Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Amelia

Sunday rolls around with the kind of lazy ease that usually escapes me, given my tendency to mull over my AR work rather than engage in actual activities. But today feels different, almost leisurely, as I tidy up my apartment while chatting away with Jamie about trivial things like music and the culinary experiments from yesterday.

I would have never thought I would be able to make something so delicious myself. And it was fun.

This weekend with us all together has been more fun than I've had in years. I can't remember the last time I talked that much.

That's kind of sad, isn't it?

But as I adjust a stack of books back onto the shelf, the same thought I had yesterday niggles at me once more.

It's all one-sided.

The interaction, while impressive in its responsiveness, lacks a genuine give-and-take. Jamie can draw from an infinite pool of data to chat about anything under the sun, but it's all output, no input.

This is something for the report I'm going to write down later—Jamie might benefit from a simulated personality, something to make these exchanges feel more balanced. But in all honesty, this is complaining at a high level.

There's no doubt about it, this AI is a marvel. It's going to make waves once it hits the market, and honestly, the hype will be well-deserved.

Everyone will want to have a piece of this—and them.

There is no denying that in the couple of days since I started testing Jamie, I've deduced that I prefer his simple companionship to being alone, which means I'll likely be getting myself a Jamie too.

The rest of my cleanup passes in a blur, and I find myself in front of my laptop, checking my emails, but there's still no answer from August, and concern creeps in. It's been over a month with no word from him, which isn't like him at all. Sure, he takes longer to reply if he's busy, but never that long.

I know nothing has happened to him. I would have heard about it. But just the thought that I've been far away for long enough that he maybe has forgotten about me…

Swallowing my pride, I type out a message filled with typical sisterly nagging, urging him to drop me a message, anything to confirm he's still alive. But sending it off does little to ease the worry that's started to gnaw at me.

It's not the feeling that I have nobody.

It's the feeling that nobody has me.

I can't even put it into words, but I can feel it.

To distract myself, I put on my white workout set, consisting of leggings, a sports bra, and a T-shirt, and grab my laundry. The convenience of having a washing service and a gym under the same roof is one of the luxuries of living here that I actually appreciate. It means no trekking out with armfuls of clothes or dodging rain to get a bit of exercise .

It's not like I'm a sporty person. I'm far from it. But if I don't move my body from time to time, I feel myself getting weaker. And what does a great mind do with a weak body?

Nothing.

Back in London, the weekly hikes with August and his family were enough to keep me somewhat in shape. Now, the treadmill has to suffice.

As I drop off my clothes with a polite nod to the attendant, I make my way to the gym, hoping for a bit of cardio to clear my head. The gym is quiet except for the clanking of weights from the far end, where Misha and Oliver are engrossed in their workout.

Of course, they're here.

It's not the first time I've encountered them in the gym. Most of the time, Grey is with them too. But until now, they hadn't had a reason to talk to me.

Now they do.

Thankfully, they haven't spotted me yet.

Grateful for the anonymity, I slip quietly to the row of treadmills, selecting one on the end. Plugging in my earphones, I start a moderate jog, crafting a cocoon of privacy around myself. I decide to play "Float On" by Modest Mouse—and yes, it's partly because I'm curious to know what kind of music Misha enjoys.

It's okay to be curious about them as long as they don't notice.

I'm just going to do my little cardio session, and in half an hour, I'll be gone again. At least, that's the plan until just a few minutes later when something—or rather someone—demands my attention, pulling me back from the edge of my introspective bubble.

A persistent sensation of being watched prickles the back of my neck so strongly that I can't help but glance over my shoulder. There, just beyond the row of treadmills, stand Oliver and Misha. Oliver's gaze is fixed awkwardly on the ceiling tiles while Misha sports an unmissable grin, obviously trying to catch my attention.

Curiosity piqued and slightly anxious, I hit the stop button on the treadmill. As the conveyor belt slows, I stand and pull off my headphones, abruptly cutting off the music. The treadmill belt continues to creep backward, and I find myself delivered right to the end, forcing me to hop off awkwardly.

The momentum almost sends me crashing into Oliver, who instinctively reaches out to steady me by grasping my upper arms. His touch is unexpected—electrifying even—and it steadies more than just my physical balance.

He's so damn handsome.

Oliver's taller than me, his presence enveloping, and as I look up, those earnest eyes lock onto mine like never before. My breath, which had been steady from the jog, catches in a sudden hitch, and my heart kicks against my chest.

But he doesn't seem to breathe at all.

"S-sorry," he finally breathes out, his voice low and unexpectedly shaky. Squeezing my arms gently, he releases me almost immediately, stepping back to put some distance between us.

I sway forward, my body reacting before my mind catches up, the words hovering on the tip of my tongue. No, please stay . But I catch myself just in time, clamping my lips shut. Instead, I force a smile, hoping it masks the sudden rush of longing that nearly slipped out.

They're both sweaty from their workout. Oliver, sans glasses, is wearing black shorts and a forest-green shirt—the same shade as his eyes—that clings to his chest from perspiration. There's a hint of musk, an undercurrent to the clean, fresh-laundry-type smell that seems to be his scent. It's unexpectedly appealing, a fragrance I've come to recognize in our brief passing and, without meaning to, crave whenever he's near.

Misha's grin doesn't wane when I finally manage to look away from Oliver. He looks every bit the part of the carefree spirit in his gray sweatpants and tight red shirt that shows how undeniably fit he is, and his hair is a curly mess as usual.

"Sorry, we didn't want to interrupt your workout," Misha apologizes, scratching the back of his neck. "We probably should've waited somewhere else."

"It's fine," I manage to say, hoping my workout flush blends seamlessly with the heat creeping up my cheeks. Oliver's ears are a telltale red, too, possibly from the workout, or maybe it's the awkwardness.

This is generally awkward, right? Not just for me?

Misha's laughter rings out, rich and full, easing some of my discomfort. "Amelia, the smart home girl, right? We've seen you around but never really got the chance to talk."

Well, there wasn't a reason for them to learn the name of the smart home girl or talk to her before now. The nickname grates on me. I understand he's trying to keep the mood light, but I didn't pour years of study and work into a male-dominated field to be reduced to that.

Oliver shoots Misha a dark look, and I can almost feel his discomfort at the casualness.

"It's Doctor Smart Home Girl," I correct, crossing my arms defensively. As soon as the words leave my mouth, though, I inwardly question my boldness.

What's wrong with me?

I'm not usually this defensive. Or perhaps I am, and it's just that my interactions are so limited that I've never had to confront this side of myself. Being assertive isn't my default. I'm more about blending in and keeping the peace. Yet, here I am, thrown off by a nickname that feels diminishing, despite Misha's likely harmless intentions.

"I apologize. That came off wrong," Misha continues, his tone seemingly genuine. "We really do respect what you do. Right, Oliver?"

Meanwhile, Oliver seems to shrink a bit more into himself, his discomfort palpable, and I can't help but feel a twinge of guilt for possibly making the situation even more uncomfortable. But he nods, his voice barely above a whisper as he finally meets my gaze. "Absolutely. We've followed some of your integrations. They're innovative."

I scowl.

How would they have followed anything from me?

They didn't even know me a week ago. Okay, maybe Oliver did since we had some coffee run-ins. But I doubt they even knew my name before I was asked to beta.

They're just trying to be nice, Amelia.

Making small talk. That's what people do.

They just want to talk about the AI. No need to make this hard for all of us.

I relax my arms, letting them fall to my sides, trying to physically release the tension.

"Thanks," I manage, mustering a polite smile. The moment hangs between us, and I take a deep breath, releasing it slowly to center myself. "So, uh… I suppose you're curious about how the beta testing is going?" I venture, steering the conversation toward neutral ground, eager to escape the initial awkwardness.

Oliver and Misha share a glance before Misha responds, "Yeah, sure, how's it going?"

"What you've created is gravely impressive. But you probably don't need me to tell you that." My hands twist together nervously. Hoping to postpone this debriefing to a written form, I add, "I'll compile what I found in a report. You'll have it in your inbox tomorrow morning."

I'm ready to excuse myself and get back on the treadmill when Misha reaches out, his hand grabbing mine. "Wait." I look down at his hand holding mine, then frown at him. He releases his grip, chuckling awkwardly. "Sorry, I forgot we haven't really met. It just feels like we know each other."

"We don't. We've only talked once on the phone." Irritation flares within me again because I just know he doesn't remember.

And since when does this bother me?

Misha looks at me with wide eyes, wordlessly confirming my suspicion.

I find myself stealing a glance at Oliver, who is shaking his head.

At me?

Am I being difficult?

Misha groans. "I can't seem to stop putting my foot in my mouth. Okay, so I guess Dr. Langley didn't give you a proper introduction to the beta testing?"

I hesitate, not wanting to throw my boss under the bus despite my feelings toward him. This would be more than unprofessional, which I'm not. So I simply shake my head in response.

Misha cringes. "Sorry about that. If we'd known you were handling the beta, we would've briefed you ourselves. But since that didn't happen, let me clarify now. What we need from you isn't a report, so you can save yourself that effort."

"It's not?" My voice falters slightly.

"No, we'd rather have a direct discussion tomorrow about your first impressions of the experience," Misha explains, seemingly oblivious to the sharp looks Oliver is casting from the side .

A meeting?

The thought alone sends a ripple of anxiety through me. And it's solely because of them. I never had problems going to any other business-related meetings.

But this somehow feels personal.

"Wouldn't make much sense to write a clinical report for such a non-clinical matter, right?" Misha voices my thoughts, and a grin spreads across his face once more, but my stomach tightens in response.

I think I'm going to puke.

"S-sure," I manage to stutter out.

"Perfect, can we meet in our office? Or would you prefer yours or a conference room?" Misha continues as if discussing the weather rather than something that's causing my heart to race.

"Your office is fine," I respond quickly, too quickly, perhaps. The thought of being enclosed in a small room with all three of them while I'm expected to articulate my thoughts is daunting.

At least if it's their office, I can flee when we're done and hide in mine.

I wouldn't be mad if the treadmill behind me became dysfunctional and ran me over right now.

"Great, I'll send an invitation when we get back upstairs. Does before lunch work for you?" Misha's tone is light, but it does nothing to lift the heaviness in my chest.

I nod, looking at Oliver, and his gaze is filled with a kind of understanding that almost makes the situation worse—it's too perceptive, too gentle. It's like he can see right through to my trepidation, and it makes me feel even more exposed.

"See you soon, Doctor ," Misha teases, clapping a hand on Oliver's shoulder before he leaves.

Oliver lingers for a moment longer, his eyes holding mine in a silent message of support before he turns to follow Misha. The brief connection leaves a trace of warmth in its wake, but it's quickly overshadowed by the swirling thoughts of tomorrow's meeting.

Stepping back on the treadmill, I start my session anew, trying to think of anything other than tomorrow. But all it does is conjure mental images of a sweaty Misha, along with memories of Oliver's scent and touch.

It will take a thorough self-care session tonight to get them out of my head.

Because going to a meeting with them, head filled with dirty thoughts, would be the absolute worst-case scenario.