Chapter 62 Movie night
Hannah
After Timothy says yes, I suddenly find myself very busy.
Too busy, actually.
I bend to gather the pool sticks, stacking them carefully against the wall even though there’s no urgency, no reason they need to be moved right this second. My eyes refuse to lift in his direction. I don’t trust them not to linger, not to betray whatever strange, jittery thing has taken root in my chest.
A movie.
Why did I suggest that?
I straighten and reach for the empty glasses, collecting them one by one, giving myself tasks like a child avoiding bedtime. The truth is uncomfortably clear: I didn’t want the night to end.
That realization sits heavy.
What does that say about me?
About wanting to spend more time with the man who has made my life miserable since the start of this sham of a marriage. The man whose moods swing like a pendulum; warm one moment, cutting the next. The man I promised myself I would endure, not… enjoy.
And yet here I am, stalling.
Timothy clears his throat behind me. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer quickly, too quickly. “Just uh…just cleaning up.”
He hums, unconvinced but letting it go. Together, we push the food trolleys through the adjoining door that leads into the private theater. The room is dim, plush, and indulgent in the way only obscene wealth can be, tiered seating, soft leather couches, throw blankets folded neatly over the armrests, and a screen so large it could swallow you whole.
We park the trolleys to the side and settle in.
I drop into the couch first, tucking one leg under me. Timothy sits beside me, leaving a careful, deliberate space between us. Not awkward exactly, just overly aware.
I pick up the remote and start scrolling, the soft glow of the screen reflecting off the walls.
“So,” I say casually, “have you seen Hearts & Havoc?”
“What’s that?” he asks.
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn to him. “You’re joking.”
He frowns. “Should I be?”
My jaw drops. “Shut up. Really?”
“No,” he says flatly. “I’ve never heard of it.”
I stare at him like he’s just confessed to never hearing of oxygen. “Timothy. It’s only one of the most binge-worthy series ever created.”
He folds his arms. “That sounds like a gross exaggeration.”
“It is not,” I argue. “It’s got drama, betrayal, morally questionable characters, slow-burn tension…”
“Already sounds brain-numbing,” he interrupts with a scowl.
I gasp. “Take that back.”
He snorts. “Absolutely not.”
I shove him lightly in the shoulder. “We are watching it.”
“Hannah…” He groans
Too late. I press play.
The opening theme fills the room as I grab a fork and dig into the food. I’ve seen this series a million times, but it still hooks me immediately. I can’t help the little gasp that escapes during the first intense scene.
Timothy, on the other hand, looks unimpressed, chewing methodically, eyes half-lidded.
Ten minutes in, he leans back. “Predictable.”
I glare. “It’s setting the stage.”
He hums skeptically.
Another scene unfolds; the tensions rising, secrets hinted at.
“He’s lying,” Timothy says suddenly.
I blink. “Who?”
“The brother,” he replies. “He’s involved.”
I scoff. “No, he’s not.”
“He is,” Timothy insists calmly. “Watch.”
Five minutes later, the reveal happens exactly as he predicted.
He snaps his fingers. “Told you.”
I gape at the screen, then at him. “Okay, that was luck.”
“Mm-hmm.”
As the episode continues, I notice him leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees. His eyes are fixed on the screen now, sharp and focused.
Unimpressed, my ass.
Another twist hits.
“He’s going to betray her,” Timothy says quietly.
“No way,” I whisper back, emotionally invested despite myself.
The betrayal lands.
He clicks his tongue, satisfied. “Called it.”
I turn to him, narrowing my eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”
He straightens immediately, arranging his face into a practiced scowl. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
But it doesn’t hold.
I catch the corner of his mouth twitching, his eyes still lit with interest.
I nudge him with my knee. “You like it.”
He exhales through his nose. “It’s… not that bad.”
I burst out laughing, throwing my head back. “Oh my God. I knew it.”
He shakes his head, pretending to focus on his plate, but he’s smiling too now, small, reluctant, real.
We keep watching.
We eat. We comment. We argue quietly over characters’ motivations. He surprises me with how perceptive he is, how quickly he pieces things together. I surprise myself by relaxing, by leaning back into the cushions, by forgetting just for a while, everything complicated between us.
The room feels warm.
Safe.
My eyelids start to feel heavy, though I fight it at first. I yawn, covering my mouth, determined not to fall asleep like some child.
But the day catches up with me.
The wine. The laughter. The emotional whiplash of the past few days.
My chewing slows. The fork rests in my hand longer than necessary.
The screen blurs.
The last thing I’m aware of is Timothy glancing over at me, his expression softening in a way I don’t quite register before sleep pulls me under.