Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Amelia

The gentle strains of Ludovico Einaudi's "Adieux" flutter into my consciousness, gently nudging me from sleep. I linger in the comfort of my bed, the covers drawn up to my chin, feeling bewildered and still somewhat fuzzy from the meds.

How exactly did I end up back in my bed last night?

The last snippet of memory I have is of dozing off on the couch, the guys' voices a soothing background hum. My mind scrambles to piece together the missing steps from couch to bed.

Did Oliver carry me again?

The thought sends a warm flush across my cheeks. The idea of being in his arms, even just briefly, stirs something pleasantly unsettling in the pit of my stomach.

The way he smelled so good.

I'd love to lick his throat to find out if he tastes just as exquisite.

Jamie's familiar voice breaks through my morning fog and inappropriate thoughts. "Good morning, Amelia. Misha instructed me to wake you. They will be over in an hour with breakfast and plan to work from here today."

Work from here?

Like, in my bed?

I groan, feeling way too groggy for this kind of conversation. The thought of them feeling obligated to hover around me out of guilt twists a knot in my gut. I need my space back and to return to my routine without the weight of their pity.

After taking a quick shower and changing into jeans and a light blue sweater, I grab my phone to shoot a message into the new group chat.

Hey guys, I'm heading to work. Thank you again for yesterday, really appreciated it.

Before I can slip the phone into my pocket, it vibrates.

Misha: Naw, I was looking forward to the croissants.

I roll my eyes, a small smile betraying my annoyance.

Grey: You sure? How do you feel?

Choosing to sidestep Grey's inquiry, not wanting to encourage their fussing, even though I still feel shitty, I send a quick, decisive reply.

Sorry. Have a nice day.

Misha: :(

Fuck. That hurt my heart.

Stuffing my phone into my jeans, I try to stifle the tiny bloom of sadness that Oliver hadn't chimed in. He's probably just as eager as I am to return to normalcy, not wanting to blur the lines between professional and personal further .

Sure, you so don't want that, Amelia.

As I'm about to head out of my apartment, Jamie asks, "Stepping out, Amelia?"

"Yes, off to work," I reply, adjusting my smartwatch, which also doubles as my door key.

"Would you like a weather update before you go?"

I chuckle at his eagerness, even though I can see through the window that it's sunny outside. "Sure, what's the forecast, Jamie?"

"Sunny with a slight chance of needing sunglasses," he quips, and I can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

"Very funny. Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," I say in farewell, grinning all the way down the elevator and out of the building.

I walk the few feet over to the other side of the street and Elysium. The lobby is buzzing with the soft hum of colleagues in their morning rush. It's familiar and, in a way, reassuringly predictable.

But I feel more eyes on me than usual and even hear my name whispered. I can't help feeling out of place, as if I've stepped out of one world and into another where I don't belong, either.

Hendricks is waiting for me by the elevator with a lifted eyebrow and a head tilt that reads more like a diagnosis than a greeting. Concern is etched deep in his features.

"Good morning," I greet, attempting a smile as we catch an elevator up to our floor. The ride up feels slower today, or maybe it's just my heartbeat filling the silence between us.

He's always quiet . W hy does it feel strange today?

"You all right?" Hendricks's voice cuts through my thoughts, and I nod, more out of reflex than honesty. His question confirms that my ordeal is public knowledge by now.

Fuck.

Hendricks always eats lunch at his desk to avoid socializing. So if he knows…

Everyone knows.

Perfect, just perfect.

We step out of the elevator and head toward our shared office. Inside , I let my backpack thump next to my desk chair and sink into it with a sigh. The familiar startup sounds of my computer are oddly comforting.

This is fine, Amelia. Just drown in work and forget the whispers.

But only about thirty minutes later, I get pulled out of my coding when Dr. Cockwomble himself strides in. Keeping my eyes on the screen, I hope he's here to talk with Hendricks, but he comes to a stand next to me, and I can feel his gaze on the side of my face.

Ugh.

I should have stayed at home.

I could have been lounging on the couch with three genius, good-looking men around me, but no, I chose to be here—with him.

He perches on the edge of my desk with his signature loom, his eyebrows knitting together in concern as thin as tissue paper as he asks, "Heard you had quite the adventure. Feeling better today?"

"Yes, thank you," I manage, keeping my voice neutral despite the irritation bubbling inside me.

"You know, you could have taken the day off. I would have been happy to bring you any work you needed," he continues, his tone dripping with something unsettlingly solicitous.

What a complete twat.

"That's… kind but unnecessary. Thank you," I reply, my polite tone just as contrived .

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Glad to hear our AI friends took good care of you. How's the project going? They told me yesterday you'll need to beta some more. Seems they're not as perfect as they think, huh?" He chuckles, and his eyes light up with a gleam that's too close to malicious delight for comfort.

I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to snap at him. But giving him gossip about the men who came to my rescue yesterday will never happen.

When I don't say anything, he holds my gaze a moment longer, his eyes eventually drifting down my body in a slow, deliberate scan that makes my stomach turn.

"You should keep hydrated and catch up on the work you missed yesterday," he finally says, standing up to leave. His voice is smooth as oil but just as unpleasant.

As he walks away, I turn back to my screen, my fingers itching to type something, anything, to cleanse my palate of the interaction. So, I do and dive back into the code that doesn't have a single use for fake smiles and insincere sentiments.

A while later, my phone buzzes with a message from Misha, breaking my concentration once more.

Ready for lunch?

I glance at the message but decide against responding. I'm deep in code, and honestly, I haven't even taken my usual coffee break, mostly because I wanted to avoid the cafeteria—too many curious eyes, possibly including Oliver's.

A few minutes later, a knock at the office door catches me off guard. Hendricks looks up from his sandwich, as surprised as I am.

No one knocks at our office without a scheduled meeting.

He shrugs, crumbs on his lips, and I get up to answer it. Misha's bright grin greets me from the threshold, with Oliver and Grey looming behind him. My heart does that annoying little flip at the sight of them.

Silly thing.

"Hey… what are you doing here?" I ask, masking my confusion with a half-smile.

"We're taking you to lunch. Looks like you lost track of time," Misha replies, his grin broadening. "Don't worry. It happens to Oliver all the time."

I shake my head. "Sorry, I didn't think lunch was necessary today. I haven't got anything to report. You probably know more than I do after my series of naps yesterday." I try to joke about it, but the memory of my helplessness irks me.

Misha's grin doesn't fade. "It's just lunch. Casual, remember?"

Casual. Right.

I've never really grasped what that's supposed to mean.

"No, thank you," I say, trying to maintain a light tone.

But Misha doesn't budge, his grin persistent. "Come on, Amelia. I'm buying."

I glance at Oliver, who quickly looks away when our eyes meet.

I thought we were over this since I slept with my head in your lap.

Or maybe that made him uncomfortable and the situation even worse.

Awesome.

Grey, on the other hand, watches me with a challenging expression that says he's not taking no for an answer.

Ah, bloody hell.

I so don't want to do this—the whispers, the wrong kind of attention of my high school days all over again. But avoiding the situation might fuel more speculation. The only thing that's worse than going is not going—a lesson learned from my high school years as well.

"Fine," I relent, my sigh heavy with resignation as I grab my backpack. "But remember where you buying me lunch has brought us? I'll pick my own this time."

Oliver snickers at my comment, and even Grey's lips twitch into a smirk.

That wasn't supposed to be funny.

"All right, as long as you come with," Misha agrees cheerfully, stepping to the side to let me step out in the hallway with them.

Grey looks pointedly at my backpack, his tone turning serious. "Did they give you a new EpiPen?"

I feel my cheeks heat up at his concern. "Yes, they did."

Let's just hope I won't need this one ever.

"Good. Let's go," Grey commands, leading the way as I follow, my mind racing.

Maybe it won't be so bad.

Maybe I can handle this after all.

We pass the cylindrical aquarium in the hallway near my office with the nine-hundred-ninety-six siblings of the four neon tetras I've rehomed in my apartment.

Behind me, Misha's voice breaks the silence that hung between us. "Oh, look, Amelia, they're the same kind of fish you have. Just a lot more of them."

I stiffen at his words, a chill running down my spine.

Did he connect the dots?

Turning slightly, I catch Oliver giving Misha a sharp elbow to the ribs. Misha winces, then chuckles, a glint of mischief in his eyes when he meets my gaze.

Dammit .

Without halting my stride to the lift, I manage a cool, "I noticed."

I really should get to it, grabbing some more. Or this will take years.

If OMG have pieced together where my new-finned friends are from, I need to accelerate my efforts.

They might rat me out before I've managed to save enough of them.

How many are enough?

All of them.

The elevator ride is filled with silence once more, and I feel all their gazes on me as I'm standing in front of them.

Why did I agree to this?

We arrive downstairs, navigating through the bustling cafeteria, each veering off to select our lunch. Grey and I head to the vegetarian section, where he picks a quinoa salad brimming with roasted veggies while I opt for a spinach and goat cheese wrap, diligently checking the ingredients list.

Fool me once and all that.

Grey nudges me aside with his shoulder to peer at the list himself, making me glare at him and mutter, "You don't have to do that. I've survived twenty-five years without a food checker."

"Barely," he grunts out, grabbing my plate from my hands and heading toward the tables. I grab two bottles of water for us and follow him, slightly annoyed.

We settle at the table we sat at yesterday. Misha comes back with a loaded tray piled high with what looks like half the meat section. Oliver joins us as well with spaghetti and tomato sauce.

"God, I'm starving," Misha exclaims while grabbing his knife and fork .

"You're always starving." I can hear the eye roll in Grey's tone.

I have to suppress a smile, and once more, a feeling of belonging fills me. Being around them is so effortless, something I never really felt with anyone but August. It's dangerous. It's something I could get used to.

But as we start to eat, I feel the prickling sensation of being watched on the back of my head. Not just paranoia—whispers float over, my name uttered in hushed tones.

Ugh, fantastic.

I glance behind and meet the stares of several men at a nearby table. Their expressions are mingled with curiosity and amusement. Feeling suddenly exposed, I set my wrap down, my appetite fleeing.

Grey looks up from his plate beside me when he notices. "What is it?"

No doubt, he's ready to tackle me with the EpiPen again. I have a bruise covering over half of my thigh, thanks to him.

And I'm still breathing, thanks to him, which is a lot more important.

I guess.

Shaking my head, I reply, "Just not as hungry as I thought."

Before Grey can respond, harsh whispers cut through the background noise of the cafeteria.

"Women… always seeking attention…"

"The damsel in distress act… works well…"

"… sleeps her way to the top…"

I shrink into myself, mortification flooding in as I close my eyes, taking a deep breath.

They're total arseholes.

I know that. Fuck, every woman in STEM knows what this is .

Their words should roll off my back, but it stings, especially with the guys right here, having probably heard all of it since they stopped eating too.

They're gonna think I'm using them to get my career going.

As I sit frozen, the mocking words piercing the air around me, I suddenly feel a shift. Warmth presses against my back, and when I glance up, I find Grey has moved closer, his arm draped protectively over the back of my chair, his body leaning in toward me. His gaze is fixed firmly over his shoulder on the table behind us, where the sneers and jeers had originated from.

His scowl is deep, almost palpable in its intensity, and it cuts through the cafeteria noise like a sharp blade. It's as if his look alone commands respect—or at least something akin to fear.

Who needs words if you have a scowl like that?

Under the force of his glare, the group's laughter dwindles, and their smug expressions falter. One by one, they stand, their chairs scraping back in a hasty retreat. They mumble among themselves, their voices now a low, embarrassed murmur as they collect their trays and jackets. Grey's scowl escorts them silently out of our vicinity.

He doesn't move away immediately once they're gone. Instead, he remains beside me, his arm still casually resting behind me, eliciting a flutter in my chest.

Fuck, that was…

… so damn hot.

Seems like I'm a damsel in distress, after all.

I snicker, breaking the tension that seems to have a grip on all of us. "Never thought you'd use your superpower for good."

Grey turns to me, his eyebrows lifting in mock surprise. "My superpower? "

"Yeah, your super scowl . You're always so grumpy," I tease, unable to suppress a grin.

He just proved that he likes me at least a little bit, right?

Or maybe he just doesn't want the disrespect to rub off on him.

"I'm not always grumpy. That's just my face." He shifts, his hand on my back, starting to play with strands of my hair, his expression softening as he looks at me. "But I was angry now because those dickheads shouldn't get to spew their crap unchallenged."

His light brown eyes linger on mine, and when I take a deep breath, his scent hits me. It's bitter and rich, like a really good cup of coffee. Something like buttered rum adds sweetness to it. Under it all is that comforting smell of old sheet music.

It's… fuck, he smells like the perfect Saturday afternoon.

The side of his mouth twitches before he glances at Oliver. Removing his arm from the back of my chair, he straightens, the absence of his closeness leaving an unexpected chill in its wake.

Across the table, Misha lets out a hearty chuckle. "Told you you're an intimidating fucker. People here are afraid of you. You should relax more."

" Good . They know we can get them fired with a snap of our fingers. And I am relaxed," Grey shoots back, his tone a blend of annoyance and a begrudging amusement that flickers briefly across his features.

"As relaxed as a system crash." My laughter softens the edges of the recent tension, and Grey's lips twitch upward once more, his lingering scowl dissolving into a reluctant grin for just a fleeting moment.

Oliver chimes in with playful mischief I haven't seen before on him, "Yeah, as calm as a debug session. "

His words earn him a sharp glare from Grey, but it only fuels our laughter, lightening the atmosphere.

Regaining my composure, I pick up my wrap again, eager to steer the conversation toward safer waters. "So, about Jamie's personality updates… what are you guys adding?"

Misha leans forward, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "We're integrating more adaptive algorithms, trying to make his responses more natural, just like you suggested." The warmth in his voice sends a surprising thrill through me.

I can't help but sit up a bit straighter, a flush of pride swirling inside me. Having them act on my feedback is not just validating—it's exhilarating.

Oliver adds with a gentle smile, "We made quite a few changes this morning, and there's more planned for the afternoon. Which means you can give Jamie another test run tonight if you're up for it."

"Sure, I'll have a little chat with him tonight, see if he's improved." My tone is light, but internally, I'm genuinely intrigued to see the changes.

It has to be impressive, judging by the pride in Oliver's gaze.

Misha grins. "That's the spirit!"

Trying to focus on the meal, I can't ignore the unexpected warmth Grey's actions stirred in me. His defense, simple as it was, seemed huge, given how rare it is for anyone to stand up for me like that.

Is it silly to feel a glimmer of hope, to wonder if there might be a real connection forming here? Not just professional or based on shared interests, but actual friendship?

Grey's stern exterior softened for a moment to protect me, and that gesture chips away at the defenses I've built around myself .

Yet, I'm cautious, doubts still nagging at me.

It's risky to read too much into simple acts of kindness. My usual solitude feels safer, less complicated.

But as I sit here, surrounded by laughter and light conversation, I can't help but feel a tug of longing for what might be if I let these walls down just a bit more.