Going back out to the garage, the scent of fresh-cut grass and motor oil mingles in the cool night air as you find your girlfriend circling the guillotine like a curious cat. Moonlight streams through the garage windows, casting long shadows that make the massive blade gleam like liquid silver.

"Pretty cool, huh?" you say, stepping up behind her and placing your hands on her hips. She jumps slightly at your touch, then leans back into you with a shiver of excitement.

"It's incredible," she breathes, running her fingers along the polished oak frame. "The craftsmanship... it doesn't even look real." Her fingertips trace the intricate carvings of fleur-de-lis, pausing at the cold metal of the blade's housing. "Do you have anything we can slice?"

You grin and hold up the watermelon you'd brought from the kitchen. Its green rind glistens with condensation in the dim light. "Just picked this up today."

Her eyes light up with mischief as she snatches the melon from your hands. The way she moves - quick and eager - makes her sundress flutter around her thighs as she dashes back to the guillotine. You watch, entranced, as she carefully positions the watermelon in the stocks, her fingers lingering on the smooth wood.

"Pull the lever," she commands, stepping back with her hands clasped in anticipation.

The rope is rough against your palm as you tug it downward. For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happens - then the blade drops with a whoosh of displaced air. The sound it makes as it cleaves through the watermelon is obscenely wet, the two halves falling apart with a juicy thud onto the waiting tray below.

But your celebration dies in your throat when you see your girlfriend's face go pale. She's staring at her left hand - or rather, where her left hand should be. The blade had continued its descent just a fraction too far, and now her delicate wrist ends in smooth, unblemished skin.

The scream that tears from her throat is primal, the sound of pure animal terror. You're at her side in an instant, grabbing her shoulders as she hyperventilates, her whole body shaking.

"What happened? Are you okay?" you demand, your own pulse hammering in your ears.

She can't form words, just holds up her arm with wide, disbelieving eyes. That's when you see it - the complete absence of blood. No severed arteries, no bone fragments - just perfect, unbroken skin where her hand should be.

Your stomach lurches as you circle to the other side of the guillotine. There, on the blood-stained tray beside the ruined watermelon, lies her hand - fingers still twitching slightly. When you pick it up, it's warm to the touch, the nails still painted that soft pink she likes. Then, impossibly, the fingers close around yours in a weak grip.

You nearly drop it in shock.

Your girlfriend's sobs have quieted to confused whimpers. "I... I can feel that," she whispers, staring at her stump. "I can feel you holding my hand."

"Does it hurt?" you ask, turning her detached hand over in yours. The wrist end is just as smooth and bloodless as her arm.

She shakes her head, tears still glistening on her cheeks. "No, it's just... cold. And tingly. Like when your foot falls asleep." A hysterical giggle bubbles up. "Can I have it back?"

"Right, sorry," you mutter, carefully pressing the hand against her wrist. The moment the two surfaces touch, they fuse together seamlessly, like melting wax reforming. She flexes her fingers experimentally, then stares at them with dawning comprehension.

The fear in her eyes has been replaced by something else entirely - a dark, hungry curiosity that makes your skin prickle. Her lips curl into a wicked smile as she turns to you, running her newly reattached hand up your chest.

"Let's try a little experiment," she purrs, her voice dripping with promise. The way she's looking at the guillotine now isn't fear - it's desire.