The exhaustion from their lovemaking had fully receded, replaced by the profound, quiet comfort that defined their companionship. After several more minutes of shared silence, Michael stirred. With a soft groan of contentment, he untangled himself from the linen sheets, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed.
He stood, his height unfolding to its full measure. He moved toward the wardrobe to retrieve his silk dressing gown.
Evelyn watched him from the pillows, her gaze trailing lazily from the breadth of his shoulders down the strong, clean lines of his back. Her eyes followed his naked body in appreciation.
Michael was not a man one would instantly call conventionally handsome. But his face with a strong jawline, sharp features, and eyes so dark that seem to see into the soul made his face deeply attractive.
His body underneath his clothes was a work of art, sculpted to perfection, built not by vanity, but for health and as a survival habit ingrained from his previous life as Dean. There were no bloated muscles or exaggerated bulk; instead, the muscle was perfectly placed where it was needed for function and power. His shoulders were broad and heavy, his chest lean and deeply muscled, covered by a light, masculine mat of hair that emphasized his definition. His abdomen was a series of flat, corded planes. He was built with the lean, functional strength of a predator—all tendons, core power, and tensile strength—a physique conditioned for fighting.
But the true source of his magnetic attraction lay in the totality of his presence. It was the combination of his intellectual maturity, the quiet command of his movements, and the visible discipline of his physique that made him utterly compelling. He was a man who grew undeniably attractive the more time one spent in his presence.
Evelyn smiled to herself, a private, possessive appreciation shining in her eyes. His physique perfectly mirrored his mind: efficient, utterly disciplined, and powerful without ever being ostentatious.
He turned, tying the knot of the robe at his waist, and caught her eye.
"Why that look, darling?" he asked, his voice low and amused.
"Just admiring the view," Evelyn murmured, her gaze unwavering.
Michael chuckled, walking back to the bed to sit beside her. "You know how to boost one's ego, Evelyn."
He leaned in, his touch purely affectionate, and kissed her softly on the forehead, the gesture one of quiet affection rather than passion.
"Hungry?" he asked.
"Starving," Evelyn admitted, meeting his gaze with a wry smile. "It seems our intense passion has thoroughly burned through every calorie from dinner."
Michael laughed, the sound deep in his chest. "I believe I can remedy that."
He stood and extended a hand to Evelyn. "Come on. I gave the maids the day off, so we'll have to raid the kitchen ourselves."
Evelyn, energized by his proposal, swung her legs over the side of the bed. She quickly wore her robe.
The kitchen, located on the ground floor, was immense and equipped for a full staff, though now entirely empty.
Michael went straight to the large, oak-finished icebox standing against the far wall. It was a massive, heavy wooden cabinet.
"Eggs and bacon okay?" he asked, pulling open the heavy, insulated door.
"Perfect," Evelyn confirmed, leaning against the marble countertop.
Michael reached inside, lifting a heavy block of ice to retrieve the bacon stored beneath it. This icebox was the height of 1908 convenience, a wooden cabinet insulated with cork or sawdust. It kept food cold by using a constantly melting block of ice, which absorbed heat and drained away through a drip pan.
(NOTE: In 1908, mechanical refrigeration systems, pioneered by figures like James Harrison, Carl von Linde, and Edward Toussaint, existed but were limited to large-scale commercial use (breweries, packing houses). Domestic kitchens still relied on the simple icebox because early mechanical units used highly toxic and volatile refrigerants (ammonia, sulfur dioxide), were complex and loud, and posed serious safety and fire hazards in homes. Safer, electrically driven domestic units would not become commercially viable until after 1914.)
Michael quickly located the bacon and closed the heavy door of the icebox. "Good. I'm taking charge of the bacon; you can handle the eggs."
He placed a heavy iron pan over the stove and began laying out strips of bacon, the aroma instantly filling the vast room. He then poured milk into a smaller pot for heating.
He glanced back at Evelyn. "So, what's next for the great actress? This is your last performance of the season, isn't it?"
Evelyn cracked two eggs into a bowl with professional ease, whisking them briskly. "It is. And honestly, Michael," she laughed, a hint of self-mockery in the sound, "I am doing mostly Shakespeare and other old plays. Doing the same thing every time is boring me. There's a certain satisfaction in achieving what I dreamed of, but the same character and the same lines every night…" She trailed off with a shrug.
Michael raised a thoughtful eyebrow at that. The concept of boredom—of being creatively saturated after such a short time—was alien to his methodical, purposeful nature.
"I know," Evelyn quickly explained, catching his look. "I thought this was a profession I would never tire of. But in just five months, I am getting bored of the stage."
Michael paused, turning the bacon with a long fork, his mind churning over the concept of her ambition and her skillset. "Have you considered moving pictures?"
Evelyn immediately stopped whisking the eggs, giving him a look of surprise and distaste. "Moving pictures? What about them?"
"Why don't you try them?"
She gave a small, dismissive shake of her head. "They are not suitable for me. They're usually just thirty minutes or less in length. I don't know how they can tell a real story in that very short time." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly in emphasis. "And most of all, my best feature is my voice. My presence on the stage is amplified by the way I speak. They are silent pictures, Michael."
Michael thought for a moment, letting the silence be filled by the sizzle of the bacon.
"I have an idea," Michael said, turning to face her fully, his tone betraying his sudden excitement. "If you want to listen."
Evelyn smiled, a genuine, delighted warmth filling her eyes. "It ought to be good, darling, since you are giving advice on my career—which you have never done before."
He had never once offered Evelyn advice on her career; he didn't feel he possessed the experience or the unique knowledge to do so, knowing that giving casual, uninformed advice was a disservice.
Michael stopped turning the bacon with the fork, and looked at her, his eyes blazing with certainty. "Let's make a moving picture."
"What?" she said in complete confusion.
"Come on," Michael urged, gesturing with enthusiasm. "It will be fun! I am thinking we make a picture that is more than thirty minutes long and tells a full story."
Evelyn stared at him, watching the excitement on his face. He looked utterly genuine, almost boyish. God, he is like a child when he is excited.
"Are you joking, Michael?"
"No joking," Michael replied, his voice level.
"Are you sure about this? Isn't this the heat of the moment talking?"
"Eve, did I ever do anything I am not sure of?" Michael countered, his smile conveying his absolute certainty.
Evelyn paused, thinking. He was right. Michael never spoke without having already considered the next ten steps. His confidence was always absolute. If he was this excited, he must have a compelling, ironclad reason for making such an audacious proposal.
And she was correct. Michael's conviction stemmed from the growing clarity of his memories. As he was getting older, more of his previous life as Dean in another world was becoming accessible; right now, he could clearly see his life up until his mid-forties. There, in that world, he had seen full-length films lasting more than an hour, complete with synchronized dialogue and even color. Michael didn't see why such a technological reality couldn't be achieved here.
Michael then added, his excitement giving way to a more pragmatic approach: "Look, maybe talking is not possible right now. Maybe it will happen in the near future. But we can certainly make a better film—one that is longer, with a concise plot and a stronger narrative structure."
Michael looked back and saw the edges of the bacon strips were curling into a crisp, dark brown. "Well saved in time," he said, quickly turning off the gas and stepping away from the stove.
He looked back at Evelyn, his excitement temporarily subdued by pragmatism. "So Eve,what do you think?"
Evelyn smiled, the excitement returning to her eyes. "Michael, I don't know what you are thinking, or how you came to this idea. But I have faith in you. So, let's try it."
Michael grinned, a full, delighted expression. "Then I propose a toast to our new enterprise partnership with bacon, eggs, and a hot glass of milk."
Evelyn laughed, the sound bright and musical in the vast kitchen, and took her seat at the counter.