Chapter 7 #2
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.