Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

Amelia

Inside my apartment, I instinctively kick off my shoes, and to my surprise, the guys follow suit.

They're staying?

"What are you—" I begin, but Grey cuts me off.

"Go take a shower and change," he instructs, his nose wrinkling as he glances at the dried blood on my trousers from the EpiPen. Only now do I notice how disheveled I must look—clothes wrinkled and probably filthy from the cafeteria floor.

"I will, and thank you. For everything and for bringing me home." I try to dismiss them, but Grey just grunts and walks over to my couch, flopping himself down. Misha grins, following suit, while Oliver offers an apologetic smile as he, too, makes himself comfortable.

Fine.

This is fine.

I retreat to my bedroom, catching sight of myself in the mirror. My hair is a nest, my face blotchy and red, remnants of the allergic reaction. My lips are dry, my glasses smeared—just like the rest of me .

No wonder Grey is disgusted by me.

Grabbing some navy sweatpants, a white Henley, socks with books on them, and fresh underwear, I head into my en suite bathroom. I'm too tired to wash my hair, so I brush and work it into a French braid, clipping it up before stepping into the shower. The warm water on my skin and the scent of bodywash in the steamy air soothe my frayed nerves and the anxiety of the last few hours.

Dressed and with my braid now curled over one shoulder, I consider applying makeup. But that would only irritate my skin further, and honestly, they've already seen me at my worst. So, I settle for some moisturizer and Chapstick and slip my glasses and smartwatch back on with one last look in the mirror.

Well, fuck.

I look defeated.

Because I am.

I would love to just take a nap, but I can't because I have the company's future sitting on my couch. But when I step back into the living room, Oliver is the only one still where I left them. His eyes briefly scan me from top to bottom before he quickly looks away. Misha is standing in front of the fish tank, seemingly fascinated by the tetras swimming back and forth.

Please don't think too hard about that.

I search for Grey and find him at my small table, my laptop open in front of him.

What the fuck?

But before I can protest, he waves me over.

"Amelia, come here," he commands, his tone doing things to me.

Ugh, dammit.

Curious and a tad annoyed by his audacity, I walk over. He grabs my right wrist, pulling my smartwatch close to the laptop, which promptly unlocks.

"What do you think you're doing?" I hiss.

"Hey, I could have just hacked my way into it, but no, I waited patiently until you were done to get your permission, like Oliver asked me to," he retorts.

My laugh is sarcastic as I glance at Oliver, who seems to shrink at the mention of his name. "You call this permission?"

"Well, I didn't just barge my way into it, did I? Now, hush, I'm working," Grey dismisses me, his focus already shifting back to the laptop.

He connects Jamie's hardware and begins initiating it. The irritation that flared up seconds ago melts away.

Jamie's going to be back.

I wonder if I could list him as my emergency contact.

It was quite embarrassing to admit to the nurse who made me fill out their form that I didn't have anyone to put there.

The pity in her eyes said it all.

Misha saunters over and places his hands on my shoulders, steering me toward the couch. "Grey can't stand people looking over his shoulder while he works."

Of course, Mr. Donovan has diva airs.

"He's working on my laptop," I protest weakly because, let's be honest, I'm relieved he's putting Jamie back where he belongs, even if I could have done this myself.

"That's right, and we're going to chill a little while he does," Misha declares, settling me between himself and Oliver on the couch.

Sitting there, sandwiched between them, I can't help but feel a weird mix of comfort and exasperation. They've inserted themselves into my life and space as if it's the most natural thing in the world .

Maybe it is, for now.

Not being alone, especially after such a health scare, is what I've always wanted. But it seems I'm so damaged that when someone tries to give me what I want, I have no fucking idea how to respond.

Pulling up my feet and wrapping my arms around my knees, I catch Oliver glancing at my socks, a faint smile touching his lips. He shifts, crossing his left foot over his knee to show off his own socks adorned with coffee beans and mugs.

"So, books, huh?" he asks softly, his gaze meeting mine.

I rest my cheek on my arms, looking up at him, feeling a flutter in my chest. "So, coffee, huh?" I shoot back with a light chuckle. "Though I already knew that one." Another smile flickers across his lips as he looks down at his socks. "Do you want one?"

Shit, I'm such a bad host.

Well, I have never really practiced before.

"Does anyone want something? I have coffee, tea, or water," I blurt out, cringing at the sparseness of my offerings.

I think I might have some soda somewhere.

I start to rise, but Misha grabs my forearm and tugs me back down to the couch. The motion brings me closer to him than before, so I scoot a little to the other side, only to find that now I'm very close to Oliver.

Fuck.

"It's fine, we don't need anything. And if we do, we can get it ourselves. We have working hands and legs. You need to rest," Misha states as he settles deeper into my couch, his arm stretched out along the back as he tugs gently at my braid.

He treats me with ease and familiarity as if we've known each other for ages, even though we've only just met. Not counting the years I watched them from afar, of course.

It's soothing and exhilarating.

Stop getting in your head. He's like that with everyone.

"Sure, why not help yourself to everything? Grey doesn't seem to have a problem with it," I mumble, glancing at Grey, who is trying to suppress a grin behind my laptop screen.

It seems he does understand the concept of smiling, after all. I just wasn't one of the chosen few he blessed with it.

You're still not, Amelia. You don't belong with them.

They're just here because they feel guilty.

I watch Grey typing furiously on my keyboard, and if I hadn't locked down my AR project before firing up Jamie, I'd be panicking right now.

Wait… this is Grey Donovan.

The Grey Donovan.

My security measures are probably like stepping over a brick for him, not a wall like intended. Maybe I should be freaking out.

"You've got some good music in here, but I'll add you to follow my playlists for some broader perspective," Grey mutters, still focused on my laptop.

I exhale, relieved.

If he's critiquing my music taste, he's not looking deeper than he should.

"I'm perfectly happy with my current music, thank you very much," I retort with an edge of sass that surprises even me, but Grey's comments seem to have awakened something new in me.

Misha coughs, poorly disguising a laugh beside me, and Grey finally lifts his gaze from my laptop to meet mine, a challenge flickering in his eyes. "Don't be so closed-minded, Amelia. I'm sure I could introduce you to music you never knew you needed."

Was that? Is he?

Fuck.

Misha, seemingly wanting to change the subject, leans forward. "So, Amelia, what's your story? When you're not fighting off deadly allergens, that is."

I chuckle, the ease of his question helping me relax a little. "Not much to tell, really. I grew up in London, came here for the job. Apparently, living dangerously with my food choices."

"London? That's pretty British," Misha jokes, and I roll my eyes at him.

"You could say that, yes."

I know Misha is originally from Greece. Everybody knows this, but it would be impolite not to ask about his background in return.

Right?

But before I can reciprocate, Grey strides over and holds a phone right in front of my face so abruptly that all I can do is blink at it until the screen unlocks and I see my yellow wallpaper with a smiling avocado.

"Hey!" I protest, more out of surprise than anger.

The audacity of this man is limitless.

Where did he even get it?

"Shush, I'm just adding our numbers. You'll need us when Jamie goes rogue again," he mumbles without looking up from the screen, sitting in the armchair beside the couch.

Again?

What is he even talking about?

Jamie works like a charm.

He lets each of their phones ring once to confirm the contact saves, then keeps typing away. "All right, you're all set," Grey announces, handing me my phone with a group chat open.

I'm about to argue that Jamie doesn't go rogue when Misha bursts out laughing, glancing at my phone screen. "Oh, come on, Grey. Emergency Contacts ? Really?"

Without missing a beat, he snatches the phone from my hand and types quickly. "There, much better." He hands it back to me with a grin.

The new group chat name reads Handsome Tech Support.

I can't help but snort at the creativity.

Putting my phone on the coffee table, I start squirming on the couch. Fussing with my braid, I ask, "Is Jamie back online yet?"

"A few more minutes. He's still initializing," Grey responds, tapping his forefinger on his knee in a rhythmic cadence.

That prompts Misha and Grey to dive into a deep technical discussion about Jamie and how they could improve him, throwing around terms like neural networks and adaptive learning algorithms . I try to keep up, but the medical aftermath and the room's warmth make my eyelids heavy.

Noticing my struggle to stay awake, Oliver leans closer, his voice a hushed whisper just for me. "It's all right, you can take a nap. We'll be here."

His reassurance is like a spell. My body, no longer on high alert, surrenders to the fatigue. As I lean back against the cushions, the last thing I feel is Oliver's gentle hand supporting my shoulder, easing me down. The voices around me fade into a comforting buzz as I drift off, secure in the knowledge that this time, I'm not alone.

The click of my apartment door closing pulls me toward wakefulness just as I'm drifting at the edge of sleep, the kind that's thick and comforting. I initially think the guys must have left, and a pang of disappointment hits me—sad that the pleasant weight of their presence is gone.

But then, I notice how warmth is wrapped around my feet, hands gently holding them, and another hand strokes the top of my head, the touch feather-light and surprisingly soothing. I'm so content and utterly cozy that I savor it.

Maybe it's the tail end of a dream, but I'm not ready to let go just yet.

"Should we wake her?" Grey's voice, barely a whisper, breaks the silence. His tone is low, uncharacteristically gentle, floating through the air like a delicate mist.

I'm tempted to respond, to open my eyes and rejoin the conscious world, but this moment is too precious. Instead, I remain still, feigning sleep a bit longer, basking in the rare feeling of being cared for. The hand on my hair pauses then resumes its soothing motion, and I can't suppress the small, contented smile that curves my lips.

"She's already awake," Oliver murmurs, amusement in his voice.

Busted.

As I blink my eyes open, the first thing I see is Oliver's face hovering above mine, his green eyes looking down with a gentle concern. His glasses have slid slightly down his nose, and with a deft touch of his finger, he pushes them back into place. A soft smile plays across his lips, and the proximity sends a flutter through my heart, making it skip a beat.

My gaze then drifts along the length of the couch, tracing the outline of my body until it reaches Misha at the other end. His black curls are tousled, and there's a weary softness in his eyes—eyes that seem like they themselves could have used the nap I just had. Nonetheless, he grins at me and gives my feet a gentle squeeze.

Boundaries, Amelia.

Reacting to his touch, I withdraw my feet from his hold and sit upright. Grey is standing in front of the coffee table, holding four boxes of pizzas, making my stomach rumble loudly.

"What time is it? I didn't mean to sleep for so long." I yawn, taking off my glasses to rub my eyes.

"It's all right. Your day was shitty. We just hope you're really into pizza with fried eggs on it. If not, this could be dicey," Misha cringes, laughing.

"How did you know?" I ask, puzzled.

"I looked up your preferences from earlier pizza deliveries and let them know," Jamie answers and a weight lifts off my chest.

"Jamie," I breathe out, wide awake now, looking around as if he would be in the room with us. "You're back? And you remember me?"

"Of course I do, Amelia."

"Yeah, Jamie's online and probably judging us all harshly for our pizza choices. But yours is the worst." Grey's trademark smirk grows even bigger when I scowl at him. "I restored him with your backup, so he remembers every interaction."

Somehow, I didn't even think about him having a backup of our time together.

Something to think about.

Later.

When I'm not groggy, medicated, and hungry.

"Thank you," I whisper, meaning it. I can't even tell them how much this means to me.

Probably better this way.

"All right, let's eat. I'm starving," Misha commands, and Grey hands out the pizzas and sets some water bottles on the coffee table.

"Do we need anything from the kitchen?" I ask, readying to stand, but Grey pushes my pizza box at me.

"Nope, we'll eat with our hands, like it's supposed to be."

Huh, I'm more stuck up than he is for once.

Oliver grimaces.

Something else we have in common.

I set down my box and head to the kitchen to grab some forks and knives for him and myself, as well as some napkins for everyone. Smiling gratefully, Oliver takes the cutlery from my hand before I sit back next to him.

"Wow, she already pegged him right after just a day of knowing each other," Misha tells Grey, who huffs a laugh.

"Not true. He and I have a long coffee break history," I mutter while slicing my first bite of pizza. I marvel at the gooey yolk that oozes over the crisp crust and groan a little as I put it in my mouth.

The richness of the fried egg blends perfectly with the tangy tomato sauce.

I feel Oliver's gaze on me, so I turn to look at him, and he stares so openly my stomach sinks.

Did I say something stupid?

Damn, I'm not used to having casual conversations.

I don't know where all my introversion has gone over the past few hours, but this, this feels so effortless—at least when I'm not fucking up.

Misha takes a bite of his salami pizza, and I glance at Oliver's, which seems to be a Margherita, while Grey's is topped with parmesan and eggplant.

Grey grabs the remote and asks, "Should we start from the beginning? Or do you know that one, Amelia?"

I look up at the television, only now noticing the grainy, vintage still of the movie paused on screen. A group of figures in ragged, primitive costumes huddles around a large, tattered flag planted firmly in the sand. The film's iconic imagery suddenly clicks—those distinctive costumes, the desolate landscape…

Planet of the Apes?

"Well, I know of it, never watched it, if it is the one I think it is."

He shakes his head, huffing out a breath as if it's audacious not to know that film.

Yeah, sure, I'm the audacious one.

"All right, we'll watch from the beginning, but just so you know, your TV is shit, so next time we'll do this at our place."

Next time?

"Why is my TV shit?" I ask instead.

"It's not your TV. It's just that we have a screen with a 4K projector and a really good sound system," Misha explains, his mouth full.

"And we have all the movie collections on our account. The only decent old-school Sci-Fi I could find was that one, and I'm definitely not watching Twilight again," Grey adds, shuddering, which sends a wave of embarrassment through me.

Feeling my cheeks heat up, I ask, "Why are you saying that?"

I didn't talk in my sleep, did I?

"It was paused when he turned on the TV," Oliver mumbles, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile.

Misha opens a bottle and hands it to me. We all eat and drink, watching the movie in silence, and when we're done, Grey stands, collecting all the boxes and bottles.

"Thanks, Grey," I say as I hand him mine. Despite his rough edges, he's shown up today in ways I didn't expect .

All of them did.

I settle back into the couch as the lights start to dim automatically, signaling that Jamie is thoroughly integrated back into my system. My eyelids are heavy, and the events of the day are catching up with me for the second time now that my stomach is full and it's getting late.

I should probably tell them to leave, apologize, and thank them again, but I can't muster the energy. I'm completely exhausted. Besides, they've proven they wouldn't listen, anyway.

The last thing I hear before my eyes finally close is Misha's chuckle, then sleep pulls me under once more. As I drift off, I feel a gentle hand tucking a blanket around me, the simple act of kindness anchoring me in a way that feels surprisingly like home.