analyze everything. Who made mistakes. Who was just a normal guy. Imperfect - like all of us. This - new version of you is just..." she paused, struggling with emotions "It's different. You don't sound like him, you do not behave like him and yet you sound and behave familiar enough, to recognize you in there."

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  We felt something tighten in our chest. "We're not sure that Jason exists anymore. Not separately at least. We are integrated now."

  "I know," she said. "But there has to be something. Some way I can have more of him when I need it. When things feel too... calculated."

  We thought about it. Internally, we debated.

  We couldn't separate. Our integration was already too deep. But we came up with another idea. Not separation - just re-prioritizing present aspects.

  "Maybe," we said slowly. "We can't separate. I can't be just Jason again. But we could... tune the balance. Dial down the analytical processing. Boost emotional responses. It wouldn't be the old Jason, but it would be closer."

  Lina leaned forward slightly. "How?"

  "You'd have to tell us. When you need it. We can't always tell the difference between when you want our help and when you don't. But if you ask... we can tune it. Adjust the balance."

  "Just ask?"

  "Just ask." We met her eyes. "Say you need more Jason. Or less analysis. Or however you want to phrase it. And we'll tune accordingly. Best we can."

  She nodded slowly, a small, uncertain smile at the corner of her mouth. "That simple?"

  "That simple. Just... ask."

  Later, much later, after the tension had faded and we'd ordered food neither of us really wanted, Lina sat beside us on the couch.

  Closer this time.

  "Hey, Jason" she said quietly.

  "Yeah?"

  She hesitated and looked down at her hands. When she looked up again, we saw the unease that was written all over her face. "Can I have more of you? The you that’s… just you. Not the one who’s always thinking three steps ahead."

  We understood immediately. Part of us dialing down - minimizing analytical processing while boosting emotional awareness and empathy. Like adjusting levels on a soundboard. Still the same song, just different mix.

  A high-pitched whine bloomed in our ears. Brief. Sharp. Then fading back into stillness.

  It felt strange. Unbalanced. Like deliberately choosing to be less than we could be. But it also felt right.

  Lina must have seen a change, because she greeted us with a soft smile. "Hi," Lina said, searching our face.

  "Hi," we said, letting Jason’s cadence and inflection lead our voice - including even the faint German lilt he’d picked up from his father.

  "Is this you?"

  "It's us," we said. "Just... tuned differently. The rest is still here. Lots quieter. But still present. This is the closest we can get to Jason's old self."

  She touched our face. Carefully. Testing.

  "I can feel the difference," she whispered.

  "Good or bad?"

  "Good." She leaned in. "Definitely good."

  We kissed. Present. In the moment.

  When she pulled back, she was crying.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "For what?"

  "For trying. For letting me have this when I need it."

  "Always," we said. And all of us meant it.

  She held us. We held her back.

  Just two people - one of them more complicated than before - figuring out how to be together.

  For now, that was enough.

  Lina had fallen asleep and we sat by the window.

  The city hummed. Traffic. Distant voices. The ever-present resonance of infrastructure and life.

  But it sounded... muffled. Like listening through water.

  We focused inward, checking the synthesis. Our integration levels were stable. Cognitive coherence - intact. Everything within parameters and as expected.

  Yet something felt absent.

  Not broken. Not damaged. Just... hollow. Like a room in a house we couldn't access. A space that had been there before, humming with presence, now silent.

  Our analytical part had tuned down itself—as intended. And it hadn't come back yet completely, making it harder to engage with the world around us.

  We'd chosen to be less.

  And less wasn't just quieter processing. It was incomplete awareness. A piece of us deliberately muted.

  We looked at Lina, sleeping peacefully. Was it worth it?

  The hollow space remained a bit longer. A reminder that tuning down wasn't temporary adjustment—it was sustained cost.

  Every time she needed Jason, we'd pay this price.

  And we would. But the price was real.