Chapter 12 - Talia
TALIA
Domesticity
It’s late afternoon, and golden light pours through the wide living room windows, stretching across the hardwood floors and catching dust motes in the air like drifting sparks.
I step back from the canvas propped against the wall, squinting at it. I’ve been working on it all day. Layering color. Stepping back. Adjusting. Stepping in again.
Deep blues and smoky grays melt into warmer streaks of gold that cut through the center, like light breaking through storm clouds.
I wipe my hands on an old rag and tilt my head.
It would fit perfectly above the mantel on Jake’s fireplace, where there’s nothing right now but a wide, empty stretch of wall.
The size is right. The tones match the room. It softens the space without disrupting the clean lines he seems to like.
It feels like him.
But I have no idea if he’ll like it.
The clock on the microwave reads 4:37 p.m.
I don’t know what time Jake gets home from practice.
My gaze drifts to my phone on the counter.
I could text him.
Except he never gave me his number for normal-wife interactions.
He gave it to me for annulment logistics. Lawyers. Paperwork. Damage control.
Not for, hey, when will you be home?
I press my lips together and set the phone back down.
This is not that kind of marriage.
Instead of obsessing over my phone, I retreat to the kitchen.
Dinner is already underway.
Homemade pasta with a simple tomato cream sauce. Garlic. Basil. I’ve got vegetables roasting in the oven, slicked with olive oil and sprinkled with sea salt. And I splurged on a decent bottle of red from the little gourmet shop down the street.
I stir the sauce slowly, letting it simmer.
The house smells like garlic and tomatoes and something dangerously close to comfort.
I dip a spoon into the sauce to taste it.
The heat hits my tongue and I flinch. “Ow—”
A soft yelp escapes me and I laugh, fanning my mouth. “Idiot.”
I rinse the spoon and try again, more cautiously this time.
Better.
I add a pinch more salt. A little extra basil. Then let it simmer.
Earlier today, I bought fresh flowers.
The entry table had looked too bare. Like the house itself was holding its breath.
I chose white ranunculus and pale peach roses. Soft. Understated. Pretty without trying too hard. They sit in a clear glass vase now, catching the last of the sunlight.
I step closer and adjust them.
Tilt one stem slightly left.
No.
Back.
I step away.
Still not right.
I rearrange them again. And then a third time before I force myself to stop.
You’re overthinking this.
Then I walk back to the dining table and realign the plates.
The forks.
The glasses.
I light a candle in the center of the table.
The flame flickers softly.
He isn’t your real husband, a voice in my head taunts. Don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t a romance novel.
I stare at the flame for one long second.
Then I blow it out.
No candle.
The rumble of the garage door rolls through the house.
My stomach flips so hard I nearly drop the wine glass in my hand.
He’s home.
After the way we left things last night, I’m nervous to see him.
This whole situation makes no sense.
We’re married, but we’re not together.
He doesn’t seem to like me, but he saves me from drowning.
He doesn’t want me living here, but he lets me stay.
He keeps his distance, but he kisses me like he’s starving.
I don’t know what to think anymore.
I smooth my hands down my shirt, as if that might somehow press the confusion flat along with the fabric.
The door from the garage swings open, and Jake steps inside.
He looks exhausted.
His shoulders are tight. His jaw locked. His practice bag hangs from one shoulder like he barely remembers it’s there.
He looks like the day worked him over and didn’t apologize for it.
“Hey,” he mutters.
“Hey,” I reply, aiming for casual instead of I’ve been mentally preparing for this for the past hour.
He drops his bag against the wall with a dull thud.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” I say.
That gets his attention.
He looks at me. Really looks at me.
“Dinner?” he repeats.
“Yeah.”
His brow furrows slightly. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
He studies me for a beat, like he’s trying to figure out the catch. Like there has to be one.
Then he exhales and rubs the back of his neck. “Smells good.”
Relief moves through me so fast it almost makes me dizzy.
“Go shower,” I say softly. “I’ll plate it.”
He hesitates.
Like he’s not used to being told what to do in his own house. Or not used to someone taking care of him.
Then he gives a single nod and disappears up the stairs.
I move quickly, plating the pasta with care, arranging the roasted vegetables so they look intentional instead of just thrown on the side. I pour two glasses of wine.
When he comes back, hair damp, clean T-shirt and sweatpants on, he looks slightly more human.
He slows when he sees the table.
“You did all this?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He pulls out a chair and sits. Not rushed. Almost cautious.
I take the seat across from him.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then he picks up his fork and takes a bite.
He chews. Swallows.
“It’s good,” he says.
The words are simple.
But his shoulders loosen just a fraction.
“Thank you,” I reply softly.
We eat in silence for a minute.
“You cook often?” he asks.
“Yeah. I like it.”
He nods. “I don’t.”
“I figured.”
That earns me the faintest twitch of his mouth. That almost-smile again.
“So,” I say lightly, trying to keep it casual. “How was your day?”
He gives me a look that clearly says, are you serious?
“It was practice,” he replies.
I grin. “Wow. That sounds… thrilling.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re hilarious.”
“I try.”
He studies his plate for a moment, then exhales. “Petrov was in one of his moods.”
My stomach tightens, but I keep my expression neutral. “What kind of mood?”
“The one where he thinks we’re all lazy and incompetent,” Jake says dryly.
I snort before I can stop myself. “That tracks.”
His brows lift. “You agree?”
“I grew up with him,” I remind him, taking a sip of wine. “I’ve seen him yell at the TV because someone on the ice did something ‘stupid’ and they weren’t even on his team.”
A quiet laugh escapes him, low and surprised, and it’s such a rare sound in this house that something warm spreads through my chest.
We keep eating, and I notice the way his jaw slowly unclenches.
He tells me about drills. About a rookie who nearly crashed into the net trying to stop. About Declan chirping someone so relentlessly that Petrov threatened to make them skate laps until opening night.
I listen, completely absorbed. Hearing Jake talk about hockey is different from listening to my dad talk about it.
With my dad, it’s criticism. Strategy wrapped in pressure.
With Jake, it’s instinct. Control. Ownership.
He makes me want to pay attention.
He sets his fork down and reaches for the salt and pepper shakers.
“Okay,” he says, shifting into that captain voice. Calm. Commanding. Distractingly attractive. “Petrov wants us running a new system. It’s all about pressure and spacing.”
I blink at him. “You’re about to teach me hockey using condiments?”
He ignores the sarcasm and slides the salt shaker to the center of the table. “This is the puck. This,” he says, placing the pepper shaker beside it, “is me.”
He grabs a sugar packet and sets it across from the salt. “Winger.”
“The defense is here.” He claims the butter dish without hesitation.
I laugh, but I’m also watching his hands.
Strong. Steady. Precise.
And I can’t stop thinking about what those hands did last night.
What they felt like.
Focus, Talia.
“So the idea,” he continues, completely unaware of the direction of my thoughts, “is that when the defense pinches, it opens a lane. But only if the winger rotates at the right moment. If you stay static…” He taps the sugar packet. “…you get trapped on the boards.”
“Trapped on the boards,” I repeat solemnly, like I’m sitting in a university lecture.
His eyes lift to mine. “You’re not actually listening.”
“I am,” I protest. “I’m listening very hard.”
“You’re smiling.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not listening.”
He leans forward slightly, lowering his voice. “What happens if the center doesn’t cover?”
I glance at the salt shaker. Then the butter dish. Then the sugar packet.
“…The butter gets lonely?”
Jake snorts, and the sound is so unexpectedly warm it sends a flutter through my stomach.
“Close,” he says dryly. “We get scored on.”
“Wow. High stakes.”
He nods once. “Exactly.”
We’re both still smiling as he slides the shakers back into place.
“So,” he asks, settling back in his chair, “what did you do all day?”
“I painted,” I say, aiming for casual, even though my heart does that ridiculous little leap whenever someone asks about my art.
“All day?” His brow lifts.
“Pretty much.”
“What were you painting?”
I hesitate. “Something.” I shrug lightly. “I can show you later. If you want.”
He clears his throat. “I’d like that.”
The words are simple, but the way he says them makes my chest tighten.
He leans back, studying me. “How do you even do it?”
“Do what?”
“Paint.”
I blink. “With… my hands?”
He rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
I set my fork down, suddenly animated. “It depends. Sometimes I start with a sketch. Sometimes I just begin with color. Blocking in shapes. Letting it move. Sometimes I don’t even know what it’s going to be until I’m halfway through.”
“That sounds chaotic,” he says.
“It is,” I reply brightly. “That’s the best part.”
He shakes his head, like he genuinely cannot comprehend choosing chaos on purpose.
“What about the realistic stuff?” he asks. “Like… portraits?”
“Oh, I love photorealism,” I say instantly. “That’s what I’m painting right now. Photorealism is all about values. Light. Shadow. Getting the proportions exactly right. The hardest part is making it feel alive instead of flat.”
Jake’s gaze stays fixed on me, like I’m explaining some kind of secret code.