Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Amelia

The morning light gently seeps through the windows, casting a glow onto the kitchen countertop where I'm preparing a cup of tea. As I pour the steaming water over the tea bag, I can't help but pause. The warmth of the cup in my hands mingles with the memories of yesterday.

The way the sunrise had burst through the horizon, splashing the world in hues of gold, was so vivid, so alive, and the dim light through the windows seemed to echo that moment. It's as if every sunrise from now on will hold that wild beauty.

And Misha's smile.

I grimace as I turn and take a step toward the living room. It appears my legs echo the memory as well.

"How are you this morning, Amelia?" Jamie asks.

"Sore, Jamie. Very sore." I groan as I walk to the couch and lower myself in slow motion. Every muscle aches. It was fun, exhilarating even, but clearly, my regular treadmill sessions aren't adequate preparation for even a mild hike.

Who knew walking up a hill could be so exhausting?

I don' t think I ever felt like that after a hike with August. Which reminds me, I need to check my emails.

Maybe I should try and call him.

"It seems like muscle soreness after exercise is quite normal, especially if the activity level is higher than usual. It should pass in a few days," Jamie offers, the concern in his tone almost making me laugh.

"Thanks, I hope it does. I've got plans with Grey later, and at this rate, I'll be waddling like a penguin."

"You might consider a warm bath and perhaps some stretching," Jamie suggests.

"Maybe."

After setting the mug on the coffee table, I lean back and let a smile spread over my face.

The stars, the predawn chill, Misha's laughter echoing around us.

"You're amazing. You're someone I want to be like when I grow up."

It was perfect.

That is until exhaustion hit me like a brick.

After coming home, all I managed to do was take the quickest shower ever and collapse into bed, napping away the remainder of the day. By evening, I wasn't up for much besides a movie marathon.

Stretching my arms over my head, I try to ease the tension in my lower back—when considering that, in combination with the cramps I've had since last night, it's a sure sign that my period is gearing up to make its grand entrance.

Just what I need to accompany the soreness today.

Despite feeling like crap, I refuse to cancel. I will make it to that walk, even if I have to crawl.

"Jamie, please remind me to check my supplies later. I might need to order some pain relievers and… other necessities," I request as I massage one of my thighs over my pajama bottoms.

"Of course. Would you like me to add anything specific to your shopping list?"

I don't have to think twice about one thing. "Strawberry ice cream, please."

"In September, Amelia? That's quite unseasonal," Jamie responds, his tone slightly apprehensive.

Sure, make a girl feel bad for her cravings.

"Strawberry ice cream is the only thing I crave when I'm on my period. It's medicinal, really."

"Understood. I'll add it to your shopping list," Jamie quips, indulging me.

I'm ready to text Grey to ask what time he wants to leave when my phone chimes with a new message.

But it's not from Grey. It's Misha.

Good morning, how are you? Sore?

Is he psychic?

Morning! Are you spying on me or something? How did you know?

Just a hunch!

Yesterday was quite the trek.

So, sore? :)

You could say that. I feel like I've been hit by a bus.

Ouch!

Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm feeling amazing.

I can't help but laugh. Idiot.

Never heard of misery loves company, huh?

I wait with my phone in my hand, but there is no answer.

Can I double-text him?

Pathetic?

Probably.

But I already miss him.

How's your morning going?

Trying to decide if coffee will make me a better person today.

It's worth a shot. Coffee is magic.

Agreed. Let me know if you need anything, okay?

I can bring you some if you want.

Part of me wants to tell him to come over. But right now, I'm far from presentable—looking and feeling as though I've just crawled out of a wreckage. Besides, I still don't know how much time I have before I need to head out.

With a hint of reluctance, I type my reply.

Will do. Thanks, Misha .

I let out a heavy sigh. "Jamie, do you know what time Grey usually goes for his walks on the weekend?"

"His schedule isn't consistent enough for me to give you an estimate. I'm sorry."

"It's fine, I'm just going to—" I get cut short by the chime of my phone in my hand. Expecting to see another message from Misha, I'm surprised when I see a new notification—from Grey.

I'll pick you up in an hour.

They're both psychic, it seems.

A mix of nerves and excitement flutters in my stomach. I smile to myself and can't stop smiling, even when I can barely shuffle to my bedroom to get ready.

Grey

"Good boy," I murmur as Peanut and I stand in front of Amelia's apartment, fretting with the loop of the leash handle, well-worn from many walks.

Peanut pants beside me, nerves making his sides heave more than usual.

He's as nervous as I am.

I had debated picking up Amelia first so we could get Peanut together, but he's shy around strangers. He might've just hidden away, too anxious to leave the house for a walk.

"This is going to be fine," I assure him. "I'll explain that you're a little scaredy-cat, and I bet she'll be nice about it. Amelia is very nice." Peanut cocks his head, looking up at me with doubtful eyes. "Look, I would not take her with us if I thought she wouldn't be cool. So be cool, too, okay? Just be cool about it. "

And please don't embarrass me.

Taking a deep breath, I decide against ringing the doorbell, opting for a gentle knock instead. After a moment, the door swings open, and Amelia stands there with the biggest smile, making something in my chest tighten.

"Hey," she whispers.

"Hey, Princess," slips out before I can think better of it.

She blushes, her eyes darting away from mine, only to comically widen when she notices Peanut beside me. "This is Peanut ?" she asks, amusement clear in her voice.

I look down at the bundle of thick, bushy brown fur that comes up to my waist. He's more a real-life teddy bear than a dog. "Didn't I tell you he's a Newfoundlander?" I ask, racking my brain for whether I'd mentioned it before.

She laughs, a sound that eases some of the tension in my shoulders. "No, you definitely did not. I was expecting a chihuahua or something small with a name like Peanut."

I rub the back of my neck. "It's a long story." Her answering laugh makes me smile, but I quickly add, "Are you scared of big dogs? I promise he's gentle as can be. Heart as big as his body. He's more scared of y—" I cut short as she crouches to greet him properly, grimacing, reminding me that she's aching.

When Misha and I saw how she was hobbling around earlier, I thought about canceling for her sake, but damn, I didn't want to. I feel like a prick for spending even more alone time with Oliver's girl while he's in Portland, helping Morgan pack and bring her stuff over. But I can't seem to feel too guilty while Amelia is right in front of me.

It's just a Sunday walk with a friend.

A very beautiful friend.

"Scared of this pretty boy? Are you kidding me?" Amelia holds her hand up in front of her for him to sniff, but she's not pushing it in his face like most people would .

Letting him come to her.

Just like she did with us.

"Hey, Peanut, I'm Amelia. It's so nice to meet you." I'm about to tell her that he'll not interact with her when Peanut sniffs cautiously. Leaning forward, he licks her hand, making her giggle. "You're such a good boy, aren't you?"

What the…

His tail starts to wag aggressively at her cooing. Then, he bounds forward, knocking her over with his enthusiasm.

Fuck.

My heart leaps into my throat, panic seizing me for a split second until her laughter rings out, loud and clear. "Oh my God, your breath stinks," she exclaims, pushing at Peanut as he lavishes her face with sloppy kisses.

Stammering an apology, I give the leash slack in favor of grabbing Peanut's collar to pull him back, though my heart still races with a mix of fear and relief. "I-I'm so sorry, he never does that. I didn't expect—"

She sits up, still chuckling, and wipes her face with the sleeve of her sweater before grabbing Peanut's head to rub him behind his ears. "Don't worry, we're just both a little excited, aren't we?" she coos some more, using a baby voice on him.

Baby voicing a hundred-fifty-pound dog that just bowled her over.

Why is that so hot?

Peanut's tail wags so enthusiastically that it starts a small breeze.

"He doesn't like people," I murmur, more to myself than to her, my voice tinged with astonishment.

What is even happening?

Amelia looks up at me, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "I'm not big on most people either. "

"Is that supposed to be a broad hint?" I quip, extending my hand to help her up.

As she rises, she steps in close—too close—and I feel her warm and slightly uneven breath against my neck. A shiver cascades down my spine, unexpected and electric.

"No, you suck less than most people," she teases with a playful smile, her voice a soft, breathy whisper.

Her eyes, a striking shade of blue, hold mine, and I'm lost in their depth. Peanut nudges his head between us, his gentle intrusion breaking the intensity of the moment. Reluctantly, I step back.

"I feel honored. Come on, let's go."

She locks the door, then we approach the elevator. I can't help but notice how she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, a small wince briefly crossing her features. She's clearly trying to mask her discomfort.

Pressing the elevator button, I steal another glance at her, concerned. "You sure you're up for this?" The elevator dings, and we step inside, the doors closing behind us with a gentle swoosh.

Amelia nods, flashing a brave smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah, it's just a bit of soreness. Nothing I can't handle."

As we reach the ground floor, we step out of the building and head toward Denny Park. The walk is slow, accommodating her pace. Peanut shoots me looks as if to ask why we're walking this slow.

Read the room, buddy.

"You know, if you're hurting too much, we can always turn back. Misha mentioned yesterday's hike was pretty intense."

"No," she responds quickly, her voice firm despite being edged with discomfort. "I've been looking forward to this walk. Don't worry about me. "

Her resolve strengthens my own, and a smirk spreads across my face. "I'm glad," I admit, feeling a surge of warmth I definitively shouldn't. "I was excited for today too. And I think it will get better if you're using those big muscles, warming them up a little."

"Ha-ha," she mocks, but the smile she returns is genuine now.

We enter the park, and the fresh morning air is filled with the subtle sounds of nature and the distant city. Amelia's spirits seem lifted, and I feel a sense of relief.

As we walk along the pebble stone path, Peanut, who walks between us, seems to gravitate toward Amelia, nudging her from time to time, his tail wagging every time she speaks. Seeing their budding connection, I decide it's time to hand over the leash. "He seems to prefer walking beside you."

"Really?" Amelia beams, reaching out with the hand closest to me to take it, but Peanut remains between us, his joyful nudges continuing.

I place my hand on her hip to bring her to a stop, taking the leash back from her with my other hand.

With a click of my tongue and a "Right," I command Peanut to switch sides.

He obediently trots around her, and I follow with the leash, then hand it to her again. With Peanut now on her other side, I step closer and reach out, taking her free hand and intertwining our fingers. She glances down at our hands, then up at me, a hint of surprise in her expression. "I should keep hold of you in case he decides to run off and pull you with him," I say, partially as an excuse to hold her hand.

Mostly as an excuse to hold her hand.

As we stroll along, a guy sitting in the grass strums a guitar, and Amelia slows her pace, her lips curling into a faint smile as she listens.

"Being out here, making music, it's something magical," she muses aloud.

"Is that what you wanna do with your life? Live from making music in parks?" I ask half-jokingly.

She furrows her brows at me, a silent question in her gaze. "Hell no."

Technically, I shouldn't even know that she's playing an instrument, so I need to watch what I say. "What then? Planning to climb the ladder at Elysium?"

She shakes her head, chuckling lightly. "Elysium was mostly a way to get away from London. I'll stay as long as it makes sense for me, but I'm not there because I love it or anything."

Well, that's honest.

I want to ask about London, about her mother, but it doesn't feel right. I don't want to spoil her mood.

"What about you?" she asks before I can dig any further.

"I think I'm pretty high up that ladder." I shrug, but her sudden burst of laughter makes me realize how that might have sounded arrogant.

Misha always says I sound entitled.

But it's just the fucking truth.

"Well, there's still management above you, any plans to infiltrate them?" she teases playfully yet probingly.

"The short answer is no. The long answer is… fuck no," I say, a smirk playing at the corner of my mouth.

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "How come? I bet they'd love to keep you guys."

I scoff lightly, shaking my head. "They're not as big of fans of us as you might think. Sure, they like what we do and how much money we bring them, so they kiss our asses. But they don't like us . And honestly, I can't stand them," I admit, my tone turning more serious.

"Why not?"

I glance at her, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "I don't take criticism from people I wouldn't take advice from. And they… let's just say, have you ever looked at someone and known the wheel was turning, but the hamster was dead?"

Amelia stops walking as she bursts out laughing. She pulls her hand from mine to hold her side, wincing as if her sore muscles are protesting the sudden movement. "Ouch," she manages through her giggles.

Peanut sits down in front of us, tilting his head as if he's as confused by her laughter as amused by it.

Same, buddy.

"What?" I ask, chuckling along with her. "God knows how they managed to start this company with two brain cells."

"You're the worst," she presses out between giggles, but there's warmth in her eyes. She reaches out and takes my hand again, the familiar flutter returning to my stomach as our fingers intertwine.

"For us, Elysium was always a means to an end," I continue, feeling more at ease now as we resume walking. "They provide the resources we need for our project. It's a company with a good reputation in Seattle, which is perfect for launching Jamie. But our real dream…" I pause, my gaze fixed on the path ahead. "Is to start our own company, focusing solely on AI. We want to work with specialists, dive deeper into the potential of artificial intelligence, maybe push boundaries that Elysium isn't interested in exploring."

Amelia nods, her expression thoughtful as she absorbs what I've shared. The path widens as we walk on, the sunlight on the adjacent trees casting long shadows that blend with our own.

"That sounds amazing. Having the freedom to chase your own visions must be exciting."

"It is. And a bit daunting. But we're hoping to make it happen. If we can manage it, we'll be working on our own terms. Maybe we even open an AR department. I know a certain someone who could lead it."

Her brows furrow, a flicker of confusion and apprehension crossing her face. "I never told you that I have a PhD in AR," she says, her voice tinged with uncertainty as if she's wondering how much I really know about her.

Fuck. Think quick , Grey.

"You didn't really think I wouldn't do some digging into your background before I let you beta test our baby, did you?" I reply, injecting as much lightness into my tone as I can muster, hoping to defuse the tension and make her believe it was all part of the process.

"Well, no. I guess I just didn't see myself as important enough to warrant a background check by the Grey Donovan."

Her words hit me harder than I expected, a pang of something close to guilt settling in my chest. That she thinks so lowly of herself stings a little. Doesn't she see? She's very important—more than she knows. I'm not just talking about her impressive credentials. There's something about her that makes me want to prove she's worth so much more than she gives herself credit for.

" Doctor Grey Donovan," I correct her playfully, hoping to coax a smile. Her lopsided grin emerges, giving me the courage to step closer and cup her cheek. " Doctor Amelia Charlotte Stanley, twenty-six, from London, master's in computer science, PhD in VR and AR, working as a systems integration specialist for smart living solutions. Had a birthday three days ago and didn't even tell me."

Her eyes widen as my thumb strokes her jaw. Then I lean in and kiss her cheek. "Happy belated."

She looks at me, flushing a deep red, utterly flabbergasted. Deciding to give us both a moment to collect our thoughts, I gesture toward the fenced area of the park. "Come on, let's let Peanut run for a while."

We walk into the leash-free zone, releasing Peanut who immediately starts frolicking in the grass. Finding a bench, we sit down to watch him play.

"Why is he called Peanut, though?"

I chuckle, watching Peanut chase his tail a few feet away. "Well, I wanted to give Grandpa a puppy when I was doing my PhD because I thought he'd been lonely since I left for college. Misha found Peanut on Craigslist, but it turned out to be a scam by a backyard breeder. The puppy was advertised as some made-up breed of Shih Tzu, he was just a tiny, brown little thing. We had no idea what he would grow into. Since he looked like a little peanut, that's what we decided to call him."

Amelia laughs, her eyes sparkling with amusement before she sobers up and asks, "And you said your grandpa can't do long walks anymore? Why is that?"

"He's eighty-two now," I explain. "He can manage small potty walks but not much more. Peanut is too strong for him. As you saw earlier, Peanut gets excited and doesn't think about his strength. Grandpa just doesn't have the energy to keep up with him."

As Peanut starts to play with other dogs, I find myself opening up more than I usually do. I keep things about Grandpa close to my chest, especially with Misha and Oliver. They know him too well, and sometimes I feel like their closeness biases their advice .

"Oliver thinks I should get a live-in nurse for him," I admit, watching Amelia's reaction closely.

"And what do you think?"

"I think it would be good for him," I confess, feeling a weight lift as I speak.

"So why are you hesitating?"

"Because I shouldn't be the one making that decision. It should be my dad, his son . But he doesn't answer his phone. It's been months since I even got a text from them. So, I'm left alone, trying to make decisions that might seem small now but could lead to much bigger ones later. Like, what if Grandpa needs serious medical help? I'm not sure I can make the decisions for him that would come with it. I'm not sure I can handle that." My voice breaks on the last words, and I pause to collect myself. It's only when Amelia reaches out her hand to squeeze my forearm that I manage to push out the last part. "And I know I'll likely be on my own when that time comes too. It just… paralyzes me."

Sharing this, laying bare my vulnerabilities isn't something I do. But doing it with her makes it less terrifying.

Amelia looks at me with a reassuring smile. "But you don't have to do that on your own." I open my mouth to answer, to tell her I am very much alone in this because my parents don't give a fuck, but she continues, "I mean, Oliver was the one with the idea, right? And I bet Misha has an opinion on it too."

"Yes," I admit, acknowledging that they have been there for Grandpa and me since we moved to Seattle.

"Okay, so you're not alone, and you don't have to make these future decisions alone. And you know what the best part is?" she asks, her voice lifting with a hint of optimism.

"What?" I find myself genuinely curious about her perspective.

"That this current decision isn't yours to make either. "

"But—"

Amelia cuts me off. "It sounds like your grandpa is getting a little weak and a little old. But it also sounds like he's still very able to make his own decisions."

"True, but he's stubborn…"

"Oh well, now we know where you got it from," Amelia teases, and I narrow my eyes at her, but her playful tone pulls a small, reluctant laugh from me.

"Talk to him, lay out the facts and options. It's still his life. He should be able to decide how he wants to live it," she advises gently.

"True, but he should take us into consideration because I'm worried about him all the damn time…" I start, frustration creeping in.

"Then tell him. Did you tell him how you feel?"

"No," I admit, realizing I've been holding back.

I've been holding back so much out of fear.

"See? Talk to him, tell him your reasons, and maybe he'll see the medical reasons and the emotional ones." Amelia's words are simple, but they strike a chord. Her advice sounds so clear, so rational.

"Oliver is bringing Morgan over tonight, and maybe she can talk to Grandpa as soon as she has settled in. She works as a live-in nurse, after all," I muse, watching Peanut playfully chase another dog out of the corner of my eye.

I glance at Amelia and notice her expression shift slightly, something fleeting that I can't quite catch. Then it clicks when she hesitantly asks, "Morgan?"

Ah, fuck.

Oliver and Amelia haven't really spoken much, and she knows next to nothing about him—which is definitely something Oliver should work on before the girl of his dreams ends up thinking he's in a relationship with his sister.

Well, not like that .

Better not let her jump to conclusions.

"Morgan is Oliver's sister," I clarify, noting the relief wash over her face.

Interesting.

Why did her relief send a pang through my chest?

"Oh, okay. Yeah, maybe she can explain what a live-in nurse encompasses. But you should talk to your grandpa first about why it's important to you."

I nod, and we watch Peanut in silence for a while longer, the peaceful sounds of the park surrounding us until I break the silence between us. "Come on, let's bring him back."

As we stand, Amelia groans and rubs her lower back, her discomfort immediately sparking my concern again. I turn to her, my brows knitting together in worry. "That bad?"

"No," she lies, the tightness around her eyes that follows betraying her words.

I step closer and pull her to face me. My hands find her lower back, and I start to rub soothing circles. "Here?" I murmur against her ear.

"Yes," she breathes out, the tension in her body easing as she melts into my touch. Her forehead rests against my chest, and for a moment, the world shrinks to just this—her warmth against me, the silkiness of her hair brushing my chin. I want her to stay here, like this, forever.

Lowering my head, I whisper in her ear, "Maybe you shouldn't walk up mountains if the mountain is the one walking over you."

"You're so funny," she murmurs sarcastically into my chest, but another groan softens the playful edge in her voice as I dig my fingers in a little deeper, finding the knots of tension and working them out.

As I continue to massage her back, the closeness becomes almost too much to bear. I lean down, unable to resist the pull, and plant a feathery kiss on the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. The scent of her skin—like milky London Fog tea, soothing and familiar—fills my senses, and my heart races faster at the intimacy of the moment. I know I'm treading on dangerous ground, but I can't stop myself from wanting to be this close to her.

She moans when I hit a particularly tense spot, and the sound sends a jolt through me, stirring memories of the same sound she made while she was playing with her toy, making herself come. The thought alone is enough to make my cock twitch with need, and my mind starts to wander, imagining what it would be like to make her come with my own hands, to feel her tremble beneath my touch.

God, I want to make her come. I want to let my hand slide around to the front of her jeans, let it slip inside…

Peanut's woof draws me out of my thoughts, a reminder of the real world awaiting us beyond this intimate bubble.

Get a grip, Grey.

"Come on," I whisper, then pull my hands away from her, noting her slight pout as she straightens her glasses, so I add, "We can go on another walk whenever you want to."

We leash Peanut and begin our trek back. After a fifteen-minute walk, we arrive at my childhood home—a two-story building brimming with nostalgia. As we step through the front door, the familiar scent of aged wood and memories hit me. "Grandpa, we're back!" I announce while Peanut dashes toward his water bowl. His enthusiasm results in more water splashing on the floor than he manages to drink.

Next to me, Amelia shifts uncomfortably, her fingers twiddling with the seam of her sweater—a clear sign of her nerves. Drawing her closer, I lower my voice, trying to offer reassurance. "Just say the word, and we're out of here, but I'd love for you to meet him."

I really hope she's okay with this.

Her response is a shy smile, though her shoulders remain hitched up near her ears. "I would love to meet him too."

Grasping her hand a bit more firmly, I lead her into the living room, where Grandpa is sitting comfortably in his favorite reading chair, the newspaper held loosely in his hands. "How was the park? A lot of people there?" he asks without looking up.

"Grandpa, we have a guest."

He lowers his newspaper, and his face lights up with a warm, welcoming smile as he spots Amelia. Slowly, he rises from his chair, the effort more pronounced than in years past. "Oh, what a pleasant surprise," he exclaims, setting aside the paper.

"This is my…" she is not your anything, dammit, " … friend, Amelia."

Amelia steps forward, her nervousness momentarily displaced by courtesy. She straightens to her full height, offering her hand. "Mr. Donovan, it's nice to meet you," she says, her voice steady but soft.

Grandpa's eyes twinkle with curiosity as he grips her hand in both of his, patting it with an affectionate smile. "A pleasure, my dear. Any friend of Grey's is a friend of mine," he says and then winks at me, prompting an eye-roll from my side. "My name is also Grey, but please, call me Grandpa like everyone else." He chuckles, his eyes crinkling warmly behind his round glasses. Amelia looks my way in amusement, and Grandpa seizes the moment to add a bit of family lore. "I used to call him my mini-me, but after third grade, he wasn't too fond of that anymore," he says, his playful smirk sending his white mustache into a brief dance .

"Grandpa, let's keep the embarrassing stories for another time, shall we?"

"He really is your mini-me. You even dress alike, in that old-school fashion," Amelia comments, eyeing the similar cardigans we're both wearing—his brown, mine navy.

"It's not old-school. It's timeless," I retort, a hint of defensiveness creeping into my words. Amelia bites her lip to stifle a laugh, clearly amused by my reaction.

"Well, it is a little old-school, but old-school is indeed timeless," Grandpa concludes, always the diplomat.

Amelia giggles quietly while her eyes wander around the room, and I hope she won't look too closely at any of the picture frames. She already knows I'm a nerd. She doesn't need to see my teenage years. I still wear my hair relatively long, but back then it reached my shoulder blades and, combined with braces, it wasn't the best look.

But her attention is captured by the grand piano positioned by the living room windows. Her eyes light up with interest. "You play the piano?"

"I can't anymore. Rheumatoid arthritis," Grandpa replies, his tone carrying a note of resignation.

I know how much he misses to play.

Getting old sucks.

"I'm so sorry to hear that," Amelia says, wringing her hands in concern, perhaps worried she's broached a sensitive subject.

Grandpa waves her off with a gentle smile. "It's okay, dear. Everything has its time. But if you want to hear a piece, Grey plays even better than I ever did."

At his prompting, I walk over to the piano and sit down in front of it, patting the bench beside me and inviting Amelia to join me. She moves smoothly, sitting with the grace of someone familiar with the instrument.

As she settles in, our eyes meet, and a quiet anticipation pulses through me. I've fantasized about this moment, sharing a piece of myself through music, hoping it might resonate with her as deeply as her music did with me.

When my fingers settle on the keys, there's a slight tremor—a mix of nerves and excitement that I hope goes unnoticed. Choosing "Invisible Beauty" by Frank Dang isn't accidental. As I begin to play, I steal a glance at Amelia. Her reaction doesn't disappoint—her expression softens, touched by recognition.

"This is the song Jamie played for us," she whispers, a hint of wonder in her voice filling me with unexpected pride.

"It's one of my favorites," I admit, barely above a murmur, as my fingers continue to dance across the keys.

As the last note fades into a tender silence, I let my hands fall to my knees, feeling strangely vulnerable. Turning to face her, I'm met with a gaze that holds warmth and perhaps a glimmer of something deeper.

"Really?" Her voice is filled with a gentle curiosity that nudges my heart into a quicker pace. The way she looks at me at this moment suggests that she likes what she sees.

Well, I do too.

"It's been a favorite for a while," I respond, my hands subtly shaking as I brush them on my thighs to dispel the nervous energy.

"You know my favorite. "Comptine d'un autre été" by Yann Tiersen. You should play that one." Grandpa comes to stand on my other side, leaning in to browse through the music sheets with trembling hands until he finds it, as demanding as always when I play for him.

I don't do it often enough anymore.

I hesitate, the memories associated with that piece flooding back. I played it at a music school concert for him almost two decades ago, and I made so many mistakes. Because it was his favorite, and I always worried I wasn't good enough.

Worry leads to mistakes.

Although Grandpa clapped so loudly for me, I never heard who didn't.

"You know I don't like to play it," I murmur.

Not in front of her , for sure.

"Come on, I haven't heard it in such a long time," Grandpa presses, his voice gentle yet persistent.

Amelia's gaze lingers on me for a moment, her eyes probing. There's a softness in her expression, a gentle curiosity that doesn't push but waits patiently. When I don't say anything, she turns away from my hesitation, her fingers hovering over the keys for just a heartbeat before they descend gracefully. The moment her fingertips touch the ivory keys, her eyes close as if shutting out the world.

And if I thought she was good playing on that pile of firewood in the park, then hearing her play on a B?send?rfer is an almost religious experience. I watch, transfixed, as she loses herself in the music, her expression serene. Playing the piece by heart, she doesn't open her eyes once to look at the sheet music in front of us.

The sound is delicate yet powerful, warm yet poignant, weaving through the air like a vibrant thread sewing together moments of silent longing and tender melancholy. The room seems to breathe with the music.

Grandpa still stands next to me, a subtle smirk on his lips as he listens to her play. He nods at me approvingly as if to say, that's the girl.

And she is.

But not for me.

As Amelia's final notes linger in the air, a hush envelops the room. With a breath, I slide my fingers on the lower octaves, hesitating only a moment before pressing down. The deep, resonant chords blend with the silence until Amelia's hands gracefully resume their dance across the higher notes, and together, we weave the melody back into existence.

Playing with her feels different, liberating. The usual weight of expectation lifts, and each note we play together fits perfectly as if the piece was always meant to be a duet.

As if I've just waited for her to play it with me.

When we're done, Grandpa starts to clap, and Amelia finally opens her eyes to beam at me, making my heart skip a beat .

" Bravo! Amazing," Grandpa gushes , and Amelia bites her lips to keep from smiling.

I don't like that.

I want all of her smiles.

Grandpa leans forward, his eyes twinkling with interest as he watches her. "Amelia, dear, do you always play with your eyes closed?"

That's what I want to know.

Amelia's cheeks tint with a soft pink as she glances down at her hands intertwined in her lap. "Yes," she begins, her voice a little hesitant as she meets his gaze again. "When I was younger, I had to play in front of others, and I… well, I'm not very comfortable with crowds. Closing my eyes, it feels like I'm only playing for myself. It's just me and the music then and my heartbeat. It's the only thing I hear."

Grandpa nods thoughtfully, stroking his white mustache. "And what kind of piano do you have?"

"I had a Steinway back home," Amelia replies, her voice holding a note of wistfulness as her finger glides over the polish of the side of the piano.

"Back home, meaning London, in her case," I mutter, and Grandpa looks at me in surprise.

"Well, it's not home anymore," Amelia murmurs .

Yeah, thank fuck. Or I'd have to fly over there to get her back.

For her sake, of course.

"You don't have one here?" Grandpa presses, his brow arching.

"No, not here."

"So, where do you play if you don't own a piano?"

I suppress a scoff.

Ivor E. Key.

Amelia smiles sheepishly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I sometimes play on a public piano at Denny Park."

Grandpa's expression shifts to one of concern. "The old, dirty one? Amelia, that's not safe and hardly a fitting instrument for someone of your talent."

Amelia laughs lightly. "Why would a piano need to be safe? It's not like I can get a splinter from playing it. And I don't need much, only to play from time to time."

He shakes his head, his tone becoming serious. "It's unsafe to let your guard down completely. When you're so absorbed in your music that you lose awareness of your surroundings… that's what worries me."

"Thank you," I say, relieved.

Finally, someone sees reason.

Amelia frowns at me, probably puzzled about my strong opinion on something I just found out about.

Yeah, well, fuck.

"You might have a point. It never felt the same as playing at home on my piano, or like just now, but I just thought it was the state of the instrument," Amelia relents.

Seeing an opportunity, Grandpa pulls out his business card from his shirt pocket, where he always has a few, no matter if he goes out or not, and hands it to her. "Amelia, you're welcome to come over and play here anytime. Just shoot me a message, and I'll make sure the door is open for you. I won't bother you. I know sometimes you just need to play music. And if you ever want to chat, I'm always here for some good conversation and cake."

His offer is so genuine, and the warmth in his eyes is so comforting that it makes me appreciate him even more. Amelia looks touched, a soft smile playing on her lips as she accepts his card.

"Thank you. I would love that," she responds warmly, slipping the card into the pocket of her jeans. "Now, I only need to know your favorite kind of cake."

Grandpa lets out a hearty chuckle, his eyes twinkling with delight. "You'll have to surprise me."

I'm so glad she won't have to play outside anymore. The thought of her out there alone makes me anxious. I would have found excuses to be nearby just to ensure she was safe.

But now, knowing she has access to this place—my safe space—it feels like everything is falling into place.