Chapter 32: The World’s Worst Detective

After dinner, Zach and Isabel slipped out of the room, their quiet chatter fading down the hallway. Lia waited until their footsteps disappeared, then turned back to Gray. She tugged her chair a few inches closer to his bedside, her fingers already seeking his — and finding them right where she left them, steady and warm beneath hers. “You know…” she began, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial hush, “I think I cracked the code.” Gray, as always, didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But she swore — truly, honestly — that his fingers curled just the slightest bit tighter around hers. “I figured out where you work,” she said, lifting her chin like she was unveiling a national secret. “And no offense, but you really undersold yourself. Or maybe Isabel did on your behalf.” She grinned. “She told me you worked at a tech company, made it sound like you fixed laptops and rebooted routers all day. I was picturing some poor guy in a hoodie microwaving stale burritos in a shared break room.” Amelia shook her head in mock disappointment. “But nope. Turns out, you work at GRAI Industries. GRAI. Do you realize what that means? You’re basically employed by the Avengers of innovation.” She gave his hand a light nudge. “You could’ve warned me you’re a legend-in-hiding.” Leaning back in her chair, arms crossed with playful satisfaction, she continued, “People dream of getting into GRAI. Jessica’s tech friends practically pray to it. Getting an interview there is like winning the lottery and a Nobel Prize at the same time.” She arched a brow. “And you — you just strolled in like it’s no big deal.” A teasing smirk tugged at her lips. “You’re not just a tinkerer, are you? You’re a certified, card-carrying tech nerd with status. You probably have patents. Maybe an algorithm or two named after you. I bet there’s a mug in the break room that says ‘#1 Gray.’” She paused dramatically. “Although if I had to guess, you still drink out of the chipped Pac-Man mug someone left behind in 2014. Sentimental and weirdly loyal. Sounds like you.” Amelia laughed quietly at herself, then leaned forward, brushing his hair back with a tenderness that had crept up on her over time. “I get it now — why everything in this place works like clockwork for you. It’s not just Director Andres. It’s you. You’re important. Respected. You worked for the Mr. Arison — who, by the way, is practically a tech-world god. And I’m starting to think he isn’t just your boss… he might actually care about you.” She hesitated. “Although, side note? His bodyguards? Kinda terrifying. Remind me to never sneak snacks in here again.” Her voice dipped, playful again. “And his secretary — Brian? Very crisp. Very polite. Also… not gonna lie, kinda cute.” BEEP. The monitor beside them spiked suddenly. Amelia blinked. Then gasped, her eyes flying to their joined hands — where she felt it. A stronger grip. Firmer than before. “No way…” she whispered, eyes wide, heart skipping. “Was that you? Was that a well done?” She laughed in disbelief, warmth and excitement tumbling over each other. “I mean — thank you, Mr. Coma Genius. I’ll be accepting my honorary detective badge any day now.” She softened again, her voice low. “I know it’s silly. I didn’t discover Atlantis or invent cold fusion or anything. But figuring this out… it felt like a little window into you. Like I finally earned a piece of your story.” Her thumb swept across his knuckles. “I still don’t know the whole picture. And maybe I’m not supposed to yet. But knowing this — knowing you — it makes me proud. You’re brilliant… and somehow, still humble. You’ve let me sit here and ramble about art and gummy worms and glitter pens, while you’ve been out there building the future.” She leaned in, resting her head near his shoulder, eyes soft with affection. “Still a nerd though,” she whispered. “A very mysterious nerd… but definitely still a nerd.” BEEP. BEEP. The monitor jumped again — not wildly, but sharply enough that she noticed. She froze. Then smiled slowly, eyes shining. And just for a moment — one tiny, suspended moment — she could’ve sworn the sound skipped.