The kitchen was warm with the familiar scent of spices, soap, and the faint sweetness of the bread Miss Johnson used to bake on quiet afternoons. I was rinsing a stack of plates, my mind wandering to a thousand places it shouldn't, when a gentle tap landed on my shoulder.
I froze.
Slowly, I turned—
and there he was.
Mr. Thompson.
His tall figure stood only inches from me, his gaze calm, unreadable, yet strangely soft. For a moment, neither of us spoke. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to smile, bow, greet, or just melt into the floor.
He looked at me like he was trying to read something—something written on my face that even I didn't know existed.
"Aren't you ever getting tired?" he asked suddenly.
I blinked. "How? Sorry sir, I don't really understand."
He scratched the back of his neck lightly, as if embarrassed at his own question. "Sorry. It's… private, I guess. But can I ask you something?"
My heart picked up speed.
Thompson had never asked me anything personal before. He barely ever spoke to me directly unless it was instructions about the house.
"Yes, sir," I whispered.
"How old are you?"
My breath caught.
I wasn't expecting that of all things.
"I—I'm twenty-one," I managed. "I'll be twenty-one by June."
His lips curved into a soft smile, revealing his perfectly arranged teeth. Something warm fluttered in my chest, a feeling I instantly tried to kill.
"Oh," he said lightly. "So you're not that small anymore."
He smiled again—this time wider, and sweeter.
I wanted that moment to last.
Just the two of us in the kitchen, with him smiling like that.
But I knew better than to dream.
He looked around the kitchen, nodding slowly. "Don't get me wrong," he began, "but if you ever feel tired of the work—just tell me. I know how close my mother was to you. I know how she trusted you with everything."
His voice softened, and the sincerity in it made my throat tighten.
"I know things might feel different since she died. You might be overwhelmed, you might want something else… but please, Chantel, if you ever feel like you need a break or need to stop working—just tell me. Okay?"
I stared at him, almost unable to speak.
No one had asked me how I felt since Mrs Johnson died.
No one had even noticed.
"Sir," I said quietly, "I am not tired. And I don't think that way. I am still here… and I intend to stay."
He nodded with that gentle smile again—the one that made my chest ache and fill with warmth at the same time. He reached for a bottle of water, but as he turned to leave, he paused at the doorway and looked back at me.
"Oh—and Chant?"
"Yes sir?"
"David speaks very highly of you. Keep up the good work. Don't take anything my wife said this morning to heart. She didn't mean it."
My heart stopped.
My wife.
He didn't say Sylvia.
He didn't say fiancée.
He said my wife.
Something twisted painfully inside me, as though the words had claws. But instead of reacting, I forced a smile.
"Okay, sir," I murmured.
He nodded and walked away.
As soon as he disappeared from view, I exhaled shakily. My emotions were a strange mixture—happiness at his kindness, sadness at the reminder of what he was to someone else, and anger that Sylvia could speak to me like that and still own his heart completely.
I touched my shoulder where he had tapped me, and for a moment I imagined the warmth still there. His fragrance—fresh, clean, expensive—still lingered faintly in the air.
I was lost in the moment when another voice startled me back to reality.
"Chant?"
I jumped, spinning around quickly.
It was David.
He stood there in the doorway, his intense eyes watching me with quiet concern.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"Y-yes," I said too quickly. "Yes, I'm fine."
He didn't look convinced. He stepped closer, his gaze lingering on my face like he was trying to decode my thoughts.
"Chant… sorry to ask, but um… have you finished school?"
The question hit me unexpectedly.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
"Well…" I started, looking down at my hands. "Mrs. Johnson was the one sponsoring me in school. I always attended afternoon classes after my chores. But since she died…"
I swallowed. The truth hurt too much.
"Since she died," I continued, "I haven't gone back. And I don't know if I will. Mr. Thompson doesn't even know I attend school… or that I stopped. I haven't told him. I don't want to be a burden."
David's brows lifted slightly, his gaze sharpening. "Chant?"
"Yes?"
"You didn't answer my question."
I hesitated, then forced the words out.
"Yes. Yes, I'm… done with school."
A small lie.
A necessary lie.
David took a step closer. "Are you sure you're okay? If anything is bothering you—anything at all—tell me."
I stepped back instinctively, shaking my head.
"I'm okay, Mr. David. Please, I need to go back to my work."
Without waiting for permission, I excused myself and turned away quickly, returning to the dishes.
David didn't move.
I felt his eyes on me, studying me, almost like he was trying to figure out what kind of girl I was…
or why I mattered at all.
His stare lingered long after I forced myself to focus on my chores again.