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 smallkitchen. 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.
