Chapter 36: In the Dark
Julian Hayes finished washing up, the warm water from the sink still lingering on his skin as he traded his shoes for the soft house slippers by the door. The rainy night outside had left a damp chill that seeped through the old apartment walls, making the hallway feel colder than it should. He paused in front of his own bedroom door, raised his knuckles, and knocked twice—polite, hesitant, the way he always did when someone else was already inside. Only after hearing her soft acknowledgment did he turn the handle and step in.
Margaret Monroe hadn't gone to sleep. She sat propped against the headboard, legs drawn up beneath the comforter, both hands cradling her phone. The screen's faint glow lit the delicate lines of her face as she stared at it. The moment the door opened, she lifted her head, those calm eyes finding him in the doorway.
"Is the blanket cold?" he asked, leaning against the frame, genuine worry threading through his voice. "I can grab an extra one if you need it."
"No, it's warm enough like this," she said, shaking her head as she set the phone aside on the nightstand. Her tone was easy, inviting. "Come in and talk for a while. It's still too early to crash anyway."
"Alright."
He shut the door with a quiet click that seemed louder in the stillness, then crossed to the bed and perched on the very edge, keeping as much space between them as the mattress allowed.
Margaret's gaze dropped to his feet, bare inside the thin slippers. "Your toes are going to freeze like that. Just come up here—the bed's plenty big."
He hesitated, fingers tightening on the comforter's edge. "...You sure that's okay?"
"It's your bed, Julian. Why would I mind?" Her voice carried that gentle patience he'd grown used to at school, the kind that always made him feel looked after.
He lifted the covers and slid his legs underneath. The sudden rush of trapped warmth wrapped around his calves, and he settled into the far corner. Beneath the fabric, the subtle contours of her legs showed—long, slender, impossibly graceful even in repose.
"Julian," she began, tilting her head just slightly, her expression smooth and unreadable like still water at dusk, "have you ever really planned out what comes after all this? What you actually want to do?"
He exhaled slowly, the question stirring the quiet restlessness he usually kept buried. "Nothing too exciting. Just survive the SATs, get into a decent college somewhere, keep working part-time so I don't drown in loans, then graduate and figure out the nine-to-five grind. Sure, part of me wishes for something bigger—some wild, unforgettable chapter—but I know myself. Stability's probably going to win out in the end."
"It does sound… quiet," she murmured, the faintest smile curving her lips. "So when do you think you'll start looking for a girlfriend?"
The question caught him off guard; he shifted under the covers, the sheets whispering against his skin. "Probably way down the line. I need my own life sorted first. I'm not exactly smooth with words, and I don't have much to offer anyone. Most girls would take one look and keep walking."
"Why are you always so hard on yourself?" Margaret's voice stayed soft, but her eyes held his a moment longer than usual. "You've got plenty of things going for you. How could nobody notice?"
He gave a short, wry laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Even the good parts don't really count for much. Average brains, negative social skills, and zero money in the bank. I'm just facing facts."
"Not meaningful?" Something flickered behind her calm gaze, there and gone before he could name it. "You're strong in ways most people never see. Hardworking, thoughtful, always doing the right thing… and you're easy on the eyes too. I like you, Julian. A lot."
His pulse jumped hard enough that he actually pointed at his own chest, stunned. "Like… me?" The words landed like spring shoots breaking through frozen ground—sudden, fragile, impossible to ignore. Heat rushed up his neck before he could stop it.
She smiled, gentle and composed, as if she were simply stating the weather. "Of course. If I didn't like you, why would we have gotten this close as friends?"
"Y-yeah… friends…" The correction hit like ice water. He'd read too much into it—again. Her affection was clean, straightforward, the same easy camaraderie they shared at their desks in homeroom. Yet his mind had raced ahead anyway, leaving his thoughts tangled and his face burning. He wanted to sink into the mattress and disappear.
Outside, the night had thickened into something heavier, the rain now a hushed murmur against the glass. Droplets raced crooked paths down the window, warping the streetlights into streaky halos. The room felt smaller, the air thicker with the scent of rain-soaked pavement drifting through the old frame.
Margaret watched the way his shoulders tightened, the faint flush he couldn't hide, and quiet delight bloomed behind her eyes. She couldn't resist nudging just a little further. "So tell me, Julian—do you like me back? What am I like in your eyes?"
He kept his head down, the words scraping out anyway. "I… yeah. I do. You're beautiful. Kind. You always look out for me. Of course I like you." Each syllable felt dangerous, too close to the line he knew he shouldn't cross.
"Really?" Her tone lightened with playful surprise. "No wonder you're always sneaking glances at my face… and you even reached out and touched it earlier today."
"I—that wasn't—I'm s—"
"You don't have to apologize," she cut in smoothly, her smile blooming wider, richer. "I'm not upset at all." In the soft lamplight she looked perfectly sweet, but something in the way she watched him made his stomach tighten with a feeling he couldn't name—half thrill, half warning.
He swallowed. "You still haven't let me answer the other part. In your eyes… what kind of person am I, really?"
Julian finally met her gaze, those warm, smiling eyes that never seemed to judge. "You're the girl everyone at Riverside High has called the school beauty for three straight years. Grades never out of the top five. Always kind, always easy to talk to. To me… you're my partner in class, my desk mate, and one of the best friends I've got."
"That's a pretty nice picture," she said, clearly pleased. "No wonder liking me comes so easily to you."
He could only manage a quiet "Yeah," the single syllable heavy on his tongue. No matter how innocent her words stayed, his mind kept sliding them toward something deeper, and admitting it out loud felt terrifyingly close to a real confession.
"It's late," he muttered, already shifting toward the edge of the bed. "I should probably head out and let you sleep."
"Or…" Margaret's voice stayed casual, almost too casual. "You could just stay right here. Take your side—I really don't mind. We can keep talking until we drift off."
He froze. "That doesn't feel right. You're a girl, and I—"
"When a girl tells you it's fine, don't turn it into a whole debate," she said lightly, though her eyes pinned him in place, reading every flicker of hesitation, every shy twitch of his mouth. "Otherwise you'll lose points fast."
The weight of her stare pressed against his skin. He felt exposed, raw, every awkward inch of him on display. Yet the invitation hung there, warm and impossible to refuse.
"Okay," he heard himself say.
"Ready for lights out, then?" she asked, fingers already hovering near the switch.
"Yeah… go ahead."
Darkness swallowed the room the instant the bulb clicked off. Moonlight poured through the rain-streaked window, pale and silvery, draping itself over Margaret's face like the softest veil. She looked almost unreal—ethereal, heartbreakingly lovely in the cool glow.
"Still think I'm pretty?" she asked quietly, catching the way his eyes kept darting toward her even as he tried to hide beneath the covers. "I could sit up a little longer if you want a better look."
"N-no, it's fine," he stammered, yanking the comforter all the way over his head. "It's cold. You should sleep too."
His heart hammered against his ribs, thoughts spinning too fast to quiet. Minutes crawled by. When he finally dared to peel back a tiny corner of the blanket, he saw she had lain down, the moonlight now tracing the curve of her shoulder.
His legs moved on their own, hunting a more comfortable position—and his foot brushed against hers under the sheets. The contact was electric: her skin impossibly soft, delicate, warm. He jerked back as though burned, pulse roaring in his ears, a confusing rush of heat and shame flooding through him.
He curled tighter into the far corner, knees drawn up, determined not to make the same mistake twice.
"Julian, your feet are freezing," her voice drifted through the dark, gentle and completely unbothered by the brief touch. The sound still managed to pluck every frayed nerve he had.
He managed a dazed little "Mm," too tangled up to form real words.
The night settled deeper. Outside, the rain finally stopped, leaving only the faint drip of water from the eaves and the hazy shimmer of streetlights on wet pavement. Beneath the shared warmth of the comforter, the faint scent of laundry detergent and something uniquely her wrapped around him. The quiet felt alive, charged.
He felt the mattress shift, her feet moving again—slow, exploratory—brushing near his legs once more as though searching for contact. The bed dipped and rose in tiny waves. Then, without warning, she sat up.
The sudden motion startled him; he hadn't been anywhere near sleep. He glanced over, making out her silhouette against the moonlit window.
"What's wrong?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. "Can't sleep?"
"Mmm."