Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Amelia

The alert from Jamie cuts through the quiet of my apartment, making me jump and look up from the book I'm reading.

"Your food delivery has arrived," he announces with a hint of ceremony.

I push myself off the couch and shuffle toward the door to collect the groceries. As I'm stowing away the spinach and ungodly amount of avocados Jamie seems to have ordered— seriously, what was I thinking letting him do it —Jamie's voice interrupts again. "Looks like you have another visitor," he notes, and I already know who it is without needing to check the door.

"Stay quiet for a bit, Jamie," I instruct, not because I want to hide him, but because I simply can't muster the energy to deal with a hyperactive twelve-year-old hopped up on a sugar rush, excited about my new AI toy.

I open the door, and there stands Willow, Hendricks' daughter, who seems to have a sixth sense for sniffing out when the grocery delivery arrives. With her long blonde hair and blue eyes, she looks like the angel she definitely is not.

She tiptoes in, whispering conspiratorially, "Did you get it?"

"Of course I got it," I whisper back, a smirk playing on my lips as I shut the door behind her. Pulling out the family pack of Twizzlers, I hand her one, which she grabs with a gleam in her eyes.

"Oh my God, you've got fish?" She gasps, her attention darting to the new aquarium. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Can't really tell her I stole them, can I?

"Ugh, because they're new?" I offer a questionable yet true explanation as we both chew on our Twizzlers.

This candy might just be the best thing ever invented—forget smartphones and space travel, Twizzlers Twist strawberry flavor is where it's at.

"That's so cool. I always wanted to have fish, but Dad says going to the aquarium every two weeks has to be enough."

I'm sure she's going to tell her dad all about my new fish as soon as she has the chance.

Please don't let Hendricks connect the dots of how I got fish the same week I tried to talk Dr. Cockwomble into rescuing the ones we have at the office.

"Maybe you can watch them next time I go somewhere," I suggest nonchalantly.

"You never go anywhere."

"True… or you could just come over and visit them when you get your Twizzlers." I shrug, but I regret it the second it comes out of my mouth.

She will be here every other day.

Willow beams, and the flicker of irritation I just felt ebbs away .

She's a nice girl. She just doesn't have any sense of boundaries.

"Where's your dad? Does he know you're here?" I ask, already anticipating the answer.

Willow has a habit of ‘forgetting' to inform her dad of her whereabouts, and I've had more than one panicked visit from Hendricks over the two years we've been living next to each other.

"We're going to the aquarium, and he takes ages to get ready, and I was already ready." She rolls her eyes dramatically, making me chuckle.

Such a little brat.

"Okay, cool, sounds like a fun Saturday."

"Wanna come with?" she asks with hope in her eyes.

I know she harbors a secret mission to play matchmaker, but first, I'm not mom material, and second, her dad is fifteen years older than me. He's a great dad and nice, but he's not my type.

And I don't think I'm his either.

"No, thank you."

"Maybe I can come over tomorrow, and we can watch a movie or something?" she tries again, her puppy dog eyes going into overdrive.

I don't mind her hanging around here every so often. It's fine watching her when Hendricks has to go somewhere. But not as long as I've got the AI and work to do.

"Sorry, I can't this weekend. I have a lot of work to catch up on. Raincheck?"

"Sure."

She looks sad, so I offer, "Want to borrow a book? I've just finished one you might like."

"I don't like reading," she mutters, just as we hear Hendricks calling her from the hallway .

"Willow?" His voice is muffled, but I can still hear how it's tinged with the frustration of a father in search of his child.

"Hendricks is looking for you," I chide as I open the door.

There he stands, scanning the hall with mild exasperation.

"His name is Robert or Bob. I told you to stop calling him by his last name," Willow grumbles, but I just shrug.

Not going to happen.

"Sorry, she needed her fix," I joke, handing her over to her dad.

He lets out an exasperated sigh. "How many times have I told you not to bug Stanley, Willow?"

"Her name is Amelia! God, you guys are frustrating."

"Have fun at the aquarium," I say as they head toward the elevator.

Hendricks gives me a gentle smile before the doors close.

Once they're gone and my door clicks shut, Jamie chimes in, "This could be a social interaction you seem to miss. The girl clearly wants to be your friend."

I resume putting away the groceries, nibbling on another Twizzlers while pointing out, "She's twelve."

The only reason I can talk to her so freely.

"And?" Jamie probes, and I stop, looking up at the ceiling, even though I know I won't find a face there I can scowl at.

"And befriending a child is even sadder than not having any friends at all." I sigh.

But maybe not as sad as befriending an AI.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Sighing, I head over to open it, expecting maybe Willow, wanting another Twizzlers. Instead, my boss, Dr. Edward Langley, stands there, an uninvited smirk playing on his lips.

"I thought I'd check on how the testing is going," he announces, pushing past me into the apartment before I can respond.

The audacity.

He glances around, his fingers trailing along my bookshelf.

Ew.

I clench my fists, forcing a neutral tone. "I'm still trying things out. I'll have more to report on Monday."

Langley picks up the photo of August and me, examining it with an infuriatingly proprietary air. "You should really consider my offer to help you test this weekend. Could be… enlightening."

His implication hangs heavy in the air, and I edge toward the door. "I appreciate the concern, Dr. Langley, but I'm quite capable of handling it on my own. But there is still a lot to do, so if there's nothing else…"

He sets the photo down, the edges of his smile tightening as he meets my gaze. "Of course. The offer still stands. If you need help, you know where to find me."

As he finally steps out, I close the door with a firm click, my relief short-lived as Jamie's voice cuts through once more. "Seems like you handled that well," he observes, almost cheekily.

"Handling him is like defusing a bomb," I mutter, returning to the sanctity of my couch and the unfinished Twizzlers in my hand. "One that could go off with the wrong word."

"And yet, you managed to keep the conversation from exploding," Jamie points out. "That's something, right?"

I nod, sinking deeper into the cushions. "Right. Now, can we please talk about something other than my invasive boss or my nonexistent social life?"

"Absolutely," Jamie replies, his tone lightening. "Did you know the average person eats about two pounds of insects a year, mostly unknowingly?"

I scrunch my nose in disgust and drop the Twizzlers onto the coffee table. "That's another topic to avoid, Jamie."

"Noted. I'll stick to more palatable trivia next time."

Shaking my head, I chuckle.

God, what is my life right now?

Grey

The shift from the crisp outside to our perpetually warm apartment is immediate, and it makes me shiver. I've just returned from a long walk with Peanut, my grandpa's dog. He needs his exercise, and since Grandpa can't do it anymore, the responsibility has fallen to me—at least on the weekends. It's a decent break, though, getting me out of our tech cave and clearing my head a bit.

Fresh air and all that shit.

I'm fortunate that we're back to living in the city where I grew up, close to my grandpa. It was a major plus point for Elysium when we were all deciding where to go, and I'm glad we all agreed on this.

Oliver is from Portland, so at least his family is only a three-hour drive away, and he can see Morgan every other month. For Misha, being from Philadelphia, it's another story. But he says he's fine with the occasional FaceTime call, although I don't quite believe it. He's too much of a family person. Maybe, in a few years, when Grandpa is no longer here, we can look for somewhere new, maybe closer to his family. It would only be fair .

But that means acknowledging Grandpa's declining health and that he won't live forever, already being eighty-two… which I can't think about.

I can't lose my grandpa.

It's bad enough that I have this underlying fear of losing my parents, which I've been fighting every day since I was seven and realized that being journalists in war-torn regions could cost them their lives. Although, if I'm honest, things wouldn't really change much as I haven't heard from them in months.

Stepping into our office, I find Misha asleep in his desk chair, head lolled back, low snores filling the quiet. Over by the window, Oliver is hunched over his journal, pen scribbling away furiously.

"You're writing her another letter?" I prod as I kick off my shoes, raising an eyebrow at Oliver's back.

I love this guy, but all his simping is getting on my nerves.

"She's in the shower, not going to watch her shower," he mumbles without looking up, defensive but focused.

Fair enough.

"Okay, anything noticeable? What did I miss?" I ask, both of us speaking at a normal volume because it would take a train rushing through this room to wake up Misha when he finally sleeps.

I wander over to the small refrigerator we keep in here and pull out a water bottle.

"Not much," Oliver responds, finally setting his pen down and turning to face me. "The groceries came, then the kid of her coworker came over for sweets. Her boss checked on her, and she made Jamie vacuum some more, then she tried to set up a schedule for her smart lights and sensors for security checks, wants them to simulate presence when she's out. "

Fuck, she's good.

"So everything works?" I unscrew the bottle cap and take a long swig.

"No, not really," Oliver admits, scratching the back of his head. "I think it's handling the smart home system as well as it can, but not the kitchen appliances. She used it to try adjusting the thermostat on her smart fridge, and it took longer than it should. There's a lag in response time. I already noticed it when Jamie put on the oven in the morning."

"Okay, is that something on our end or hers?" I lean my hip against the desk, considering the implications.

"Difficult to say, but I think it's ours," he muses, concern knitting his brow as he comes to sit at his desk.

"We should work on that," I nod, setting the bottle down with a thunk.

"Already on it," Oliver assures me, turning to his screen, fingers poised over the keyboard.

The apartment is still when Amelia returns from her shower, her damp hair braided to the side, falling over her shoulder and leaving a dark stain on her white T-shirt. The cameras are that good—I see a water droplet run down her throat.

She looks like a dessert I'd want to eat.

Where the fuck did that just come from?

Her voice cuts through the quiet and my thoughts as she declares, "I'm starving, so let's get that cooking session started." Her optimism contrasting with the tension pooling in my stomach.

I can't think about her like that.

Even if her nipples are hard and visible through the thin material.

Fuck .

I have to shift my hips discreetly to adjust myself in my pants.

"Let's see if it's working now." Oliver nods to me, getting my attention, and I watch through the cameras as she washes her hands, preparing for what's meant to be a harmless cooking test.

But as soon as they start, it's clear Amelia's not exactly a culinary wizard. She's clumsy, almost comically so, dropping spoons and almost tipping over a salt container. My hands clench at my sides. I've always been good in the kitchen, thanks to years of cooking with my grandpa, and watching this is a mild form of torture.

Although an amusing one.

My amusement soon turns to alarm when I notice one of the stove burners glowing red-hot. It shouldn't be—I can see on our control panel that Jamie should have turned all unnecessary stuff off.

"Oliver, the burner. It's still on. She could burn herself." I caution in a controlled tone even though I feel anything but.

I feel a need to be with her in the kitchen, to help her, not just to watch.

Oliver's fingers fly over the keyboard, his brow furrowed. "I'm trying," he says through gritted teeth. "Jamie's not responding correctly."

"This could be dangerous!" I snap, my protective instinct roaring to life within me. "Then tell Jamie to tell her to be careful."

I'm not good with just standing by and watching people getting hurt.

"He's not cooperating at all," Oliver responds, his usually calm demeanor tinted with desperation while he's still typing frantically.

On the feed, Amelia is reaching toward the glowing surface, oblivious or maybe just clumsy while her attention is elsewhere.

Acting on instinct, I grab the microphone and bellow, "Amelia!"

She stops mid-movement, shocked, her hand hovering inches from the heat. "I'm experiencing some issues with the kitchen controls," I inform her, adopting a gentler tone, trying to mask the panic in my voice and sounding as neutral as Jamie would. "Could you please turn off the burner we don't need?"

My heart is pounding so hard against my ribcage that I can practically see it.

"Sure, thank you for letting me know," she replies, a bit flustered but moving to switch it off. Once she does, I release a breath, but my heart is still pounding in my ears.

Oliver is standing, too, a mix of relief and guilt on his face. Before I can think better of it, frustration and concern for Amelia get the better of me, and I shove him in the chest, yelling, "She could have been hurt!"

"I know, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," Oliver stammers, his face pale, and I can see he's just as shaken.

But it's more than that. The look in his eyes tells me he gets it—he knows this isn't really about him. He understands why I need someone to blame, something to focus this fear and anger on. It's not logical, but right now, logic doesn't matter. I can't stand the idea of Amelia getting hurt because we didn't do our job right.

Oliver swallows hard, guilt mixing with a kind of quiet acceptance as if he's taking the hit because he knows I need him to.

And somehow, that just makes me feel worse.

"That wouldn't have changed the outcome! She needs her hands to work, this could have been a huge fucking lawsuit and cost us our careers! "

And hers, but should I really care about that?

Misha, roused by the commotion, stands too. Rubbing his eyes, he wedges himself between us. "What's going on here, huh? Grey, chill, man."

Before the situation escalates further, I turn away, the adrenaline beginning to ebb.

The fuck did I just do?

I just shoved Oliver, the guy who couldn't hurt a fly if he wanted to.

God, I'm an asshole.

"I'll take over the cooking with her," I declare, deciding it's safer if I directly handle the controls.

And I don't have to look at Oliver any longer and feel even more guilty.

Misha nods, patting Oliver on the shoulder, then eyes me with a mixture of concern and sleep-induced confusion. "All right."

I adjust the settings manually, ensuring everything behaves as it should, and keep one eye on Amelia, who resumes cooking. She appears more cautious now, and there's a new wariness in her movements.

It's a reminder of the weight of responsibility we carry—not just to ensure the technology works but to keep safe the very real, very human person at the other end of our creation.

"Amelia, turn the knob to the left to lower the heat, and then stir for a while," I instruct through the microphone, watching as she follows my directions meticulously.

She complies without hesitation, and a part of me—though I hate to admit it—appreciates how easily she follows commands.

Would she do what she's told like that in every aspect of her life?

"Next, add a pinch of salt and two teaspoons of olive oil," I continue, guiding her through each step. "Perfect, now let it simmer for a few minutes."

Amelia steps back to watch the dish bubble gently on the stove. After a few minutes, the aroma seems to fill her small kitchen. She takes a deep breath with closed eyes, and she smiles—a genuine, pleased expression that lights up her face.

Beautiful.

"Okay, now you can turn off the stove. Let's get that plated up," I suggest.

She does as instructed, spooning the steaming mixture onto a white ceramic plate. It's a simple dish of roasted vegetables and herbed quinoa—nothing too fancy, but hopefully delicious. She carries the plate over to the small dining table by the window, setting it down with a satisfying clink.

"Go ahead, try it," I urge, watching as she takes a tentative bite, her eyes closing in surprise.

"It's actually good." She laughs, her voice filled with disbelief and delight. "I can't believe I made this."

I can't help but feel a surge of pride. "Good job. I'm proud of you, Amelia."

Her cheeks flush with a pink hue, and she ducks her head, a shy grin playing on her lips. "Thanks, Jamie," she murmurs, taking another bite of her food, this time with more confidence.

This is getting ridiculous, but God, I can't seem to get the vision out of my head of her on her knees in front of me, sucking my cock while I praise her, telling her I'm proud of her while caressing her cheek, which would undoubtedly blush the way it did just now.

Sitting back in my chair, I let out a quiet groan.

I can see Misha eyeing me in my peripheral vision, but I shake my head.

Seeing her this content and at ease, so different from what she looked like yesterday evening, I make a mental note to ensure she can keep Jamie. He seems to provide her something she is lacking.

And it's the least we can do for someone who's brought a little more humanity into our project.