Chapter 33: The Television
Time had drifted lazily into the middle of the day. A few scattered, everyday exchanges had passed between them in the hours since, but Julian Hayes still carried that awkward stiffness in his shoulders, the kind that made every small movement feel slightly off. For reasons he couldn't quite pin down, he kept wondering what Margaret Monroe really thought of him—whether she saw the same cracks in him that he did—but the words refused to form, lodging somewhere behind his teeth.
He checked the clock. Eleven thirty. Closing his textbooks with a soft thud, he pushed to his feet. "Lunchtime. I'll throw something together. Nothing fancy, so don't expect much."
"What if… I cooked instead?" Margaret lifted her gaze, blinking once, slow and deliberate.
"That doesn't feel right. You're the guest here—I can't ask you to do that."
She tilted her head, a faint curve touching her lips. "Since when did you start worrying about all that old-fashioned etiquette, Julian? It's just lunch."
Julian hesitated, the echo of his late father's voice ringing faintly in the back of his mind—those endless lessons on manners and hosting that had shaped every interaction for years. But Margaret wasn't some stranger. Maybe the rules bent a little when it was someone who already knew the shape of his life.
"Fine. Thanks. I appreciate it."
"No trouble at all." She stood, brushing past him toward the kitchen. "Tell you what—I can show you a couple of things while I'm at it. I'm pretty sure of my skills in here."
"Seriously? That'd be great."
Margaret stepped into the cramped space and scanned the ingredients scattered across the floor, her expression brightening with quiet purpose. She glanced back at him. "Julian, wash the cabbage, would you? I'll start the oil."
"Okay."
He gathered the pale leaves, set them in the sink, and twisted the faucet. Cold water rushed over his hands, numbing his fingers as he scrubbed. From the corner of his eye he watched her pour oil into the pan, the motion smooth and practiced, like she'd done it a thousand times in kitchens just as small as this one.
Her family situation had to be as strained as his own—he could feel it in the careful way she moved, the same quiet thriftiness. But where he felt worn down and frayed at the edges, Margaret carried herself with an easy confidence that never slipped. No rot, no surrender. She reminded him of stars that refused to dim no matter how dark the night got.
"That's perfect—nice and clean," she said, stirring a dark, reddish sauce in a bowl. She gave him a quick look. "You're done."
"Oh… right. What next?"
"Slice the peppers."
"On it."
Julian set the chili peppers on the cutting board and picked up the knife. His cuts were uneven, clumsy, the rings coming out thick in some places and ragged in others. Heat crept up his neck.
Margaret set the sauce aside, stepped closer, and suddenly her smaller hand closed over his on the knife handle. "Your grip's a little off, Julian. See? These are way too thick."
"Ah… they are?"
"Here—like this. Take it slow if you need to. Don't want you slicing a finger."
Her skin was warm and impossibly soft against the back of his hand, smaller fingers pressing down with stubborn determination even though they couldn't quite wrap all the way around. The kitchen felt even tinier now, the air thick with the scent of heating oil and the faint, clean fragrance drifting from her long black hair. If he leaned in even an inch he could breathe it in fully. One careless shift of his arm and he could pull her against him.
The thought flashed through his mind before he could stop it—what would happen if he just wrapped his arms around her right then? Would she pull away? Get angry?
He yanked himself back hard. Idiot. She was standing here trusting him enough to be this close, teaching him something simple, and his brain went straight to crossing a line. If he ruined even this, he wouldn't deserve to be near her at all.
"Julian." Her voice carried a trace of gentle scolding. She'd noticed him drifting. Her cheeks puffed slightly, a small pout that somehow managed to look both cute and quietly wounded. "Eyes on the knife, okay?"
"Yeah… sorry."
She let it go with a soft exhale. "Anyway, when you stir-fry, the oil can't be screaming hot, and you don't over-toss the greens or they turn to mush…"
Julian stood frozen in place, watching her slide the peppers into the pan alongside thin potato slices, the sizzle rising sharp and savory. Her instructions flowed steadily, patient and precise, while the cramped kitchen pressed them together shoulder to shoulder. The cold white daylight pouring through the window caught the side of her face, softening every line until she looked almost unreal, like something out of a half-remembered dream.
He couldn't stop the quiet thought from forming: how perfect it would feel to come home to this every single day—Margaret moving around his kitchen like she belonged there, the air warm with whatever she decided to cook. How nice it would be if they could just…
No. Nothing lasted. No matter how warm and easy this felt right now, it would end. It always did.
Thirty minutes later the dishes sat steaming on the table. Margaret carried over the rice but left her fork untouched, watching him with quiet tension as he took the first bite.
"Wow. This is actually really good—way better than anything I manage on my own."
A bright, genuine smile broke across her face, the kind that reached her eyes and stayed there. "I'm glad you like it."
She barely ate more than a few bites herself, but she seemed content just watching him. Julian's appetite had returned in full force; he finished a second bowl and even scooped a small third. The quiet pride that flickered across her features then felt oddly childlike, like she'd won some small, private victory.
"Finished?" she asked when he finally set his fork down.
"Yeah. I'll handle the dishes. You already did the hard part—least I can do is this."
She laughed lightly. "All yours, then."
Julian carried everything back to the sink. Margaret returned to the little table by the window, where their homework still lay in messy piles next to the half-orange he hadn't finished earlier. She broke off two segments and slipped them between her lips. Sweetness bloomed across her tongue, matching the gentle warmth of the quiet hours they'd spent alone together.
She nudged the two stacks of books together until their edges touched, then pulled out her phone. Angling it just right, she captured the scene—the paired textbooks, the bright half-orange resting on top, the bare sycamore branches outside the window, and the scattered shards of sunlight filtering in.
The photo had a quiet, almost artistic stillness to it. Margaret studied it for a moment, then set it as the background image on her social media profile. She liked the way it felt.
Done, she rested her chin in her palm and stared out the window, lost in thought.
The apartment had a decent view from here—the layout cleverly dodged the worst of the neighboring buildings, opening onto most of the complex. A handful of old men hunched over a chessboard in the courtyard while a couple of older women sat nearby, chatting softly as their knitting needles clicked.
Julian finished drying the last plate and wiped his hands on a paper towel. "Want to watch some TV for a while?"
Margaret turned, the distant look fading. "Sure."
She settled onto the couch facing the old television. Julian dropped down beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. He grabbed the remote, clicked the power button, and scrolled through channels until he landed on a familiar soap opera—the kind with over-the-top romance, wooden acting, and leads who got by mostly on their looks.
After a couple of minutes Margaret glanced sideways at him. "Julian… you actually like this stuff?"
"Not really. I just thought maybe you would, so I left it on."
"You assumed I'd be into something like this?" She pressed her fingers to her lips, a soft laugh escaping as she angled her face toward him.
"You don't? I figured most girls were into the romance dramas."
"So that's how you see me? Same as everyone else?"
"No—no, that's not what I meant. You're… special. Wait, why did I just say that out loud?"
She shook her head, the smile lingering. "You dummy. How did you manage to talk yourself into a corner like that? I was only teasing."