Chapter 13

Elliot woke slowly, surfacing from sleep like someone rising through layers of soft, dark water.

The first thing he became aware of was warmth.

Sam curled against him, her forehead resting just beneath his collarbone, her breath brushing gently across his skin in slow, steady rhythms. One of her hands rested loosely over his ribs, fingers curled slightly as though even in sleep she refused to drift too far from him. his arm was still wrapped around her waist, and despite the dull ache of having slept in the same position all night, he didn’t move it.

The second thing he noticed was the quiet. Not the tense, unnatural silence of a haunted house holding its breath, but the kind of quiet that follows a storm when the world is still exhausted from surviving it. The wind had died down hours ago; now it was only a faint breeze that occasionally whispered past the attic window. The torrential rain that had hammered the house the night before had softened to a gently drizzly; the kind of light, misty patter that barely registered as a sound at all.

By mid-morning, he suspected it would be gone completely.

The third thing his gaze drifted to, unwillingly, was the book.

It sat on the bedside table where he’d placed it the night before. Its cover worn, its edges frayed, looking far too harmless for what it contained. In the quiet morning light, it almost seemed to be waiting. Elliot tore his eyes away before the familiar shiver crawled up his spine.

Not now. Not with Sam sleeping so peacefully in his arms.

He exhaled softly and looked down at her again. Her hair had fallen slightly across her cheek overnight, a single curl resting against his t-shirt. He carefully brushed it back with the smallest movement of his fingers, slow enough to not wake her. The gesture made something in his chest tighten, half tenderness, half awe at the simple fact that she was here, in his arms, trusting him enough to sleep through the night.

Trusting him after everything.

He let his thumb drift idly along the curve of her shoulder, just once, and felt her lean imperceptibly closer even in sleep. It did something to him. Melted him, anchored him, and filled him with a quiet determination he didn’t quite have a name for yet.

A faint creak sounded somewhere downstairs, the ordinary kind, not the wrong kind, and Elliot felt himself relax another inch. Morning light filtered through the window, pale and cool, washing the room in a gentle grey-blue glow. Even the house seemed calmer. Fragile, but calm.

He tipped his head back against the pillow and watched Sam’s lashes flutter slightly with the beginnings of a dream or the edges of waking. She burrowed closer, a soft sigh escaping her, and Elliot instinctively tightened his arm around her.

He pressed the lightest kiss to the top of her head, barely a breath of contact, but somehow it still made his heart stumble.

She hadn’t woken yet, but when she did, he knew he’d still be holding her.

Elliot thought back to last night. How they’d all finally parted ways after the power had flickered back on.

The memory settled over him slowly, like dust in a sunbeam. The four of them had been wedged together on the lounge sofas, candles still flickering, the book of memories lying open on the coffee table like something alive, something watching. Sam had been gripping his sleeve with one hand, Harper clutching a blanket around her shoulders, Jordan sitting so rigidly he looked carved from stone. David hadn’t spoken for almost ten minutes.

Nobody wanted to move, but exhaustion had a way of making decisions for them.

Harper had risen first. Not because she wanted to leave, Elliot remembered how her eyes darted toward the hallway like she expected something to be standing there, but because Jordan had quietly taken her hand, thumb brushing over her knuckles. A silent: we should go. They’d gone upstairs together to Room 4, walking close, their shoulders brushing the entire time, casting one last look at Elliot and Sam before disappearing around the landing.

David had lingered longer. He’d stood in the lounge doorway with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, staring at the floor like it held the answers. Then he murmured something about heading to his room, not looking at anyone directly, and slipped away without waiting for responses. Elliot remembered the sound of his door clicking shut a moment later. It sounded too loud in the quiet house.

Then it was just him and Sam.

He’d expected her to be restless after everything they’d read, especially after her own entry. He’d braced for tears, questions, spiralling thoughts, the need to talk it through again and again until she couldn’t breathe. But she hadn’t said a word. The second she’d sat down on his bed, still wearing the oversized jumper she’d borrowed from him earlier, she had curled into his chest and gone utterly still. Her breathing had evened out within minutes, sleep claiming her with a force that almost startled him.

Elliot had pulled the blanket over both of them and kissed the top of her head before switching on the bedside lamp. He didn’t even consider turning it off. He doubted any of them did in their rooms.

He remembered lying there, not daring to shift as she slept with her hand curled into his shirt, her forehead against his collarbone. He’d stayed awake long after everyone else, listening to the house… listening for the house, waiting for a whisper, a knock, a step, a voice.

But the silence had been total. Not peaceful. Not comforting. Just still. Too still, the kind that felt like something holding its breath.

He remembered staring at the closed door of Room 6, half-convinced that if he blinked, it would be open. He’d listened to Sam breathe until the quiet finally pulled him under too.

Now, replaying it, Elliot felt the echo of that unease settle under his ribs. The storm had died down outside, but last night’s silence, that unnatural, absolute silence, lingered in his thoughts like a bruise he kept pressing.

He shifted slightly, careful not to wake Sam where she dozed against him now and let out a slow breath.

Sam stirred slowly, the kind of gradual waking that looked almost childlike; a shift of her shoulder, a soft exhale against his chest, her fingers tightening unconsciously in the fabric of his t-shirt. Elliot felt the change before she fully woke, her body warming as she surfaced from sleep.

Her lashed fluttered once, twice, then her eyes blinked open, hazy and unfocussed, drifting up toward his face as though she needed a moment to remember where she was, and why she was in his arms at all.

When recognition settled in, her expression softened.

“Morning,” Elliot murmured, voice quiet so he wouldn’t break the fragile stillness surrounding them. He traced his thumb along the inside of her arm, slow and gently, more a reassurance than a greeting.

Sam made a small, sleepy sound, half-hum, half-sigh, and instinctively burrowed in closer, tucking her head beneath his chin. The simple trust of the movement hit him in the chest like something warm and heavy.

“Hi,” she whispered back, her voice rough with sleep.

Elliot smiled. A real one. The first one that hadn’t felt forced in days.

Sam shifted again, just enough to tilt her face up toward his. Her hair was a mess; soft waves sticking up on one side from where she’d slept against him all night. Her eyes were still heavy-lidded, but she was beautiful in a way that made his breath catch. Not because she looked perfect, but because she looked like home.

He lowered his head and kissed her.

It wasn’t hurried or hungry. It wasn’t anything loud or desperate. It was slow, warm, lingering enough to say everything he couldn’t yet bring himself to speak aloud.

Sam responded almost immediately, her fingers rising to curl gently at the back of his neck as she kissed him back, sleepy but sure. When they separated, she rested her forehead against his, her breath soft against his lips.

For a moment, a rare, impossible moment, there was no haunted house, no whispering voices, no forgotten memories carved into stolen journals. The world beyond Room 6 faded entirely.

There was just them.

Sam smiled, tiny and genuine. Elliot brushed his thumb along her cheek, memorising the curve of it, the warmth of her skin, the softness of this morning after everything that had happened, and he let himself hold onto it.

It had been maybe an hour since they’d first stirred awake, though the quiet softness of the morning made time feel slippery. Elliot and Sam were still wrapped together under the duvet, talking in low sleepy voices about nothing important; how cold her fete always were, how his hair was sticking up in every direction, how neither of them wanted to move just yet. It was the first moment since the blackout that felt remotely normal.

Then Sam’s phone buzzed against the bedside table, the vibration loud in the quiet room.

She shifted, reaching for it without leaving Elliot’s arms. The screen lit her face in a soft glow as she unlocked it.

“Harper,” she murmured, thumb brushing across the message. “She says… ‘Are you two awake? Can I come up?’”

Sam hesitated, chewing her lip. Some of the peace they’d settled into cracked around the edges, the memory of yesterday’s fear creeping back in. she turned her head slightly to look at Elliot.

“You okay if she comes up?” Sam asked, her voice gentle, just checking in, like she always did with him now.

“Yeah,” Elliot said without hesitation, brushing her hair back with a thumb. “Of course. Let her know she’s welcome up.”

A soft knock came at the door before Sam could even lower her phone. Elliot sat up a little straighter and called, “Yeah, come in.”

The door opened, and Harper stepped inside. She looked tired, like she hadn’t slept more than a few hours, but she was put together in that purposeful way she always was when she needed to keep herself steady; hair tied back, coat half-zipped, her shoulder bag hanging from one hand. She offered them a small smile, warm but apologetic, as though she wasn’t sure she deserved to intrude.

“Morning,” she said quietly.

Sam returned the smile, pulling the duvet a little higher around herself. Elliot shifted so Harper had space if she wanted to sit, but Harper hesitated and instead perched on the corner of one of the desk chairs, fingers twisting lightly around her bag strap.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” she asked.

“No, you’re fine,” Elliot reassured her immediately.

Harper nodded, took a slow breath, and then looked at Sam. Really looked at her, searching for something like courage.

“I’m headed into town for a bit,” she began, voice soft but wavering at the edges. “I need to… just get out for a while. Run a few errands. Clear my head.” She swallows, eyes flicking briefly toward the attic window where the morning light fought through thinning clouds. “And I don’t really want to go alone.”

Sam blinked, surprised. “You want me to come?”

Harper nodded again, more firmly this time. “If you’re up for it. I just… could use the company. And I think some time away from the house might help both of us.”

There was no pressure in her tone, only quiet hope.

Sam’s expression wavered the moment Harper asked. She glances at the floor, then at Harper, then inevitably back at Elliot. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. More like she was being pulled in two different directions at once. He could see it in the way her fingers curled slightly in the blanket, in how her shoulders drew in.

“I do want to go,” she admitted softly. “And I don’t want you going alone.”

A beat.

“But I don’t want to leave you here. Not today.”

The guilt in her voice made something tug sharply behind Elliot’s ribs. She wasn’t clinging to him; she was worried for him. And somehow that made him want even more to give her the freedom she clearly needed.

He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers between hers. “Hey,” he murmured, warm and steady, “it’s okay. Really.” When she looked up, he held her gaze. “You should so. It’ll do you good to get out for a bit.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Elliot shook his head gently.

“And honestly? A quiet house might help me think. I’ll probably just tidy, or shower, or stare at the wall for an hour or two.” A small, dry smile tugged at his mouth. “I’ll be fine, Sam.”

Harper stayed quiet, watching them with patient, hopeful eyes. She wasn’t pushing, just waiting fro Sam to choose.

Sam searched Elliot's face for a long moment, weighing something only she could feel. Then her shoulders lowered, just slightly, and the tension in her posture eased.

“Okay,” she whispered. She squeezed his hand. “Okay, I’ll go. But I’m texting you the whole time. If you don’t answer, I’m calling, and if you don’t answer that, I’m coming straight back.”

Elliot's heart warmed helplessly. “Deal.”

Harper let out a quiet breath of relief and gave Sam a grateful smile. “Thank you. Really.”

Sam slipped out of bed and began gathering clothes, pulling on jeans and a soft jumper. She tied her hair up loosely in front of the mirror, catching Elliot's eyes in the reflection. There was still hesitation there. Still a question: Are you sure?

Elliot nodded once, firm and reassuring.

Harper stepped outside the room to wait, giving them privacy. When Sam was finally ready, she crossed back to the bed, cupped Elliot's face in both hands, and kissed him softly. Slow, lingering, a promise pressed into his skin.

“I won’t be long,” she murmured against his lips.

Elliot brushed his thumb along her cheek. “Take your time.”

And with one last squeeze of his hand, Sam slipped out of Room 6, following Harper down the stairs, leaving Elliot with a quiet house and a heart that beat a little too fast for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.

The house felt hollow the moment Sam and Harper stepped out into the drizzle. Their voices faded down the footpath, the front door closed, and an unnatural quiet settled over everything. Not the dangerous stillness from nights before, but something thinner, emptier.

Elliot stood in the middle of Room 6 for a moment, unsure what to do with himself now that Sam wasn’t immediately within reach. He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, ran both hands through his hair, and forced himself to move.

He started with the bed.

The duvet was still tangled from where Sam had climbed out a few minutes earlier, so he shook it out, smoothed the sheets, tucked in the corners. Her pillow still held the faint impression of her face. He brushed a thumb over the fabric before stepping back.

Next came the desk. He stacked the scattered notes, closed his laptop, wiped a faint ring of condensation where Sam’s tea had been. Then he folded the clothes on the chair, mostly his, but a few of hers were mixed in, something that made his chest warm and tight at the same time.

He paused halfway through straightening the wardrobe when his phone buzzed.

Sam: We found a café. Harper ordered the biggest latte I’ve ever seen.

Attached was a selfie: Sam and Harper squeezed together in the corner of a little café window, rain-streaked glass behind them. Sam was smiling in that soft way she only did when she was genuinely at ease, her hair slightly frizzy from the weather. Harper’s smile was smaller but real.

Elliot felt something curl pleasantly in his stomach. He sent back a quick Looks nice. Get something sugary, then tossed his phone onto the bed so he wouldn’t check it every thirty seconds.

He showered next; hotter than usual, letting the steam fill the bathroom, letting the water beat down on the tension in his shoulders. When he stepped out, towel wrapped loosely around his hips, his phone buzzed again.

Sam had sent a photo of a flaky pastry dusted with icing sugar, her hands holding it up toward the camera, her thumb visible in the corner.

He huffed a laugh, typing back, Good, Eat twelve.

He dressed slowly, clean jeans, a soft navy jumper, hair still damp from the shower. He didn’t know why he cared how he looked today. Or rather he did know… he just wasn’t letting himself name it yet. Not until he absolutely had to.

His phone buzzed once more.

Another photo from Sam: Harper holding a solver sequined scarf up to her neck, expression dead serious as though modelling haute couture.

Elliot barked out a real laugh and texted back, Buy it, please. I need to witness Harper Sparkles.

Sam replied with a crying laughing emoji.

He set the phone aside again, this time face down, before he could get sucked into watching the typing bubble appear and vanish. With the room now clean and his nerves steadily tightening, Elliot tried to distract himself by heading downstairs.

But even with the storm gone, the house had a strange echo to it. Every footstep felt too loud, every breath too small. And yet he wasn’t afraid. Not today. Not right now. The quiet felt more like a pause than a threat.

He hovered in the kitchen for a moment, then the living them, then finally the hallway. No matter what he touched of straightened or re-aligned, his mind kept flicking back to the same though:

There’s something I need to do today.

Not rehearsed. Not planned. Not even consciously shaped yet. Just a weight inside him, getting heavier by the hour.

Still, nothing in him named it. Not yet. His phone buzzed again, another photo. This one of Sam holding two paper bags of shopping with the caption:

Sam: We may have accidentally matched outfits today. Harper says it’s destiny.

Elliot's smile softened. 

Yeah. He could survive a couple more hours without her.

A short while later, Elliot found Jordan in the kitchen halfway through making himself a mug of tea. The kettle had just clicked off, steam curling into the air, and Jordan looked up the moment Elliot stepped inside, eyes narrowing like he could smell something suspicious in the air.

“You look… chipper,” Jordan said slowly, pouring water over the teabag. “Which is weird, considering the whole… ordeal last night.”

Elliot cleared his throat. “I need your help.”

Jordan froze mid-teabag dunk. “Oh got. What’s broken now? Is Room 2 oozing? Did the shed start screaming? Is-”

“No,” Elliot cut in quickly. “Nothing’s broken. Nothing’s… screaming.” He rubbed the back of his neck, wishing he didn’t suddenly feel like a teenager asking a teacher for dating advice. “I just need… somewhere. A place. For dinner.”

Jordan blinked. Them blinked again. And then the slowest, smuggest smile spread across his face.

“Oh,” he said, drawing the sound out like it was a whole sentence. “A place.”

“It’s not-” Elliot began, immediately lying, “-it’s not what you think.”

Jordan listed his tea and took a long sip, clearly enjoying himself. “Sure. Of course it isn’t. You’re just… randomly asking for restaurant recommendations. For reason.”

Elliot groaned. “Can you please just tell me somewhere good? Like, properly nice? Not a takeaway. Not a pub. Somewhere… fancy-ish.”

Jordan’s grin widened. “Fancy-ish. Got it.” He set his mug down and started tapping through his phone. “Okay, so. Top contenders.”

Elliot leaned against the counter, arm crossed to look casual, but Jordan wasn’t fooled for a second.

“Theres La Lantana,” Jordan said, showing a picture of a candlelit Italian interior. “Excellent food. Impossible to get a table unless you book three weeks in advance.”

“Next,” Elliot said quickly.

Jordan chuckled and scrolled. “Alright… Atelier Nine. Frensh bistro. Looks like a museum had a baby with a chemistry set.”

Elliot made a face. “I’m not taking Sam somewhere where the food looks like a science experiment.”

Jordan nodded approvingly. “Good instinct. And number three…” He turned the phone again. “Riverside Ember. Cosy. Warm lighting. Small menu, all halal-friendly by the way.”

That made Elliot's stomach flip.

“And,” Jordan continued, “they’ve got stunning river view. Like… proper postcard material. People propose there all the time.”

Elliot choked on his own spit. “Okay, absolutely not helpful.”

Jordan laughed so loudly the sound echoed off the tiles. “Fine, fine. Ignore that part. But it is good. And they usually have tables.”

Elliot nodded, storing the name in his mind like it was precious cargo. “Thanks. Seriously.”

Jordan shrugged. “Don’t thank me yet. See if they even have space.”

Elliot's phone buzzed then. Another message from Sam. A photo of a shop window filled with books, her caption below it:

Sam: Harper’s making me smell every candle in this store. Send help.

Elliot smiled before he could stop himself.

Jordan didn’t miss is. “Yeah,” he said, sipping his tea again. “That’s the face of a man doing something stupidly brave.”

Elliot rolled his eyes but felt warmth settle in his chest anyway. “I’m just booking a restaurant.”

Jordan patted him on the shoulder as he walked past. “Mate… nothing about this is just anything.”

When Jordan left the kitchen, Elliot pulled up the number for Riverside Ember with shaky fingers.

Time to find out if this plan had any chance of working.

Once Jordan left the kitchen, Elliot slipped into a chair and pulled up the three restaurant tabs Jordan had sent him. his fingers hovered over his phone for a moment. He felt ridiculous, like he was planning something far more dramatic than a simple tinner, btu the knot of nerves in his chest wouldn’t ease.

He should call all three, he told himself. Just in case. If the first two were books, he didn’t want to scramble while Sam was already on her way back.

He inhaled, steadied himself, and tapped the number for the fancy Italian place first.

The phone rang twice before a polished voice answered.

“Good morning, La Lantana reservations, how may I help?”

“Hi, uh, yeah. I was hoping to book a table for two tonight? Any time from, like… six onward?”

A brief pause.

“I’m very sorry, sir, but we are fully booked for this evening.”

Of course they were. It was midweek, but a place this expensive probably filled up a month in advance.

“No worries,” Elliot said, trying not to sound too relieved. “Thanks anyway.”

He hung up and immediately dialled the second number.

The bistro answered almost immediately.

“Good morning, Atelier Nine. How may I direct your call?”

“Hi, reservations please?”

A click, then another voice.

“Reservations.”

“Yes, we do. Six, seven, or eight o’clock?”

Elliot almost said perfect, but a thought hit him. he cleared his throat.

“Uh, just to check, do you have halal options?”

A sigh. Not annoyed, just matter of fact.

“I’m afraid not. We don’t offer halal preparations.”

“Oh. Right. No problem. Thanks anyway.”

He hung up.

Two down.

He stared at the third listing, Riverside Ember, a place he’s never heard of, but the photos looked… perfect. Soft golden lighting, brick walls, hanging plans, candlelit tables, and a stunning view of the river catching late-afternoon light. Stylish but not pretentious.

His heart thudded. “Okay, please work. Please, please work.” He muttered to himself.

He dialled.

“Riverside Ember, this is Charlotte speaking. How can I help?”

Her voice was warm, friendly. Instantly calming.

“Hi. I was wondering if you had any tables for two tonight? Any time after six?”

He braced for disappointment.

“Let me check…”

A brief stretch of silence.

Then:

“Yes, actually. We’ve had a cancellation. We can do six-thirty, and it includes a river-view table.”

Elliot blinked. “A river-view table?”

“Yes. They’re by the window, overlooking the water. Would you like that?”

He almost laughed in relief. “Yes. Definitely. Please.”

“Perfect. Can I take a name for the booking?”

“Elliot Ward.”

“Wonderful. You’re all set for six-thirty p.m., river-view seating.”

“Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure. We look forward to seeing you tonight.”

He hung up slowly. Staring at his phone. He had actually done it. Reservation male. Good restaurant. River view.

His heart was hammering like he’d just sprinted a mile. “Okay, that’s one thing sorted” he muttered to himself, rubbing a hand across his face. “One huge, terrifying thing.”

Just then, Sam’s name lit up his screen.

Sam: We’re headed back soon! Harper bought too much stuff lol

A photo followed: shopping bags crowding their feet on a café floor, Harper pretending to groan under the weight of them while Sam grinned.

Elliot's chest tightened painfully, in a way he refused to examine too closely.

He typed: ‘Can’t wait to see you.’

He stared at the words.

“Too much” he murmured to himself, deleting them.

He tried again: ‘Cool. Be safe.’

He hit send before he could overthink it.

Then he set his phone down on the table, exhaled shakily, and tried to steady the rush of nerves swirling beneath his ribs.

Elliot had been pacing the length of Room 6 for the better part of ten minutes, pretending he was rearranging things on his desk even though he’d already straightened everything twice. The house was quiet, not eerily, nor ominously, just quiet in a way that made every distant footstep of gust of wind sound louder than it should.

When the latch of the front door clicked open downstairs, he froze.

Muffled voices drifted up the stairwell, Harper laughing at something, Sam’s voice teasing her in reply, and Elliot felt something inside him loosen. Not fully, not completely, but enough to make his shoulders drop a fraction as he stepped toward the doorway of Room 6.

He didn’t even need to call down. Sam’s steps were unmistakeable, light but quick, always a little hurried when she was excited. Harper’s heavier tread followed behind her. A second later, Sam appeared at the top of the stairs, her arms full of shopping bags and her cheeks pink from the cold. The wind had worked its fingers through her hair, scattering strands across her forehead, and she pushed them back absently as she walked into the room.

The smile she gave him was real, tired at the edges, but warm, warmed by a morning away from the weight of the house. Before Elliot could even say hello properly, Sam crossed the room in a few quick steps, leaned up, and kissed him.

Not a peck. Not shy or hesitant.

Elliot's breath stumbled in his chest. He kissed her back instinctively, one hand finding the small of her back, the other steadying the shopping bags threatening to slide from her grip. When she finally pulled away, she wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face briefly against his chest, sighing into the fabric of his top.

“I missed you,” she murmured against him.

He laughed quietly, fingers brushing through her wind-chilled hair. “You were gone for two hours.”

“Which is longer than usual,” she said, poking him lightly in the ribs before stepping back to unload her bags onto the bed.

Harper ducked into the room behind her, dropping two small bags of her own onto the desk and giving Elliot a half-smile.

“She survived,” Harper said dryly. “Despite buying approximately… everything she saw.”

“You said it was Harper who bought too much” Elliot teased.

Sam scoffed, “It was three things!”

“Three things from every shop,” Harper corrected, then winked at Elliot. “She’ll tell you all about it. I’m going to sort my stuff out in my room.”

Sam blew her a good-natured raspberry as Harper disappeared down the hall.

When the door swung shut again, Elliot felt the room soften around them. Sam turned back to him, leaning her hip against the desk, smiling in a way that made something in his chest tighten pleasantly.

“So,” he said, trying very hard to sound casual and not like a man who had booked a restaurant and spent the entire morning vibrating with nerves, “what’d you get up to? Beyond the photos.”

Sam pulled out a scarf first, Harper’s judging by the colour, then a book, then a small pack of pastries.

“Well,” she began, “we started with coffee, because Harper said she couldn’t function without it. And then there was the bookshop, I had to physically stop her buying a seventeenth-century poetry anthology she absolutely doesn’t need. Then we wandered, and talked, and… it was nice. Really nice. Like the old kind of normal.”

Her voice softened at the end, and Elliot felt something in him ache at the relief in her tone.

“I’m glad,” he said sincerely. “You needed it.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, warm and open in a way that never failed to disarm him. “Yeah. I think I really did.”

“You okay?” She asked, stepping closer again, almost instinctively reaching to straighten the collar of his shirt. “You look… I don’t know. Focused.”

Elliot swallowed.

Focused. An interesting word for terrified but trying to play it cool.

“I’m good,” he lied softly, not in a deceptive way, but in a don’t worry about me right now way. “Just did some tidying. Showered. Caught up with Jordan a bit.”

Sam’s eyes lit with curiosity. “Oh? About what?”

Elliot forced a casual shrug. “Just… stuff.”

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion, playful suspicion, not the wary kind, but let it drop. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek before gathering the bags to put them away properly.

And as Elliot watched her move around the room, the little sway of her hips, the relaxed ease returning to her shoulders, his pulse thrummed with a mixture of relief, fondness, and the quiet knowledge that the next few hours were going to change something between them.

He just hopes it would change things in the way he was quietly, desperately hoping for.

A few minutes later, once Elliot had vanished to make them both a cup of tea, Sam had finished putting away the last of her shopping and Harper had vanished into Room 4, the house settled into a rare, soft quiet.

Sam drifted back toward the bed, easing down onto it with a relaxed sigh. Elliot joined her, sitting close enough that their knees brushed. The air between them felt lighter than it had in days. Not weightless, now free of everything that haunted the house, but clearer, breathable.

Sam pulled the small paper bag of pastries from beside her and nudged it toward him. “We saved you one,” she said. “Technically, Harper tried to steal it, but I told her you’d get first pick.”

Elliot smiled and reached in. “A selfless act of heroism.”

“Truly,” Sam said with a mock sigh. “I’m basically a saint.”

They shared the pastry while chatter picked up again; gentle, meandering conversation that stayed firmly away from anything supernatural or frightening.

Sam lay back on the pillows, her shoulder brushing Elliot’s. “We went to the café on Maple Street,” she said, scrolling through the photos open on her phone. “They’re redecorated. It’s all plants and weird light fixtures now. But the pastries were so good.”

She tapped to another photo: Harper holding the sequined scarf against her face in mock seduction. Elliot laughed, the tension in his chest loosening another notch.

He shifted closer, propping himself on his elbow. “Looks like you two had fun.”

“Yeah,” Sam murmured, staring up at him with a softness that made his pulse knock uneven. “We really did.” A beat, quiet but meaning something. “I needed it.”

“I know,” Elliot said. He reached out, brushing his fingertips lightly over the back of her hand. “And you deserved it.”

Sam’s thumb traced a slow arc along his wrist, a tiny gesture, but one that sent warmth all the way up his arm. She settled her head against his shoulder again, letting out a small, content exhale.

For a while, the two of them just talked. Not about anything in particular, just life.

Sam told him about her coursework, how she had only a few major essays left before finishing her degree. “One of them is worth sixty percent of my final grade,” she groaned. “It’s monstrous. I swear it grows in size whenever I look at it.”

Elliot chuckled. “You’ll destroy it.”

“Flatterer.”

“Truth.”

She nudged his side with her elbow, playful again.

He asked about the bookshop, the one she’d sent him a photo of earlier. Sam lit up instantly, describing the display of new releases, how Harper had insisted on buying 2 new books she absolutely didn’t need to add to her growing stack of unread, and how Sam had nearly tripped over a badly placed table and pretended she hadn’t.

“You should’ve seen Harper’s face,” she said, laughing into his shoulder. “I swear she aged ten years watching me stumble.”

Elliot shook his head fondly, his stomach tightening whenever she leaned a little closer, whenever her fingers brushed his.

In contrast, inside his chest everything felt like a taut wire. He kept checking the time on his phone in tiny, discreet glances. 4:30 wasn’t close yet, not even nearly, but the knowledge of it hovered behind every heartbeat.

Twice he opened his mouth to say something, to hint at the surprise, to warn her she should get ready later, to explain that he was nervous for absolutely no rational reason, and twice he shut it again.

Sam didn’t seem to notice. She was warm against him, relaxed, smiling in that unguarded way he adored.

They talked until their tea went cold. Until Sam stretched out a little, her hand resting on his thigh without thought. Until Elliot felt his ribcage was too small for everything he wasn’t saying.

For this house, this precious quiet hour, it was just the two of them in a sunlit room, the damp ground outside drying, the storm finally behind them.

And for Elliot, who couldn’t stop glancing at his phone and thinking about the reservation burning a hole in his mind, it was both perfect and agonisingly slow as the moment approached when he would finally tell Sam the plan.

“Okay,” he said, a little too loudly, clapping his hands when 4:30 finally arrived.

Sam jumped slightly and looked up. “Jesus, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat, trying again, softer. “I, uh… need to ask you something.”

Her expression shifted instantly from startled to wary amusement. “That sounded ominous.”

“It’s not,” he said quickly. “It’s not bad. I promise.”

She sat up properly, crossing her legs, giving him her full attention. “Go on then.”

He dragged in a breath. Just say it. It’s not a proposal, it’s a date.

“So,” he began, fingers knotting together, “I may have made plans. For us. Tonight.”

Her eyes brightened, curiosity sparking instantly. “Plans?”

“Yeah.” He forced himself to meet her gaze. “I need you to dress up. Nice. Fancy. Be ready for five?”

She blinked. “Dress up?”

“Yeah.”

“Fancy?”

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “Why? What’s happening?”

“It’s a surprise.” The words tumbled out quicker than he meant them to, so he slowed down. “Just… wear something you feel beautiful in.”

That got her.

Colour rose, slow and soft, in her cheeks. Her gaze searched his face for a moment, scanning for a joke, some sign he was winding her up. All she found instead was nerves and sincerity he couldn’t quite mask.

“You’re serious,” she said quietly.

“Very,” he said. “Please? Trust me?”

Her shoulders loosened a fraction. “You know I hate not knowing things.”

“I am aware,” he said. “Deeply aware. But this time you don’t get to interrogate me. It’s a nice thing, I swear.”

She eyed him another beat, then sighed in exaggerated defeat. “Fine. I’ll okay along.” She jabbed a finger in his direction. “But if you’ve booked us into, like, an escape room or something, I’m leaving you there.”

He laughed. “No escape rooms. Promise.”

“Good.” She rolled off the bed and padded over to the wardrobe, pulling the doors open. “Right. ‘Something I feel beautiful in.’ No pressure.”

He watched her sift through handers, the steady swish of fabric oddly soothing and absolutely terrifying all at once. Dress after dress, she held up options, half to herself.

“What about this one?” she held up a simple black dress, cut cleanly at the waist.

“It’s nice,” he said.

She lowered it, unimpressed. “That’s the least helpful answer.”

“I mean, it is. It’s just very… funeral-adjacent.”

She grimaced and shoved it aside. “Yeah, no, you’re right.”

Another dress emerged, jewel-toned, deep green with a wrap front and soft sleeves. She paused at that one longer, rubbing the fabric between her fingers.

“I like that,” Elliot said before he could stop himself.

Her lips quirked. “Do you?”

“Yeah. It suits you.” He gestured vaguely at her, flustered. “Colour-wise. And… everything-wise.”

“Everything-wise,” she repeated, amused. “Very technical.”

But she draped the green carefully over the bed instead of hanging it back, which he took as a win.

She dug through one of the bags she’d brought back from town and produced a pair of earrings and a slim bracelet, laying them out beside the dress like she was building a tiny flat-lay for a magazine.

“You’re really committing to this, huh?” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. “You going to dress up too? Or am I going to look like I’ve kidnapped my IT support for a fancy dinner?”

He snorted. “I do not look like IT support.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I’m wounded,” he said, hand over his heart. “And yes, obviously, I’m going to make an effort. I do own clothes that aren’t hoodies, you know.”

“Show me,” she challenged.

He pushed himself up from the chair and crossed to the chest of drawers where he kept his better stuff. “All right, judgy. Watch and be amazed.”

He pulled out the smart trousers he almost never wore, then a plain fitted t-shirt and the blazer that had seen maybe two weddings and one job interview.

She eyed the items with appraising interest. “Okay, that’s actually decent. Look at you.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m pleasantly surprised,” she corrected, smiling. “There’s a difference.”

He laid his outfit out on the other side of the bed, opposite her dress, the green fabric and dark grey trousers mirroring each other in an oddly satisfying way.

“Right,” she said, clapping her hands once. “Turn around, Ward. I am not flashing you my entire underwear drawer just because you booked a mystery thing.”

“You realise we’ve literally changed in the same room before, right?” he pointed out, even as he obediently turned his back.

“Yes, and I still reserve the right to pretend I’m modest,” she replied. “Now shush.”

Behind him, he heard the zip of the dress she’d been wearing, the soft rustle of fabric hitting the floor. His mind, unhelpfully imaginative, threw up a series of images he tried very hard not to lean into. He stared determinedly at the wall, a slightly crooked poster, at absolutely anything that wasn’t the fact that Samira Patel was changing a few feet behind him.

“You can look now,” she said after a moment, voice oddly careful.

He turned.

The green dress skimmed her figure in a way that managed to be both elegant and quietly devastating. The colour brought out the worm undertones of her skin, the deep brown of her eyes. She was barefoot still, hair loose and a little wild from the day, but the overall effect was… a lot.

His breath caught for half a second before he forced it to continue.

“Well?” she asked, a flicker of uncertainty moving across her features. “Too much?”

“No,” he said, the word out before he could soften it. “It’s… perfect.”

Her shoulders eased. The uncertainty in her gaze warmed into something else; an awareness that he’d never been very good at hiding.

“You really think so?” she asked, quieter now.

“Sam,” he said, somehow both exasperated and entire sincere, “you’d look good in a bin bag. That dress is… it’s unfair, honestly.”

A slow, pleased smile curved her mouth. “Unfair, huh?”

“Criminal,” he added, which made her laugh.

Sam looked at him for a moment longer, a measuring, lingering look, before stepping aside and gesturing toward his clothes.

“Your turn,” she said. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

He grabbed his things and, with a mock bow, retreated to the other side of the room.

“Don’t peek,” he said automatically.

“Tempting,” she replied, and he could hear the grin in her voice.

He changed quickly, swapping his t-shirt and jeans for the smarter trousers, tugging the fitted tee into place, shrugging on the blazer. It felt like wearing someone else’s life; he adjusted the lapels twice just to have something to do with his hands.

When he turned back, Sam was unabashedly watching him.

Her eyes travelled from his shoes, up the lines of his legs, over the fit of the trousers, the way the t-shirt sat across his chest, up to his face. There was nothing subtle about it. Her gaze was slow, assessing.

He felt his ears heat.

“Well?” he asked, trying for lightness and landing somewhere just shy of breathless. “Too much?”

Her lips curved. “No,” she said. “That’s… definitely not too much.”

She stepped closer, reaching up to straighten a slightly crooked fold on his blazer. Her fingers lingered a second longer than strictly necessary on his lapel.

“You scrub up well, Ward,” she said. “Very… annoyingly handsome.”

“Annoyingly?” he echoed, amused.

“It’s annoying when you don’t realise it,” she said, amusement softening into something gentler. “You’re going to make every other guy in this place look underdressed.”

“That is absolutely not true,” he protested.

“We’ll see,” she said, eyes glinting.

He raked a hand through his hair, trying to tame it. It immediately fell back into its usual stubborn mess. Sam watched, fondly exasperated.

“Leave it,” she said. “It suits you.”

“Messy?” he said.

“Fashionably untidy,” she corrected. “You look like you. Just… upgraded a bit.”

She stepped back to grab her earrings, slipping them in with deft fingers, then fastened the bracelet around her wrist. He couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to stand there and watch her do these small, intimate things, like he belonged in this private little orbit of hers now.

“What time do I have to be ready again?” she asked, glancing at the clock on his bedside table.

“Five,” he said. “We’ve got… what, an hour?”

She nodded. “Plenty of time to stress about what on earth you’ve got planned.”

“Or,” he suggested, “plenty of time to sit here and pretend we’re not both silently panicking.”

Her laugh came out bright and genuine. “Deal.”

She crossed back to him, sliding her hand into his, the cool metal of her bracelet brushing his wrist. “You’re really not going to tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope,” he said, squeezing her fingers. “Just… trust me, okay?”

She studied him one last time, eyes soft, lips curved.

“I already do,” she said.

And for the first time that day, the nerves in his chest twisted into something almost like hope.

they didn’t leave Room 6 immediately.

Sam was still mothing out the fabric of her dress over her hips, cheeks warm with colour, while Elliot rummaged through the drawer for his wallet and keys with hands that absolutely, definitely were not shaking, except for the face they were.

When they finally stepped out onto the attic staircase and began descending side by side, the afternoon light had shifted into that soft golden hour that made everything look gentler than it really was. Room 4’s door sat open opposite them, just to the right of the attic stairs, and inside, Harper and Jordan were folding laundry on the bed.

Sam and Elliot had barely taken three steps before Harper looked up.

Her eyes widened slightly, not in surprise that they were going out together, because of course they were, but at how they looked. Sam in a dress that made the hallway lights seem dim by comparison, Elliot in a blazer he absolutely did not wear casually.

“Oh wow,” Harper said lightly, her smile blooming into something warm. “You two look amazing.”

Sam flushed instantly. “Elliot said I needed to dress fancy.”

Harper’s gaze flicked to Elliot, who stood with that unmistakable nervous stiffness that meant he was planning something. She took in his outfit, Sam’s shy smile, the little way their hands kept brushing.

Harper opened her mouth to ask where they were going, then paused.

She didn’t need to ask.

Instead, she smirked knowingly and said, “Have fun. And be safe.”

Jordan appeared behind her in the doorway, leaning on the frame. His gaze travelled over Elliot in an exaggerated once-over.

“Ward,” he said with a grin, “you clean up weirdly well.”

Elliot groaned. “Please done make a thing out of this.”

“No promises,” Jordan winked. “But seriously, you look great, man.”

Sam laughed softly and touched Elliot's arm, a quiet reassurance. As the two of them headed toward the stairs, Elliot heard Jordan whisper to Harper, “I’ll explain everything I know once they’ve gone.”

Harper whispered back, “Good. I want details.”

Sam didn’t hear that. Elliot definitely did. It made him walk a little quicker.

They descended the staircase together, the house strangely peaceful now that the storm had passed. The air smelled faintly of last night’s candles and chicken stir-fry, but tonight, even the familiar scents felt different. Warmer, almost celebratory.

At the bottom of the stairs, Elliot paused long enough to grab his coat from the peg and pat down his pockets.

“Keys… wallet… phone…” he muttered.

Sam raised an amused eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re not forgetting anything? Like maybe explaining where we’re going?”

“Nope,” Elliot said brightly. “Surprise, remember?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Not even one clue?”

He shook his head, lips twitching. “Not even a little one.”

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused, nudging him gently.

“A little,” he admitted, and her soft laugh nearly undid him.

He opened the front door, letting the cool early-evening air sweep across their faces. The storm had washed everything clean; the pavement glistened faintly, reflecting golden light. The taxi he’d booked earlier was already parked at the kerb, engine running.

Sam blinked. “You booked a taxi?”

“Yep,” Elliot said, stepping forward to open the door for her. “If we’re doing a fancy date, we’re doing it properly.”

Her eyebrows shot up as she slid into the seat. “So it is a fancy date.”

He froze for the briefest second.

Sam smiled, slowly, playfully. “Relax, Elliot. I know it’s out first real date.”

He huffed a breath that was half a laugh, half relief. “Okay. Good. Because yeah, it is.”

She kissed his cheek. “Then let’s go on out date.”

Elliot swallowed the knot in his throat, climbed in beside her, and shut the door.

the taxi eased away from the kerb in front of 12B, tyres hissing softly against the still-damp road. Elliot breathed out, long and slow, trying to convince himself it was just a normal evening drive, that the pounding beneath his ribs was simply excitement and not full-blown panic.

Sam settled beside him, seatbelt clicking into place, her thigh brushing lightly against his. She didn’t pull away, and neither did he. The late afternoon sun poured a warm orange glow across the street, slipping through the taxi windows and panting her skin in a soft gold. She looked beautiful. She always did, but the dress, the light, the excitement in her eyes made something in his chest tighten.

The taxi merged into traffic. A queue had already formed toward the river crossing, dozens of brake lights flickering like a trail of embers ahead. They were going to be on the road for a while, forty minutes, maybe more, which should have helped his nerves.

It didn’t.

Sam turned toward him, her expression amused, perceptive in a way she always seemed to be with him.

“Are you breathing?” she asked lightly.

“Debatable,” Elliot murmured.

She laughed softly, leaning closer just a little. “Relax. I’m not grilling you yet.”

Yet. His stomach twisted.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, just comfortable, warm, gently humming with the unspoken truth that this was their first real date. The first one where northing traumatic bookended it, where no haunting lingered in the next room or down the hall. Just an evening for the two of them.

A red light stopped the taxi. Elliot cleared his throat.

“Se… I’ve been thinking about work stuff,” he said, trying to sound casual.

Sam perked up instantly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m considering starting my own business. Full on self-employment.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “Working freelance is fine, I guess. It’s just not… challenging in the right ways anymore.”

Her eyes lit with genuine interest. “Really? That’s exciting.”

“Exciting or stupid,” Elliot muttered.

“Why not both?” she teased gently.

Elliot huffed a laugh. “Fair point.”

“What would you specialise in?” she asked.

He blinked. “I… don’t actually know yet. I guess whatever clients I can get at first?”

Sam shook her head with a firm little smile. “No. I think you underestimate how good you are at this. You built that entire project your cousin’s company by yourself, right? And the redesign for your old school? And last week you fixed Harper’s laptop in like, what? Ten minutes?”

“That was just cleaning malware.”

“And that,” she said, poking his arm, “is something most people cannot do.”

He felt heat creep up his neck. Praise always hit him sideways, but hers hit hardest.

“I just… want something that feels like mine,” he admitted quietly. “Something I can build. Something I can take pride in.”

Sam’s smile softened into something warmer, something that reached deep. “I think you should do it. And I think you’d be incredible at it.”

The taxi rolled forward through the green lights. The river shimmered in the distance, catching the fading sun like a ribbon of molten copper.

Elliot's heart was pounding again.

It wasn’t the business talk doing it.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, “what about you? You’re almost done with your degree.”

Sam groaned dramatically and let her head fall back against the seat. “Don’t remind me.”

“Sorry,” he laughed.

“No, it’s fine, I just… I’ve got two major essays left. One of them is sixty percent of my final grade.” She scrubbed a hand over her face. “And university is weird right now. Half of my friends are excited to finish. The other half are terrified. I’m somewhere in the middle.”

“Which half is winning today?” he asked.

She considered it. “The excited half. Mostly because Harper forced me to buy a really cute cardigan this morning to celebrate my future success.”

He smirked. “And because you got cake.”

“Cake helped,” she admitted.

“You’ll finish strong,” Elliot said quietly. “I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as you do.”

She shifted, looking at him in that way that made him feel exposed, fully seen but not judged. “Thank you,” she murmured. “It means more than you know.”

He swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

She went back to watching the window, the river drawing nearer, the orange sky deepening to a soft amber, but after a few seconds, she nudged him gently with her elbow.

“So…” she said, eyes narrowing playfully, “where exactly are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” Elliot said immediately.

She stared.

“What kind of food is it?”

“Surprise.”

“Is it fancy fancy? Or casual fancy?”

“Yes.”

She swatted his arm. “Elliot!”

He grinned helplessly. “Still a surprise.”

“Will I like it?”

“Yes,” he said honestly.

“How do you know?”

He looked at her, deep into her eyes, and a warmth swelled in his chest. “Because I know you.”

Sam froze for half a breath.

Then she smiled, small and soft, but devastating, nonetheless.

The taxi rolled onto the bridge near the city centre, type humming over the worn tarmac. Bellow them, the river widened into a long sheet of molten gold, the sunset breaking across its surface in rippling bands of orange and copper. The storm had scrubbed the world clean, and now the light caught every ripple as though the water itself was glowing.

Sam shifted closer to the window, breath fogging a small patch of glass. “Oh… wow,” she whispered, shifting again to get a better look. The entire city seemed to be reflecting the sunset back at them, high windows burning amber, streetlamps beginning to flicker to life along the waterfront.

Elliot didn’t look at the river.

He looked at her.

The warm light framed her face in soft gold, catching in her hair, tracing the line of her smile. Something in his chest tightened, not painfully, but insistently. The words he’d been circling around for days now pressed up again, closer than ever, swelling against his ribs.

Not yet, he told himself. Not in the taxi. Not like this.

But he knew with absolute certainty that he wouldn’t make it through dinner without telling her how he felt.

The taxi turned off the bridge, winding down along the riverfront until the buildings opened up to reveal Riverside Ember: dark wood beams, warm golden lighting, soft orange lantern glowing beneath the awning. The windows facing the water shimmered with reflections from the river below.

The car slowed to a stop.

“We’re here,” Elliot said, steadying his voice as he paid the fare and thanked the driver.

They stepped out onto the pavement. The breeze carried the smell of the river, clean, cool, touched with distant woodsmoke from somewhere downstream. The restaurant’s warm light washed over them, contrasting beautifully with the fading sunset behind them.

Sam took one long look at the place, eyes widening.

“Elliot… this looks incredible,” she breathed.

Before he could respond, she turned toward him, slipped her arms around his neck, and hugged him tightly; a sweet, unrestrained hug that lasted several seconds. Then she leaned up and kissed him, soft but sure, right there on the pavement as the taxi pulled away behind them.

When she drew back, her forehead still resting lightly against his, her voice dropped to a warm murmur meant only for him.

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

Elliot swallowed, heart thudding, and managed a crooked little smile.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s go in.”

Hand in hand, they walked toward the entrance.

They stepped inside the restaurant and were immediately met by a wash of warm light and soft ambience. The place felt cocooned from the world outside; low golden light, polished wood, bronze fixtures, and the gentle hum of conversations drifting between tables. Elliot glanced at Sam and saw her taking it all in, her shoulders relaxing a little more than they had in the taxi.

At the front desk stood charlotte, the hostess he had spoken to earlier on the phone. She recognised them at once, her smile brightening as she opened the small leather-bound reservation book.

“Good evening! Mr and Mrs Ward, booking for two?”

There was a delicate beat, just long enough for the words to settle. Elliot felt them land with unexpected weight, a warm pressure blooming in his chest. Mr and Mrs Ward. He wondered if Sam heard it the same way he did, or if it was only him who felt something shift quietly inside.

Sam didn’t correct her. She simply gave a soft, easy smile and said, “That’s us.”

The squeeze in Elliot's chest deepened, pleasant and disarmingly. Hearing his surname beside hers felt inexplicably right, in a way he wasn’t prepared for, and he had to remind himself to breathe normally, to not let the small moment show too plainly on his face.

Charlotte gathered two menus and stepped out from behind her desk. “If you’d like to follow me,” she said, her tone warm and practiced.

They followed her through the dining room, which managed to feel intimate without being cramped. Small candlelit tables, curved-back chairs, and the muted clink of glasses created an atmosphere that invited quiet conversation. It was the kind of place where time seemed to move slower by design. As they walked, Elliot caught the faint smell of something citrusy and buttery drifting from the kitchen, and his stomach responded with a subtle growl. Sam shot him an amused glance but didn’t comment.

Charlotte stopped beside a window table. The view was stunning” outside, the river glowed with late-afternoon light, its surface rippling in golds of soft pinks. The reflection spilled over the white tablecloth, bathing the space in a warm, shimmering glow. The table felt cosy, intimate, and just expensive enough to make the evening feel special.

“This is perfect,” Sam murmured as she took her seat.

Charlotte placed the menus down and straightened them with a practiced touch. “Your server will be with you shortly. Please make yourselves comfortable.”

Then she slipped away, leaving Elliot and Sam in the warm hush of their corner, the river slowing beside them, their menus untouched for the moment, and the echo of Mr and Mrs Ward lingering quietly between them.

Sam opened her menu, the candlelight catching the glossy print. At first she wore a casual, curious expression, until her eyes drifted to the right-hand column.

Her eyebrows shot up.

Not dramatically, but enough that Elliot noticed immediately.

She blinked, then blinked again, as if hoping the numbers might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable. One of her hands curled lightly around the menu’s bottom corner, holding it mike it might bite.

Elliot tilted his head. “What’s wrong?”

Sam darted a quick look at him, clearly trying, and failing, to hide the way her throat tightened, she gave a small helpless laugh that sounded more like disbelief.

Elliot… these prices are… wow.”

He raised a brow. “Wow good or wow bad?”

“Wow what on earth is this place?” she hissed quietly, leaning in over the table. “Elliot, this is… this is proper fancy. I thought we were just…” she gestured vaguely, as if trying to summon a simpler expectation, “going out somewhere nice. Not this nice.”

Elliot couldn’t help but smile at her bewilderment. “Is that a complaint?”

“No,” she muttered, eyes snapping back to the menu, “but I didn’t exactly prepare myself to eat something that costs more than my monthly travel costs.”

He closed his own menu gently and rested his forearms against the table, leaning a little closer.

“Sam,” he said softly, “don’t stress about the cost. Really.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off with a small shake of his head.

“Let me do this,” he saif, voice warm, steady in a way he absolutely didn’t feel. “Just this once. I wanted tonight to be special for you.”

Sam looked at him longer this time, not at the menu, not at the prices, but at him. Studying his expression, searching for any flicker of doubt or strain. There wasn’t one. Just an earnest kind of determination and nerves he was trying, unsuccessfully, to hide.

Her shoulders slowly relaxed.

“Are you sure?” she asked quietly. “I don’t want you stressing about money because I picked something with too many adjectives in the description.”

Elliot laughed, the tension in his chest loosening a fraction. “I’m sure. I promise I’m not bankrupting myself. And honestly?” His smile softened. “I want us to enjoy tonight. That’s all.”

“Okay,” she said, still faintly sheepish. “But if the bill comes and you faint, I’m leaving you on the floor.”

He snorted. “Noted.”

She finally reopened the menu, this time without the stiff shoulders, and Elliot watched the tension ease out of her posture as she settled into the moment, exactly what he wanted.

Sam leaned forward, elbows on the edge of the table, eyes flicking between two entrées like they were academic texts she needed to analyse before committing. The candle between them flickered softly, throwing a warm glow over her menu, and over the subtle crease of concentration between her brows.

“Okay,” she said, tapping one item with her index finger, “I’m torn.”

Elliot set his own menu down just enough to watch her more openly. “Between what?”

She angled her menu so he could see. “The roasted chicken with sumac, which sounds amazing, or the saffron vegetable risotto, which also sounds amazing,”

“You said amazing twice,” he noted. “Strong start.”

Sam gave him a look. “This is a serious crisis, Elliot.”

“Oh, obviously.”

Her foot bumped his under the table. Lightly. Purposefully.

She pointed at the chicken. “This one sounds… I don’t know. Comforting.”

“Mm-hm.”

“But the risotto looks really elegant.”

“Mm-hm.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m observing,” he said, biting back a grin. “Different skill set.”

She huffed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, scanning her options again. “Which do you think I should get?”

Elliot pretended to think very seriously, stroking an imaginary beard, squinting with exaggerated intensity at the menu.

Then he said, much too casually:

“Whichever one you’re planning to steal bites of mines from.”

Sam froze in mock outrage. “Excuse me?”

Elliot raised his eyebrows innocently. “It’s statistical. Historically supported, even. Everything I’ve eaten anything near you, you’ve taken-”

“Don’t even finish that sentence.” She nudged him under the table again, this time firmer, her mouth curving up at the corners. “You love when I steal your food.”

“I plead the fifth.”

“This is England.”

“Then I plead the… British equivalent.”

Sam snorted, covering her smile with her hand. He felt the warmth that rose in his chest whenever she laughed, that fluttery, ridiculous awareness that he still wasn’t used to.

She re-examined her options. “Okay. Fine. I’m going with the sumac chicken.”

“Strong choice,” he approved.

“And what about you?”

He flipped his menu back open, scanning the list with the same seriousness he might apply to choosing a university program. “I’m thinking either the steak… or the seabass.”

Sam leaned forward, mock whispering across the table. “Choose the seabass.”

“Any particular reason?” he asked, amused.

“Because if you get steak, I’ll want some. And I’m trying to be polite.”

Elliot's laugh slipped out before he could stop it. “That’s very self-aware of you.”

“I know. I’m growing as a person.”

He glanced at the seabass description; pan-seared, herb crusted, served over garlic butter mash with wilted greens. Honestly, it did sound incredible. And fancy. And exactly right for the evening.

“Seabass it is,” he said.

She tapped her menu once in decisive approval. “Good. Now I only have to steal half of your mash instead of half of your steak.”

His eyes widened. “Half?”

“Well, maybe not half,” she conceded sweetly. “But enough to keep things interesting.”

Elliot pressed his hand to his chest. “I am being bullied.”

“You absolutely are,” she agreed, soft laughter threading through the words.

They sat back, menus partially closed, a comfortable hush falling over the table, the good kind, the kind that felt full rather than empty. Sam’s hand drifted across the tablecloth until the back of her fingers brushed his.

He didn’t overthink it; he just turned his hand palm-up and let her lace her fingers through his.

The low murmur of the restaurant drifted around them as they closed their menus. Sam ran her fingers lightly along the folded linen napkin, steadying herself, and Elliot tried his best to look like a man not calculating every possible way this dinner could go wrong or right.

Their waitress arrived with a warm, practiced smile, a woman perhaps in her late twenties, dark curls pinned neatly back, a small notebook resting in one hand.

“Have you both decided what you’d like?” she asked, tone gentle enough that Elliot immediately relaxed a fraction.

Sam inhaled, sat a little straighter, and handed her menu over first.

“Yes,” she said, with a confidence Elliot could tell was partly performed. “I’ll have the roasted chicken with sumac, please.”

“A lovely choice,” the waitress said, making a neat note. “And for you?”

Elliot didn’t let himself hesitate. He pushed his menu forward with a smile that probably looked smooth to everyone except Sam, who could clearly read the nerves hiding under it.

“I’ll have the seabass, please.”

“Of course.” The waitress tucked her pen behind her ear. “Would either of you like to see out wine list this evening?”

What happened next was instant. Like muscle memory they didn’t know they shared.

Sam and Elliot both blurted out in perfect sync:

“Oh… I don’t drink, sorry.”

A beat of stunned silence followed. 

They turned their heads toward each other at the exact same moment.

“You don’t?” Sam asked.

“You don’t?” Elliot echoed.

It wasn’t an awkward moment. Just unexpected, a small, bright discovery in the middle of a nervous evening.

Sam brushed a stray curl behind her ear. “I’m Muslim. Not practicing really, but alcohol just… never felt right. So, I don’t bother.”

Elliot let out a small breath, relieved for reason he couldn’t name. “I just never liked the idea. Didn’t grow up around it, and it never appealed. Feels pointless for me.”

Something shifted between them then, not dramatic, but quiet and undeniable. A thread pulling them closer, a softened understanding settling in the centre of the table.

The waitress smiled at the exchange, clearly charmed. “Not a problem. I’ll bring you both some still water. If you change your mine, I’m right here”

She left them with a polite nod and disappeared toward the bar.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Sam broke into a small grin, leaning slightly forward. “So… we’re the most boring table here?”

Elliot huffed a quiet laugh. “Boring? Never. We’re the classy table.”

She nudged his foot gently under the table. “Classy doesn’t usually come with the look you had when she asked about wine, like she’d offered you poison.”

He nudged her back. “I panicked, alright? I wasn’t expecting us to answer in weird psychic unison.”

Sam laughed, soft and warm, the sound threading through him like sunlight.

Their knees touched beneath the table.

The flickering candle set between them painted soft gold across her collarbone, across the warm curve of her cheek. She caught him staring, and instead of looking away, she smiled.

Elliot wasn’t sure he’d ever been this aware of another human being in his life.

The starters arrived looking like works of art; delicate arrangements of colour and texture, each plate drizzled and garnished like something out of a magazine. Sam let out a soft, appreciative noise when her dish landed in front of her, leaning in to inhale the warm spices rising from it.

Elliot barely noticed his own.

His stomach had tied itself into one long, looping knot that felt like it was tugged in every direction at once. He picked up his fork, turned it over in his hand, and set it down again. the candlelight flickered across the tablecloth, catching the edge of Sam’s bracelet, the curve of her smile, the faint shimmer of her dress when she shifted. He wanted to memorise everything and somehow simultaneously wanted to sink into the floor.

Sam cut into her starter, took one bite, then paused.

“You’re not eating.” She said.

It wasn’t accusatory. It was gentle, concerned observation.

Elliot stabbed half-heartedly at a corner of his plate. “No, I am. It’s good.”

“It’s untouched,” she said, nudging her chin toward the very pristine portion of his dish.

He swallowed, the lie already forming. “I’m just… not that hungry yet.”

Her brows knit together in quiet disbelief. Sam knew him. enough to hear the slight wobble in his voice, the stiffness behind the smile he tried to force. She didn’t challenge him, though. She just watched him for a long, soft moment, eyes steady in a way that made him feel both seen and exposed.

Then she let it go.

For now.

She returned to her food, but the concern lingered in the small glances she kept sending across the table.

Underneath the tablecloth, Elliot's leg bounced uncontrollably. He didn’t realise it until Sam’s foot slid gently against his, a quiet tap, not asking him to stop, just reminding him she was there.

The contact was so simple, so grounding, it should have helped. And in a small way, it did. The leg stopped bouncing for a breath. Maybe two. But the knot in his chest refused to loosen.

He tried another bite, managed to get it to his mouth, chewed, swallowed. It tasted wonderful, he couldn’t deny that, but he still felt nothing but nerves rolling beneath his ribs.

Sam wiped her thumb across the edge of her place, thoughtful. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Mm-hm.” He nodded too quickly. Too rehearsed. “Promise.”

Her lips pressed together with a hint of amusement, as though she could tell he was dodging the truth but didn’t want to embarrass him in the middle of the restaurant.

Elliot looked anywhere but directly at her, out the window at the shimmering river, at the flickering candle flame, at the tiny vase of flowers on the table, because looking at her made everything worse. Not in a bad way. In the I’m going to say it tonight way.

And the weight of that possibility sat in his chest like a living thing.

Sam took another bite and hummed approvingly, then, without looking up, nudged him gently under the table again, a silent reminder that she was beside him and he wasn’t as composed as he thought.

Elliot exhaled shakily.

If the night continued at this pace, he wasn’t sure he’d make it to desert without combusting.

The plates from their starters were cleared away with a soft clink of crockery, leaving behind only faint smears of sauce and the lingering aromas of citrus and garlic. The low music in the restaurant threaded quietly under the murmur of other people’s conversations, a piano line drifting lazily in the background. Candlelight flickered between then, catching in the glasses of water and throwing tiny wavering reflections on the tablecloth.

Elliot wrapped his fingers around his glass just to give his hands something to do. His leg bounced under the table, heel tapping a jittery rhythm against the floor.

Sam watched him for a moment, chin propped on her hand. Her eyes narrowed in that way he recognised now, softly assessing, entirely too perceptive.

“Okay,” she said at last, leaning in a little. “Talk.”

He blinked. “I am talking.”

“Elliot.” Her tone was gentle, not accusing. “You’ve been staring a hole in the table for the last ten minutes. You barely touched your starter. And your leg is doing… that.” She nudged his foot with hers under the table. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

His pulse kicked hard. For a second he considered blurting it all out right there between courses, no build-up, no plan, just spilling the words before they crushed him. I love you. I’m in love with you. I’ve been trying not to say it all day.

Instead, what came out was, “I’m fine. Promise. Just… thinking.”

She didn’t look convinced. Her eyebrows pulled together, a little crease forming between them.

“About what?” she asked.

“Work. Life. Victorian ghost housemates,” he said lightly, aiming for joking and landing somewhere near strained.

That earned a breath of a laugh, but the worry didn’t completely leave her eyes.

She watched him for a beat longer, then let out a soft sigh. “Alright,” she said. “If you’re okay, I’ll trust you, Elliot. For now.” Her foot tapped his again. “But I’m keeping an eye on you, Ward.”

He took a drink of water at exactly the wrong time and almost choked. She grinned, satisfied she’d rattled him at least a little bit in a good way.

The mains arrived not long after, set down in from of them with a quiet, skilled grace.

Sam’s dish steamed gently: roasted chicken with sumac and lemon, laid over a bed of herbed rice, jewel-bright pomegranate seeds scattered across the top. The scent hit them both at once, warm and citrusy.

Elliot's plate looked like something out of a food magazine. Seared seabass, skin crisp and golden, resting on a pool of velvety sauce, surrounded by precise little towers of vegetables and tiny roasted potatoes that had clearly been turned by hand. There was a slice of caramelised lemon perched artfully on the side. He stared at it for a second, then thought wildly that it was far too pretty for a man who could barely function right now.

Sam picked up her fork, inhaled, and gave a small appreciative noise. “Oh my God. Smell this.”

He obliged, leaning over slightly. “Okay, that does smell ridiculous.”

“You picked well,” she said, cutting into the chicken. “If this tastes half as good as it smells, I’m going to forgive you for being weird all evening.”

“I’m not being weird,” he protested automatically.

She gave him a look over the top of her fork that clearly said, You absolutely are.

He managed a brittle smile and speared one of the little potatoes on his plate. He chewed. It was, objectively very good; crispy outside, fluffy inside, infused with butter and rosemary. His stomach, however felt like it had tied itself into a bowline knot and refused to unknot itself.

Sam ate happily for a few moments, clearly enjoying every bite. Then she glanced over and frowned.

“You’ve literally just eaten a tiny potato,” she said. “And half a green bean.”

“I’m pacing myself,” he said.

“Elliot.” There it was again, that soft, patient warning. “You are definitely not okay.”

He looked down at his plate, then back at her. Her eyes weren’t just suspicious now; they were lined with concern. He hated that he was putting that look there, but it wasn’t time yet.

“I’m just…” he started, then trailed off, searching for something that wasn’t the truth. “Distracted.”

“Alright,” she said. “If you won’t tell me what’s going on in your head, I’m going to talk at you until you’re forced to either relax or confess.”

He blinked. “…That sounds threatening.”

She smiled. “It is. So. Do you want to hear what Jordan did yesterday while you were upstairs with David?”

He latched onto that immediately. “Desperately.”

“Good,” she said, brightening. “So, I walked past the kitchen and found him with half his torse inside the fridge, like he’d falling in and got stuck. I thought he was being dramatic, obviously, because it’s Jordan. But then he made this horrible, strangled noise and said, ‘Don’t come in here.’ Which, naturally, meant I absolutely had to go in.”

A real grin tugged at Elliot's mouth. “Naturally.”

She pointed her fork at him in agreement. “Turns out he’d knocked an entire tub of yoghurt off the top shelf. It exploded. Like… properly exploded. All over him. down his shirt, in his hair, on the floor. And he was trying to mop it off his jeans with a slice of bread.”

Elliot stared at her. “Bread?”

“Yes. Bread, he said, ‘It’s absorbent, it’ll be fine.’ He looked like some tragic Greek statue that had been dipped in dairy.”

Elliot laughed an honest, startled sound that came up from somewhere deeper than his tightly wound nerves. “Where was Harper during all this?”

“In the doorway, crying laughing,” Sam said. “She was absolutely no help. She did take a photo though.” Sam pulled her phone out, thumb flicking across the screen. “Hang on. Here.”

She turned the screen to him. there, illuminated in grainy kitchen light, was Jordan. Dropping yoghurt, frozen mid-glare at the camera, one hand holding a slice of bread that had clearly been used as a sponge.

“Oh my God,” Elliot breathed. “He looks like an angry dessert.”

“Right?” Sam giggled. “I told him he looked like a rejected advert for probiotic drinks.”

“I’m going to make that his contact photo,” Elliot said.

“You absolutely should.”

The knot in her stomach loosened a fraction. He took another bite of his seabass, then another, the taste finally cutting through the static in his head. Sam carried on, telling him about hot Jordan had nearly slipped in the yoghurt and how Harper had to bribe him with tea to stop him sulking.

“He kept saying, ‘This house hates me personally,’” she said, shaking her head.

“He’s not entirely wrong,” Elliot mumbled, earning another small laugh from her.

Gradually, the conversation settled into something almost normal. They traded little stories, jokes, observations about the restaurant, the could in the corner who hadn’t look up from their phones once, the waiter who seemed to glide instead of walk. The ridiculous size of the pepper grinder that appeared at a nearby table.

“You could joust with that pepper mill,” Sam said under her breath.

“New business idea,” Elliot replied. “Medieval seasoning.”

Sam sorted, covering her mouth quickly. “Do not make me laugh with food in my mouth. I will die and haunt you specifically.”

“I mean, that sounds on-brand for this house,” he said.

They both sobered a little at that without meaning to, the thought of 12B creeping around the edges of their warm little bubble by the river. Sam reached out, almost reflexively, and placed her hand over his on the table.

“Hey,” she said quietly. “No haunted house talk. Not tonight.”

“Deal,” he said, and meant it.

Her thumb brushed against his skin, slow and absent-minded. His heart did a small, traitorous somersault.

He was midway through another bite when she spoke again, her tone lighter this time. “You know,” she said, “You look really handsome tonight.”

The fork paused halfway to his mouth and hung there.

He turned to her, caught completely off guard. “What?”

She flushed instantly, colour blooming across her cheeks. “I just…” She gave a small, helpless laugh. “You od. The blazer. The… everything. You look good.”

Heat climbed up the back of his neck, into his ears. “Oh,” he said, brilliantly articulate. “Um. Thank you.”

The words came out rougher than he intended, like his throat had forgotten how to handle them.

She ducked her head, smiling at her plate now. “You’re welcome.”

His leg finally stopped bouncing.

He took a breath, then another, letting the simple, ridiculous reality of the moment settle: he was in a beautiful restaurant, across from a woman he cared about more than he’d ever cared about anyone, and she just told him he looked handsome. The world hadn’t ended. The roof hadn’t caved in. Room 2 was miles away.

Ha managed a proper mouthful of food after that. The knot in his stomach didn’t disappear completely, but it softened, reshaping itself into something less panic and more anticipation.

Sam shot him a sideways look. “See?” she said. “Food’s not so scary.”

“Easy for you to say,” he replied. “You didn’t accidentally order something that looks like it belongs in an art gallery.”

She laughed again, and the sound wrapped around him, warm and steadying.

By the time their plates were cleared, he’s eaten enough that the waiter didn’t have to ask if everything was alright with his meal. His nerves were still coiled tightly under his ribs, but not they sat alongside something brighter. Hope. Fear. All tangled together.

Dessert menus appeared.

Elliot looked at his but saw only one thing clearly: he couldn’t keep this in much longer.

Soon, he thought, glancing at Sam as she debated between chocolate fondant and lemon tart.

The dessert plates arrived like something out of a glossy magazine, intricate little sculptures of molten centres, delicate sugar curls, glossy fruits arranged with mathematical precision. Sam’s whole face lit up the moment the waitress set hers down, the warm glow from the river window catching in her eyes.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, already leaning in to smell the caramel drizzle. “Look at it. No, seriously, Elliot. Look at it.

Elliot tried.

He really did.

But all he could see was Sam. How the candlelight softened the curve of her cheek, how her smile had grown easier through the night, how her shoulders had dropped from the tension she’d carried all week. She looked more herself than she had in days.

She looked beautiful.

And the timer inside Elliot, the one he’d been desperately trying to muffle since getting into the taxi, started counting down in earnest.

Sam picked up her spoon with the reverence of someone handling precious artefacts. “If this tastes half as good as it looks, I’m going to cry.”

Elliot swallowed, his throat suddenly too tight. “Please don’t cry. Not in a restaurant. I don’t know how to handle that.”

She huffed a laugh, nudging his foot gently under the table. “It would be happy tears, Ward.”

Ward.

Her voice always softened when she said his name, and tonight it hit differently, like the sound had weight, like it landed right in the centre of him. he realised too late that he was staring.

Sam’s smile faltered slightly as she really looked at him. the spoon hovered above her dessert, forgotten.

“Elliot… hey.” Her voice dropped to something softer, something careful. “You’re shaking.”

He hadn’t even noticed. His fingers, resting near his plate, trembled in tiny, betraying motions.

“Oh,” he said weakly. “Yeah. I, uh, it’s a bit cold in here?”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not cold,” she said gently.

No. it wasn’t. the soft heat from the lamps, the warmth from the kitchen drifting across the restaurant, none of it reached whatever nervous current was rushing under his skin.

He curled his fingers together under the table to hide the shaking. It didn’t work.

Sam reached across the table, her hand warm as it slid over his.

“Elliot.”

Just his name. No pressure. Just an invitation.

He couldn’t dodge this one.

His heart hammered painfully, the words crowding at the back of his throat, urgent, insistent, as if they’d been waiting for this exact moment, dessert perfect and untouched, river glowing gold behind her, her hand covering his like it belonged there.

He drew a shaky breath.

“Sam,” he started, voice too quiet, too raw, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

Her thumb swept lightly along the back of his hand.

Her voice stayed steady. “Okay. I’m here. Whatever it is… I’m here.”

The waitress passed behind them carrying a try, and the faint clink of dishes was the only reminder that the rest of the world still existed.

For Elliot, right now, it didn’t.

Not really.

Only Sam did, waiting, open, trusting him with whatever came next.

And he knew he couldn’t put it off any longer.

The words were rising, unstoppable.

He had to say them.

He would say them.

Just… not on a breathless rush. Not on a shaky half-sentence, he wanted to give them properly. Clearly. Without stuttering, without panicking, without looking away from her.

He had one breath left to gather himself. One heartbeat.

Sam squeezed his hand.

“Okay,” he exhaled, shaking his head once. “I… I know it’s probably too soon; I know that. And I’m terrified of saying this wrong, or too fast, or at the wrong time, but I can’t-” He broke off, his voice cracking. He laughed under his breath, nervous and breathless. “I can’t keep pretending I’m not thinking about this every time I look at you.”

Sam’s breath caught, but she stayed silent, letting him keep going.

“It’s just-” he searched for the right words, hands flexing uselessly in his lap. “Sometimes you just… know something. You don’t even know why you know it, but you do. Like your whole body is just… aware of it before your brain catches up.”

His eyes stung suddenly. He blinked hard.

“And being with you, Sam… feels like that. Like something I’ve known for longer than we’ve even been together. Like something that’s been part of me for ages and I’m only just realising it.” He let out a shaky, uneven breath. “And I don’t want to scare you, I don’t expect anything from you. Honestly, you don’t owe me anything-”

His voice broke again.

“But I’m in love with you, Sam.”

The moment the words left him, the world didn’t rush or explode or shift.

It stopped.

Hung suspended between them, fragile and enormous all at once.

Sam’s eyes widened, not with shock, but with something far sHarper, a flash of fear that broke open into raw emotion. Her hand flew to her mouth, and for a heartbeat Elliot thought he’d made a catastrophic mistake.

Then her breath wavered. Her face softening, trembling.

“Oh my-” She let out a tiny, broken sound, half-laugh, half-sob. “Elliot… I thought you were going to say something awful. I thought-” Her voice cracked completely as tears pooled across her lashes. “God, I thought you didn’t want this anymore.”

He felt the words punch straight into his chest.

She wasn’t shocked, she’d been scared.

But now. Now her tears spilled over, sliding warm and shining down her cheeks as the relief hit her like a physical force.

“I’m in love with you too,” she whispered, voice shaking. “So much. More than I knew how to say.”

Elliot's breath left him in a single, shuddering exhale. Every muscle in his body released at once, like he had been carrying a weight he didn’t realise was crushing him until she lifted it with four simple words. His fingers went weak where they gripped the edge of the table.

“Sam,” he breathed, helpless with it.

She leaned forward before he could say anything else, cupping his face with both hands, her palm warm and slightly damp with tears. He met her halfway.

The kiss that followed wasn’t dramatic or hurried. It was soft, trembling, full of emotion neither of them had been able to voice until now. Her tears brushed against his cheek as she deepened it, a small, relieved sound rising from her throat like something finally let free.

The restaurant melted away, candlelight blurring, voices fading, the glow of the river outside dissolving into nothing. It was only them, their foreheads pressed together when they finally parted, breaths intermingling.

“You scared me,” she whispered, laughing through another tear. “You looked so nervous. I thought you were about to break up with me before we’d even… properly begun.”

Elliot huffed a breath that was half-laugh, half-disbelief, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

“Break up with you?” he murmured. “Sam, I’m crazy about you. That’s the whole problem. I couldn’t keep it in anymore.”

She closed her eyes, smiling through the leftover tears, radiant, relieved, utterly at ease in a way he’d never seen.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I don’t ever want to lose this.”

Elliot rested his forehead against hers again, feeling lighter, almost weightless, in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

“You won’t,” he said softly. “Not now. Not ever.”

They didn’t rush through their desserts. The plates sat between them like delicate little sculptures; molten chocolate domes collapsing slowly under the warmth of the room, sugar-work spirals catching the candlelight. Sam kept brushing tears from the corners of her eyes only for them to be replaced by new ones, but she was laughing now, constantly, softly, her face lit up in a way Elliot knew he’d never forget.

Every few seconds she would look at him, really look at him, and Elliot's heart seemed incapable of settling into its usual rhythm. It fluttered, thumped, stuttered as if trying to keep up with the moment.

“I can’t believe you thought you were about to ruin everything,” she whispered, thumb brushing the back of his knuckles.

He swallowed, still overwhelmed. “You were crying. I thought it was bad crying.”

Sam gave a watery laugh, shaking her head. “God, no. I was terrified you were going to say something awful. Or that you… didn’t want this anymore.” Her voice wavered just slightly.

Elliot squeezed her hand where it rested on the table. “I want this more than I’ve wanted anything in my life.”

Sam closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling slowly as though she needed the breath to steady how happy she was. When she opened them again, they were soft and shining.

They took a few more slow bites of desert, not because either of them were hungry, but because neither wanted to move yet, neither wanted to break the gentle, trembling afterglow of truth finally spoken.

Eventually, their waitress approached them with a warm smile and a discreet leather bill folder.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she said, placing it down.

£322.40.

For a second, something in his chest tightened. Not fear, not regret, just the sharp awareness of what this number meant. He could feel the weight of it in a practical sense… and then it simply didn’t matter.

Of course it was worth it.

Of course, tonight was more than a number on a receipt.

Sam saw something flicker across his face and tilted her head. “Are you sure?” she whispered, worried she was asking too much of him without even realising it.

Elliot didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he said, steady and warm. “Tonight was perfect.

Her eyes softened, really softened, the way they did when she was touched so deeply, she didn’t know how to hide it. She reached across the table and placed her hand over his. Her palm was worm and comforting.

He slid his card into the little folder, the waitress collecting it with a nod before disappearing to process it. Sam kept her hand over his even then, thumb brushing slow circles along the side of his index finger.

“I haven’t seen you this relaxed in ages,” she said softly.

He huffed a little laugh. “Relaxed might be pushing it.”

“Happy, the,” she corrected, smiling. “You look happy.”

“I am,” he admitted softly, like saying it too loudly might break the spell of the evening.

The waitress returned, card machine in hand. Elliot tapped his card without looking at the screen again. when she left them alone once more, Sam squeezed his fingers.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “For all of this.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “Really.”

But she shook her head, brushing her thumb across his knuckles again. “No. I do.”

And with dessert finished and the bill paid, the night stretched ahead of them, not uncertain, but full of that new, fragile kind of magic that belonged only to people who’d just told the truth their hearts had been carrying for too long.

They stood from the table slowly, as if neither of them quite wanted the moment to end. Sam slipped her hand into Elliot's, their fingers interlacing in a way that felt instinctive now, natural, like something they’d been doing for years. The restaurant lighting softened around them as they made their way toward the entrance, warm gold fading into something cooler, gentler, as though even the room understood that the evening had shifted into a new phase.

When Elliot pushed open the door for her, the outside air met them immediately: crisp, sharp, unmistakably colder than it had been when they’d arrived. Sam inhaled through her teeth and wrapped her arms around herself, shoulders lifting against the bite in the breeze.

“God, I wasn’t expecting it to drop this much,” she muttered, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

Elliot didn’t even think. His jacket was off his shoulders in a single movement, and before Sam could take another breath, he draped it over her like a reflex.

“Elliot,” she protested softly, fingers gripping the lapels as if caught between accepting and refusing, “you’ll freeze.”

“I won’t,” he said simply. “But you definitely would.”

She looked up at him then, really looked, and whatever argument she’d been forming melted. The wind tugged at her hair, carrying a faint citrus scent from the river below, and she pulled the jacket closer around herself, letting the warmth trapped in the fabric seep into her skin.

“You’re impossible,” she whispered, but it held no frustration. Only affection. Something deeper.

He offered a small, lopsided smile. “You like that about me.”

She laughed under her breath, stepped into him, and kissed him in a far less tentative way than she had at the table. A way far more filled with wonder.

It was brief and worm and left both of them smiling like they didn’t know how to stop.

When they finally pulled apart, Elliot glanced behind her. A few taxis idled along the kerb, drivers waiting for the dinner rush to trickle out.

Sam followed his gaze. “Should we grab one.”

He shook his head gently. “We don’t have to. I booked the taxi for getting here, not for leaving. I thought… maybe we could walk for a bit? If you want to.”

Sam’s smile grew, soft and slow. “I’d like that.”

So they turned away from the warm glow of Riverside Ember and stepped out into the deeper night, the river lights flickering ahead like a trail leading them onward. Elliot walked a half-step closer than necessary.

They drifted away from the restaurant, still wrapped in that soft afterglow of the evening, the world around them feeling quieter somehow, as if the river itself had taken a deep breath and settled.

The riverside path stretched ahead of them in a gentle curve, lit by evenly spaced streetlamps whose reflections shimmered across the dark water like scattered gold. A light breeze rolled off the river, tugging at Sam’s hair and making her snuggle deeper into Elliot’s jacket. She looked impossibly cosy in it; too big for her frame, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the collar brushing her cheek.

Elliot couldn’t stop smiling.

They walked slowly, as if neither of them was in any hurry to return to ordinary life. Their fingers found each other like magnets, hands interlocking with ease. No hesitation now, just the simple pleasure of closeness.

Sam tilted her head toward the river. “I always forget how pretty this place is. I used to come here a lot my first year of uni. Sit by the water and pretend coursework didn’t exist.”

Elliot laughed. “How long did the pretending last?”

“Oh, about ten minutes,” she said, nudging him with her shoulder. “Then I’d panic and run back to the library.”

He bumped her back gently. “Sounds about right.”

They passed a row of moored boats rocking gently in the tide, painted blued and reds, fairly lights strung along their rails. A couple nearby sat on the deck of one, wrapped in blankets, sipping hot chocolate from mugs. Sam watched them with a dreamy little smile.

Elliot's chest tightened. Not painfully, but in a warm, unfamiliar way. The kind that made him picture himself and Sam doing exactly that: wrapped together in a blanket on some riverside boat, sharing hot chocolate, resting against each other while the water rocked beneath them. He could almost feel the weight of her leaned into him, the steam from the mugs warming their hands. He didn’t know if she imagined it too… until he glances at her and recognised the wishful softness in her expression. And God, he wanted that future more than anything.

Sam brushed her shoulder against his arm lightly, as if the thought has nudged her closer.

“So,” she said after a moment, squeezing his hand, “if you were going to show someone the best spot along the river, where would it be?”

He considered it. “Probably the small stone fountain near the bend. Hardly anyone goes there. You can sit and watch the water without being bumped every five seconds by cyclists.”

Sam perked up. “Theres a fountain?”

“Oh yeah. Tiny, always slightly broken, but charmingly so.”

“I demand to see this.”

He chuckled. “We’ll make a pilgrimage.”

They walked a few more steps before Sam stepped on an uneven bit of pavement, her ankle wobbling. She stumbled with a surprised squeak.

Elliot reacted without thinking, his arm shot around her waist, steadying her.

Sam burst into giggled, leaning into him. “Graceful as always.”

“You okay?” he asked, though he was smiling too, his heart doing a ridiculous little hop at how naturally she fit against him.

“I’m fine,” she said, still laughing. “But I am blaming you if I fall into the river.”

“I would prevent that,” he said solemnly. “By also falling in, so you’re not alone.”

“That’s very noble.”

“I try.”

She slipped her arm through his, resting her head briefly against his shoulder as they walked. The world felt soft around them, glowing lights on the water, the distant hum of cars from the bridge, the faint smell of something sweet drifting from the riverside cafés closing for the night.

Elliot realised he was talking more than he had during dinner. About books he loved growing up, cafés he’d worked in as a teenager, a ridiculous story about his sister setting the microwave on fire. Sam laughed at all the right parts, occasionally wiping tears from her eyes.

And under the glow of the lamps, hand in hand, steps matching easily, Elliot felt something warm and bright settle in his chest; a quiet certainty that whatever came next, this feeling was going to stay.

They continued following the curve of the walkway until it opened onto a wide viewpoint overlooking the water. The river widened here, almost lake-like. A breeze swept past, cool enough to lift the hem of Sam’s dress and the edge of Elliot's blazer.

Sam slowed, then stopped entirely.

Elliot turned to look at her, puzzled, until he felt the gently tug on his hand, light, but certain. When he faced her fully, Sam rose onto her toes and kissed him.

This kiss deepened almost instantly, warm and slow and hungry in a way that made Elliot’s breath catch in his throat. Her fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him in closer. Elliot responded without hesitation, sliding an arm around her waist, steadying her as though anchoring both of them to the ground.

The world around them dissolved, replaced by the river wind, the taste of sweetness from her desert on her lips, and the subtle tremble of her breath against his.

“I still can’t believe you said it,” she whispered, voice shaking in the best possible way.

Elliot brushed his thumb along her jaw, smiling softly, almost disbelievingly. “I still can’t believe you said it back.”

Sam exhaled a shaky laugh and tucked herself against him for a moment, arm wrapping around his waist. She looked out over the water again, eyes shining. “I thought you were going to tell me you regretted something or…” she admitted, “or that everything happening in the house was too much.”

Elliot pressed a light kiss to her hairline. “Not even close,” he murmured. “You’re the one thing that’s kept me sane thought all of it.”

Sam’s breath caught. She looked up at him again; cheeks flushed in the cool air. 

“Good,” she whispered. “Because you’re all that’s kept me sane too.”

They began walking again, slower this time, as if neither of them wanted the night to move any faster than it already had. Sam slipped herself under his arm, fitting against his side like she’d been made to rest there. Elliot held her close without thinking, fingers brushing her shoulder through his jacket where she kept tugging it tighter around herself.

After a minute, she laughed under her breath. “You know,” she said, glancing down at the sleeves hanging past her hands, “you’re never getting this jacket back.”

Elliot raised a brow, amused. “Oh? You planning to claim it permanently?”

“Absolutely,” Sam declared. “You handed it over. That’s legally binding.”

“That’s not how law works.”

“It is tonight,” she said, nudging him with her hip.

They walked a few steps in comfortable silence before Sam spoke again, quieter this time.

“Do you know what my mum would say if she could see us right now?” she asked.

Elliot faintly. “Depends. Is it the mum who volunteers at the mosque?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. That’s her.”

“Well,” Elliot said, “I’m hoping something positive?”

Sam snorted. “She’d be thrilled. Embarrassingly thrilled. She’d probably invite you over for dinner before you even asked her name.”

Elliot grinned. “I’d go.”

Her steps faltered for a second, a warmth blooming across her face that had nothing to do with the jacket. “Yeah?” she breathed.

“Yeah,” he replied simply.

Sam tucked herself closer. “My dad would like you too. He works stupidly long hours, but he’d got this soft side he tries to hide. He pretends he doesn’t care about my dating life, but he does. Quietly. In the corner.” She paused, thoughtful. “He’d respect that you treat me well.”

Elliot felt something in his chest tighten in a good way. “I’d want them to like me,” he said honestly.

“They would.” Sam nudged him again. “They’d love you.”

They passed a small riverside garden where fairy lights lined a wrought-iron fence, fluttering dimly in the breeze. A couple walked ahead of them hand-in-hand, and Sam leaned into Elliot a little more, letting her head rest briefly on his shoulder again.

“You’re really different from anyone I’ve ever dated before,” she said quietly.

“That’s either a huge compliment or a terrifying statement.”

“A huge compliment,” Sam assured him quickly. “I mean it. You’re… steady. Kind. And you listen. Not a lot of people do that.”

Elliot swallowed, squeezing her gently. “I like listening to you.”

Sam smiled into his blazer. “Good. Because I like talking to you.”

They continued along the curve of the river until the path widened into a quieter stretch. Ahead, the small fountain Elliot had mentioned earlier shimmered under soft white lights, its spray catching the reflections of passing boats. A wooden bench sat just beside it, tucked under a willow whose branches swayed lazily in the breeze.

Sam slowed, then tugged gently on Elliot's hand.

“Let’s sit,” she murmured.

She went down first, smoothing the skirt of her dress beneath her, then patted the space beside her with a smile so warm it made Elliot's chest flutter. He has, and she immediately tucked herself into his side like she’d grown there, her head settling onto his shoulder, her hand sliding naturally into his. His arm wrapped around her without thought.

The night felt soft around them. A few boats drifted by, lit in cool blues and warm whites, their reflections dancing on the rippling river. Distant laughter rose from a group farther down the path, but here it was quiet: just the hush of the water, the hum of the city beyond, the steady rhythm of their breathing.

Sam squeezed his hand lightly and whispered, almost shyly, “I love you.”

Elliot felt the words crack open something bright in his chest, like an electrical charge that raced down his spine, warm and overwhelming. He turned his head just enough to kiss the crown of her hair and said it back, steady and certain: 

“I love you too.”

The words vibrated between them, charged, heady, glowing with the same kind of magic as the lights scattered across the water.

Sam tipped her face up and kissed him softly, slowly, lingering, full of quiet wonder. When she rested her head against him again, her smile was unmistakably content, as though everything in her world had finally clicked into place.

They sat like that for a long time, wrapped around each other, watching the boats glide by. Then Elliot exhaled slowly, as though releasing something he’d been holding onto for months.

“I never told you this,” he said, voice low, “but… I thought you were stunning the day we first met.”

Sam made a soft, embarrassed sound. “Elliot, I was in pyjamas.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Exactly.”

She lifted her head, brow crinkling. “What?”

Elliot looked at her properly then, the river’s glow turning his eyes warm and earnest.

“You were standing outside your room,” he said softly. “Oversized navy hoodie, pyjama shorts, that mug of tea you always hold with both hands… and those mismatched fuzzy socks, one yellow, one grey.” His smile deepened. “Your hair was a mess. You looked like you’d just rolled out of bed. And you were still the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.”

Sam’s breath hitched. Her fingers curled into his shirt.

He went on, quieter now. “But I wasn’t just that. The way you looked at me when I introduced myself? Like you were curious. Like you wanted to know me. That’s what got me. That’s what made me fall for you.”

Sam blinked rapidly, cheeks flushing. “I… remember that day too.”

He arched a brow, surprised.

She bit her lip, smiling shyly. “You were in that hoodie with the frayed hem. The zip was broken at the top, a few teeth missing. And I remember thinking…” she laughed softly. “…’I can see the back of his knee through that hole in his jeans.’”

Elliot groaned into a laugh. “They were comfortable!”

“They were destroyed,” she teased, then her voice softened. “But you were cute. Really cute.”

She kissed him again, slow and grateful, before continuing with a confession of her own.

“And for days afterward,” she murmured, “I kept… finding excuses to be near you.”

Elliot blinked. “You did?”

Sam nodded, cheeks warm. “I’d pretend I needed something from the cupboard if you were in the kitchen. Or I’d make tea just to stand there next to you.” She groaned at herself. “I drank so much tea that week I basically lived in the bathroom.”

Elliot laughed, delighted. “I knew it.”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “You did not.”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said, tapping his temple like he’d cracked a great mystery. “I thought, ‘Wow, Sam sure drinks a suspicious amount of tea whenever I walk into a room.’”

Sam shoved him lightly, giggling. “Shut up.”

He caught her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I was doing the same, by the way. Seeking you out. Hoping you’d notice me. Wondering how to make you laugh. So, trust me… I get it.”

Sam’s smile turned sot, too soft, before she leaned in and kissed his again, her fingers curling into his blazer as the river lights shimmered all around them.

By the time they finally rose from the bench, the night had truly deepened fully into darkness. The sky above them was a soft, shifting tapestry, deep navy, streaked with slow-moving clouds that drifted lazily across a bright, not-quite-full moon. Only a handful of stars managed to pierce through. The river, once golden with sunset, not shimmered in silvers and muted blues as boat lights glided across its surface in gently arcs.

Sam shivered as a cooler breeze curled up from the water.

Elliot noticed immediately.

Without a word, he slipped his phone from his pocket with one hand and wrapped the other tighter around her back, pulling her closer against his side. Sam stayed tucked beneath his arm, her cheek brushing his shoulder, his jacket still warm on her.

He booked the taxi quickly, thumb tapping almost on instinct. “It’ll be about five minutes,” he muttered into her hair.

She nodded, fingers curling into the fabric of his blazer, and they lingered there near the fountain, wrapped in each other and the quiet of the night. The earlier rush of emotion still sat between them, gentle, overwhelmingly perfect. Every so often, Sam leaned up to press a soft kiss to his jaw, and Elliot responded with a small laugh that was half nervous, half blissfully undone.

When the taxi finally pulled up beside them, headlights sweeping over the pavement, Elliot opened the door for her. Sam slid inside first, keeping hold of his hand until the very last moment before he joined her on the back seat.

The city outside was calmer now. Past 10 p.m. the streets had thinned, the riverfront mostly empty except for a few late-night walkers and restaurant staff heading home. The taxi pulled away from the kerb, and the lights of Riverside Ember began to shrink behind them.

The ride was quiet in a peaceful way, neither tense nor awkward.

Sam curled up against him again, her head reasting over his heartbeat. His jacket draped warmly over her shoulders, her fingers toying with one of the sleeves as if she never intended to give it back.

Elliot shifted slightly so she could rest more comfortably, his arm sliding around her waist, their hands naturally twining together in her lap. Neither spoke. They didn’t need to. Every small brush of her thumb against his, every contented sigh she breathed into his chest, every gentle squeeze of his hand said everything.

Streetlights drifted by the windows in soft, rhythmic pulses. The moonlight slipped briefly between clouds, casting the car in pale silver before hiding again.

The drive back passed quickly, softened by warmth and silence and the quiet, shared understanding that tonight had changed something, opened something.

As house 12B came into view, Elliot felt Sam shift just enough to look up at him. her eyes were sleepy, shining, full of something soft and certain.

The taxi eased to a stop outside 12B, headlights washing briefly across the garden wall before the engine fell into a soft idle. The digital clock on the dashboard had just flicked past 10:36 p.m., and the night had well and truly settled.

Elliot paid the fare quickly, barely glancing at the total, and stepped out into the cool air where Sam waited for him on the pavement. She was still wrapped snugly in his jacket, his much-too-big jacket, which hung off her shoulders in a way that made something inside him twist warmly. He, meanwhile, still had his blazer on, the thin fabric no match for the cold, but he didn’t care. Not when she looked like that.

Sam reached for his hand immediately.

Their fingers wove together without hesitation, palms fitting naturally as if they’d always belonged that way. She gave his hand the gentlest tug, pulling him a little closer as they began walking up the quiet street.

The world around them had gone still. No card. No footsteps. Even the wind had softened into a gentle breeze that carried the faint scent of river water and the last traces of Sam’s perfume. Their shoes clicked softly on the pavement,

Their silence was full, woven thick with everything they’d confessed, everything they’d kissed into each other’s mouths, everything they still hadn’t said but felt humming under their skin.

Halfway up the path to the house, Sam slowed. Their joined hands swung lightly between them as she stopped completely and turned toward him. the moonlight caught her face, softening her features, making her eyes glow with quiet intention.

She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. She just looked at him with a warm, unmistakable promise simmering behind her gaze. A promise that made Elliot’s breath catch and his heartbeat stumble into something faster, deeper.

The night wasn’t over. Not even close.

Sam squeezed his hand again, slower this time, deliberate.

Elliot felt it all the way through him.

Then she smiles, small but devastatingly sure, and tugged him gently toward the front door of 12B.

And he followed without a single second of hesitation.

The front door had barely clicked shut before Sam reaching for him again.

She stepped into his space with quiet certainty, her fingers curling into the front of his blazer as she pulled him down into a kiss, slow, warm, undeniably sure of what she wanted. Elliot's breath caught in his chest before he kissed her back just as fully, one hand sliding to her waist, the other brushing her hair back from her cheek.

When she finally broke the kiss for air, she didn’t say a single word. She didn’t need to. The look she gave him, soft and glowing with intent, made his heart thump hard enough to drown out everything else in the world.

Still holding his gaze, she slipped his jacket from her shoulders and tossed it over the banister. Then she threaded her fingers through his again, leading him through the dim ground-floor hallway toward the stairs. She didn’t rush. She didn’t pull. She simply guided him, looking back every few steps with a smile that made his knees feel pleasantly unreliable.

They climbed to the first floor, passing David’s closed door to the left and Sam’s own room on the right. The house was quiet, the kind of deep stillness that should have reminded them of everything that had been haunting these walls, but tonight, neither of them cared. Their world had narrowed to the warmth of their joined hands and the soft hitch in Sam’s breathing whenever she looked at him.

Outside Room 2, she stopped.

Elliot barely had time to ask why before she rose onto her toes and kissed him again, slower this time. A lingering, exploring kiss that pushed every thought from his mind except more. He braced one hand against the wall, the other sliding to cup her cheek, and the hallway spin in that dizzy, electric way only she could make happen.

Neither of them noticed the faint rattle of Room 2’s door behind them, a soft, subtle tremor swallowed by the sound of their own racing heartbeats.

Sam pulled back only far enough to breathe, her forehead resting against his. Her thumb traced his lower lip once, teasing, affectionate, before she took his hand again and led him upward.

They climbed to the second floor, Jordan and Harper’s door half-closed, Elliot’s old room quiet in the dark, but none of that registered. They moved through the house as though wrapped in their own private gravity, pulled onward by something warm, unstoppable, and beautifully simple.

At the top of the attic staircase, she reached Room 6 and paused.

Elliot opened his mouth to speak, he wasn’t sure what, but Sam was already turning toward him, gently pressing him back against the door with her body. She kissed him again, deeper than before, her fingers threading into his hair. The world dipped and blurred; Elliot's hand fumbled behind him for the doorknob.

The door gave way behind them.

They barely made it two steps inside the room before Sam guided him backward with a slow, deliberate pressure of her hands against his chest. Elliot's legs brushed the edge of the bed; he sat without really choosing to, breath catching as Sam followed him down, swinging a knee over his lap until she was straddling him, warm and close and entirely there.

They didn’t stop kissing.

Not really. Only brief breaks, seconds stolen for breath, for soft laughter against each other’s mouths, for the kind of half-nervous, half-excited smiles that trembled at the edges. Every pause felt charged, anticipation humming between them like static, like they were both waiting for the moment they wouldn’t stop again.

Sam pushed his blazer off his shoulders first, slow and sure, her fingertips grazing his skin just enough to make his pulse stutter. The blazer hit the floor somewhere to the right. Neither of them looked to see where.

Another pause, another shared breath, and Sam gathered the hem of his t-shirt in her hands. Elliot lifted his arms automatically, heart pounding as the fabric slid up his torso and over his head. Her eyes flicked down his chest for barely a heartbeat before she leaned in again, kissing him with a warmth that made his hands grip her hips without thinking.

Her dress came next. Elliot's fingers fumbling slightly at the zipper trailing down her spine. He felt her laugh breathlessly against his mouth at how hard his hands were shaking, but she didn’t tease him. Instead, she reached behind herself, guiding his fingers gently with her own trembling hands until the zipper lowered. Cool air touched her back; Elliot instinctively leaned forward and kissed just below her collarbone, a soft, shaky kiss that made her whole body tighten for a second and caused her to moan lightly.

That was when he felt it.

Her heart, beating fast beneath her skin. Rapid, nervous, exhilarated, perfectly mirroring his own hammering pulse.

Sam drew back just far enough to lift the dress over her head and let it fall beside the bed. Elliot swallowed hard, breath unsteady, as she reached behind her once more. She guided his hands to the clasp of her bra. His fingers trembled, just a little, but the clasp came undone smoothly, almost too smoothly, and they both gave a tiny, surprised laugh at the same time.

The straps slid down her arms, Elliot felt his heartbeat slam against his ribs.

Sam leaned in and kissed him again, slower now, deep and lingering, her hands sliding up the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair. He held her close, hands tracing the lines of her waist, the warmth of her against him making the rest of the world fall away.

Their movement slowed but deepened, breaths syncing, foreheads brushing, mouths meeting again and again. the room felt warm despite the night air outside, lit only by the faint glow filtering through the curtains, soft enough to make everything feel unreal, intimate, theirs.

Clothes forgotten on the floor.

Their world narrowed to shared breaths and whispered sounds and the electric, unspoken promise of everything that would follow.