Chapter 5

Sunlight crept into Elliot’s room slowly, slipping through the gap in his curtains and warming the ait with a faint pale glow. For a long moment, he didn’t register where he was. The room felt unusually warm; his pillow smelled faintly of lavender and shampoo that wasn’t his. Someone breathed softly against the skin just below his collarbone. An arm, soft, small, warm, was draped loosely around his waist.

And someone’s legs were tangled with his.

It hit him all at once.

Sam.

Sometime during the night, she had drifted closer and so had he. Now she was tucked safely into his chest, one hand resting lightly against his t-shit, her forehead nestled beneath his jaw. His own arm has curled naturally around her shoulders, holding her as though they’d fallen asleep mid-embrace. Or maybe as though they’d been there for years.

He froze for half a second, then softened.

She looked peaceful. Softer than he’d ever seen her. The fear from last night had melted into calm; her breathing was slow and even, lips parted slightly against the fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t move. Not until she stirred.

A small sigh left her, followed by a sleepy stretch that only made her snuggle closer. Her eyes blinked open slowly, unfocussed at first, then widening when she realised where she was… or rather, who she was wrapped around.

She didn’t pull away immediately.

She didn’t even blush right away.

Instead, she whispered, voice rough with sleep, “…Sorry.”

Elliot cleared his throat softly. “For what?”

“This.” She gestured vaguely to their tangle of limbs but didn’t actually move. “I didn’t…mean to cling all night.”

“You didn’t,” Elliot said, too quickly.

Then, quieter, honest before he could panic, “I didn’t mind.”

That did it. The blush bloomed across her cheeks.

She ducked her head for a second before finally easing Back a little. Not far. Just enough to look at him properly, hair mussed from sleep, one strand stuck adorably to her forehead. “…I didn’t mind either,” she said.

A beat of quiet followed. Not awkward, just thick with something unspoken and new. Something tender.

A beat passed.

Then, with matching reluctance, they both began to shift.

Sam eased her leg back first, slow and careful, as though not to break something fragile in the air between them. Elliot loosened his hold around her, though his fingers dragged lightly against her t-shirt as they slipped away. She pushed herself up onto an elbow, her hair falling forward in a loose curtain, and he followed her movement, sitting up too, though not too quickly, not too far.

Their knees brushed when they turned to sit properly at the edge of the bed.

Sam tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks warmed by a shy flush she didn’t bother hiding. “Guess we… uh… moved around in our sleep,” she said, a tiny, breathy laugh escaping.

“Yeah,” Elliot replied, throat tight. “I-I didn’t mean to, I-“

“It’s okay,” she cut in gently, eyes flicking up to his. “Really. It’s… okay.”

Another quiet beat hung between them. Sweet, awkward, charged in a way neither dared to name.

They were no longer touching, but the space between them felt small. Deliberately small.

It was clear neither truly wanted to pull further away.

Elliot cleared his throat softly, still embarrassed by the intimacy of how they’d woken up. “Um… did you sleep okay?” he asked, voice low and cautious.

Sam looked surprised for only a moment before her expression gentled. “Yeah,” she said, her voice was warm and honest. “Better than I have in… a long time, actually.”

That shouldn’t have hit him the way it did, but something about the quiet sincerity in her tone moved through him like a slow, warm tide. He swallowed, nodding.

“I’m glad,” he managed.

Sam’s smile widened just a touch, soft and tired in a way that made her look impossibly endearing.

They sat there for a moment, neither speaking. The stillness was comfortable this time, settled like warm air around them. Elliot became gradually aware of the way the sunlight coming through his curtains pooled across Sam’s hair, lighting faint copper strands, making her look softer than usual. She tucked her knees loosely toward her chest, her oversized t-shirt shifting just enough for him to see the lounge shorts she’d borrow the night before.

She rubbed her eyes, still waking, then looked back at him with a shy little expression that wasn’t quite embarrassment, more like a quiet acknowledgment of something true that lived between them now.

“Well,” she said finally, breaking the moment with a small breathy laugh, “that was… definitely not how I expected to wake up.”

“Same,” Elliot agreed quickly, maybe too quickly, which only made her smile.

Sam shifted to sit more upright, gathering her hair over one shoulder. “We should probably… get up,” she said, though she didn’t move right away.

“Yeah,” Elliot echoed, though he also didn’t move.

They lingered for another beat. One last moment of shared stillness, of warmth between them, of unspoken understanding. She pushed herself gently off the bed and stood. He followed more awkwardly, feet hitting the floor with a thump that broke the spell entirely.

Sam stretched, arms up, back arching slightly. Elliot looked away immediately, suddenly flustered again.

She dropped her arms and glanced towards the door. “Well,” she breathed, cheeks faintly pink, “ready to face the house?”

“Not even remotely,” Elliot said honestly.

Sam laughed, a soft, genuine, morning laugh, and Elliot felt something flutter in his chest.

They exchanged one last look, full of shyness and something unspoken, before heading toward the door together.

Elliot opened his bedroom door cautiously, doing his best to look normal, as if normal people routinely woke up with someone in their arms and then spent ten minutes panicking about how to exit the room without looking like total degenerates. Sam slipped out just behind him, brushing down the hem of Elliot's t-shirt she was still wearing from the night before. They were both trying very hard to look casual and not at all like two people who had woken up tangled around each other.

They made it exactly two steps into the landing before they froze.

Jordan appeared in the doorway of Room 4 like a man stepping onto stage.

He froze mid-step.

Blink. Blink.

His eyes widened slowly as his gaze travelled from Elliot… to Sam… to their proximity… to Sam’s borrow lounge shorts an t-shirt… back to Elliot.

Then Jordan’s entire face split into an expression of unfiltered, delighted wickedness.

“Oh,” he breathed, hand raising to his chest in dramatic fashion. “Oh HO! WELL, WELL, WELL.”

Sam made a noise that could only be described as a small dying animal. Elliot actively considered throwing himself down the stairs.

Jordan clasped his hands together like he’d been handed an early Christmas. “What do we have heeeerrrreeee the? Two little lovebirds emerging from the same nest?”

Elliot sputtered. “Jordan- it’s- this is not-”

 “It wasn’t- we didn’t-” Sam tried adding desperately.

“It’s not what you think-” continued Elliot.

Jordan gasped theatrically. “Oh my GOD, they’re already finishing each other’s sentences! This is BEAUTIFUL.”

“I’m literally just trying to breathe,” Elliot said weakly.

Sam tucked her hair behind her ears, eyes wide, cheeks blazing. “Jordan, it’s not like that, we just-”

“Oh sure,” Jordan cut in, waving a dismissive hand. “Just slept in his bed. Just woke up snuggling. Just came out at the same time looking like a rom-com poster-”

Before either Sam or Elliot could ask how he knew they woke up snuggling, Harper speared behind him, poking her head out from Room 4, hair tied up messily, one slipper on, one slipper off. “What’s going on-”

She saw Sam and Elliot. 

Then Jordan. 

Then Jordan’s face.

“Oh god,” she whispered.

Jordan spread his arms like he’d caught them mid-proposal. “Harper, my beloved, WE HAVE HOUSE ROMANCE! Finally!”

Harper slapped the back of his arm. “We ARE the house romance, you idiot!”

Jordan blinked, then pointed between Elliot and Sam, confused. “Oh… right. But now we have another one!”

Elliot closed his eyes. “Jordan… please.”

Jordan gasped again, louder. “You’re BLUSHING. BOTH of you! OH, this is EXQUISITE.”

Harper rolled her eyes and came fully into the hall, crossing her arms. “Jordan, leave them alone. They look exhausted.”

“Exhausted?” Jordan said, eyebrow wiggling. “Or Exhausted?”

“Jordan,” Harper hissed, and slapped his arm again.

He winced dramatically. “Abuse! Assault! I am a victim!”

“Get back inside,” Harper said, pushing him by the shoulders. 

Jordan dug his heels in like a stubborn mule. “Not until I properly congratulate our sweet new couple-”

“We’re not-” Sam and Elliot said in unison.

Jordan pointed at both of them. “The fact you said that in perfect sync only proves my point.”

“Jordan!” Haper dragged him backwards by the collar.

He let himself be hauled but kept talking at full volume: “I SUPPORT THIS! I SUPPORT LOVE! I WILL COOK YOU A CELEBRATORY BRUNCH!”

The door slammed behind him.

A muffled voice followed: “Harper, stop hitting me- I’m happy for them!”

Sam buried her face in her hands. “Oh god.”

Elliot exhaled deeply. “I’m moving out.”

Sam let out a tiny, embarrassed laugh. “At least… at least he only saw us leaving. It would’ve been worse.”

Elliot gave her a sideways look. “Sam. Nothing could have been worse.” 

Sam grinned, still flustered but softer.

“Okay… maybe a few things.”

They exchanged a tiny, shared smile. Shy, warm, mortified together. 

For the first time, the embarrassment didn’t feel quite so terrible. Not when she smiled at him like that.

The hallway was empty when Elliot stepped out of the bathroom, hair still damp from the shower and nerves only partially settled. He took a slow, deep breath, trying to shake off the image of how he and Sam had woken. Her tucked into him, his arms wrapped around her, the soft warmth of her breath on his chest.

He needed normality. Breakfast. Tea. Something simple.

As he descended the stairs toward the kitchen, he nearly jumped when a familiar voice called from just outside the living room doorway.

“Oh! Elliot. Morning!”

Sam stood there, phone in hand, but she clearly hadn’t been looking at it, the screen was dark. She straightened slightly when she saw him, her smile blooming too fast to be accidental. Her hair was freshly brushed, and she wore soft joggers and a loose t-shirt, casual but pretty in a way that made his heartbeat misbehave.

“Heading to the kitchen?” she asked, voice light but nervous.

“Yeah,” he said. “You too?”

She nodded quickly. Maybe too quickly.

It hit him then. She’d been waiting. Not obviously, nor awkwardly, but waiting all the same.

They walked side by side towards the kitchen.

The scent of toasted bread and Harper’s favourite cinnamon coffee drifted toward them even before they stepped through the doorway. Inside, Harper stood at the counter cracking eggs into a pan while Jordan rummaged the drawers for cutlery, humming something off-key.

Harper spotted them first.

“Oh, morning you too,” she said warmly, but the knowing curve of her mouth did not go unnoticed.

Jordan turned, holding a fork triumphantly, only to freeze halfway, eyes widening, grin spreading so slowly it was almost serpentine.

“Well, well, well…” he said, drawing out each word as if unveiling a plot twist. “Would you look at that. Arriving together. Again.”

“Jordan,” Harper warned, elbowing him lightly in the side.

“What? I’m just observing patterns!” he protested dramatically, gesturing between Elliot and Sam. “Pattern of… oh, I dunno… romance in the air?”

Harper smacked his arm harder this time. “Jordan! We are literally a couple. You can’t act like this house has never seen romance before.”

Jordan clutched his wounded arm with theatrical betrayal. “Babe, please. Our romance is legendary, transcendent. These two are in the cute prequel stage.”

Sam made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a cough as her face turned bright red.

Elliot raised his hands. “It’s not- I mean- we just- we woke up- I mean, not woke up woke up-”

Jordan put a finger to his lips. “Say no more, my son. The universe has spoken.”

Sam covered her face with her hands. “Please stop.”

Harper, despite her scolding, couldn’t hide her smile. She handed Sam a mug of coffee gently. “Don’t mind him. He lives for this.”

Elliot took the mug Harper offered him and muttered, “I can tell.”

Jordan leaned casually against the counter, smirking. “So. Eggs? Toast? Emotional clarity?”

“Jordan,” Harper sighed, but she was laughing now too.

Elliot exchanged a helpless look with Sam. She gave him a tiny smile back, shy but undeniably warm, and somehow the teasing didn’t feel mortifying anymore. It felt… nice.

Breakfast continued in soft chatter and clinking plates, the morning light spilling into the kitchen warm and golden, as if the house had decided to be kind, at least for now. Harper mentioned she’d be heading out later to do some shopping, and Jordan was already planning to spend most of the afternoon on a photography shoot, leaving the house quiet.

After breakfast, Elliot retreated upstairs with the excuse of needing to “get a bit of work done.” It wasn’t a lie. His imbox had detonated overnight, one of his clients had sent a wall of feedback at 2:14 a.m., complete with seventy-three screenshots and the phrase “we need to rethink the entire flow.”

So he slipped into Room 5, closed the door gently behind him, and exhaled.

The house was quiet. Harper had already headed out for her shopping trip. Jordan was prepping for a shoot and had vanished with two different camera bags. Sam had gone back to her room, promising she’d get some studying done.

For the first time since yesterday, the house felt… normal.

Elliot dropped into his desk chair, the old wardrobe door still serving as his makeshift tabletop until the new desk arrived and opened his laptop. He worked for a while in the soft morning light, answering emails, sketching wireframes, losing himself just enough in the familiar routine that the echo of last night’s fear faded.

But every so often, he’d remember the feeling of Sam curled against him in bed… warmth, breath, soft closeness… and he’d have to stop, stare at the wall, and will his heartbeat to return to a normal pattern.

After about an hour, he realised he hasn’t taken in a single word of the last email he’d read.

He needed a break. Water, maybe a stretch, maybe something that didn’t involve staring at a screen while replaying the feeling of Sam’s leg tangled with his under the duvet.

He stood, stretched his stiff shoulders, and stepped into the hallway.

As he headed toward the stairs, he heard footsteps below, light one, and paused.

Sam.

She was crossing the ground floor hallway, a notebook hugged against her chest, her hair slightly tousled from her shower, cheeks faintly pink as if she’d rushed getting ready. When she spotted him in the stairwell, her expression brightened just a little more quickly than coincidence would allow.

“Hey,” she said, smiling softly. “You heading to the kitchen?”

Elliot blinked, suddenly aware of how fast his pulse jumped. “Uh… yeah. Thought I’d grab some water.”

“Well… me too,” she said, way too casually. She fell into step beside him, clearly having waited for him or at the very least, timed her exit with suspicious accuracy.

He didn’t mind. Not even a little.

They stood side by side for a moment, sipping quietly. The silence wasn’t awkward, just soft. Gentle.

After a beat, Sam nudged him lightly with her elbow. “I was heading up to the Silent lounge to study for a bit,” she said. “If you’re not busy, you could come join me?”

Elliot hesitated for half a heartbeat, not because he didn’t want to, but because he wanted to too much.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to keep it casual. “I’d like that.”

Same smiled again, shy but pleased, and gestured towards the stairs.

They climbed together, glasses in hand, the house unusually peaceful around them. When they reached the second floor and stepped into the Silent Lounge, the atmosphere shifted immediately. Quieter, softer, almost like stepping into a library late in the evening. The tall lamp in the corner glowed warmly, casting light over the bookshelves, the two mismatched chairs and a small sofa.

Sam settled on the sofa, her eyes looking expectantly at Elliot, waiting for him to sit beside her and resting again when he did.

A moment passed, Sam tapping her pen against her notebook. Then she glanced sideways at him, expression turning gently serious.

“About last night,” she began softly, “thank you. For… staying with me. And for not making me feel stupid about being scared. It really means a lot.”

Her voice was sincere, quieter than usual.

She hesitated, fingers toying with the corner of her notebook. “And… sorry I kind of latched onto you,” she said with a shy laugh. “I didn’t mean to just… cling.”

Elliot blurted out before he could stop himself: “I didn’t mind.”

The words came out too quickly, too honestly. His face farmed with immediate internal panic.

But Sam just blinked, then smiles, small, warm, almost glowing. “Well… I didn’t mind either.”

Silence stretched out. Not awkward, but charged, delicate.

Sam looked at him with an expression that was nervous and hopeful all at once, her fingers twisting lightly in her notebook. “Elliot… I… I really-”

Her voice trembled, the beginning of something she wasn’t quite ready to make aloud.

BANG-BANG-BANG.

The doorbell followed sharply, climbing through the walls at the same moment as a frantic knock. Far too loud, far too forceful for a simple delivery.

Sam jumped so hard she nearly dropped her notebook, hand flying to her chest. Elliot startled upright, heart leaping into his throat.

The moment shattered instantly.

The soft glow in Sam’s eyes vanished in the startle; the charged breath between them dissolved.

They stared at each other, breathless.

“That’ll be… uh…” Elliot swallows. “My desk. The delivery.”

Sam leaned back a little, pulling herself together. “Oh right. Yeah. W-we should go down, then.”

He nodded, still trying to slow his pulse, and together they hurried out of the Silent Lounge and down the stairs.

Elliot pulled the door open and was immediately greeted by a large cardboard box practically being shoved into his arms by a delivery guy who clearly wanted to be anywhere else.

“Elliot Ward?” the man asked, already letting go of the package.

“Yes, yes. That’s me- Woah!”

Sam lunged to steady the box before it could take Elliot down with it.

“Got it!” she said, breathless.

“You sure?” the delivery guy asked, eyeing Elliot like he might be crushed in the next ten seconds.

“We’re fine,” Sam assured him, though it sounded more confident than it looked.

The delivery man shrugged and left without a backward glance.

The door clicked shut and they were left staring at a box far too large for one person to handle, and barely manageable for two.

Sam puffed out a breath. “Well… we’re doing this.”

Elliot blinked. “We?”

She gave him a look. “I’m not letting you die under a flat-pack desk, Eliot.”

He wanted to argue, but she was already adjusting her grip.

They hauled the box toward the stairs, immediately realising it was heavier than either expected. It caught on the lip of the first step.

“O-okay, tilt it,” Elliot said.

Sam strained. “I am tilting it”.

“That’s not… that’s just shaking it!”

“Then YOU tilt it!”

They were both laughing by the third stair, breath coming out in bursts.

Halfway up, Sam groaned dramatically. “Is this desk made of lead?!”

“No,” Elliot wheezed, “just spite.”

“Fitting.”

They wrestled it around the corner toward the first-floor landing. The hallway walls were close, the turn awkward.

Room 2’s door sat opposite them. Shut, still, and slightly darker than the others.

Sam’s steps faltered as they passed it, but she kept going, jaw tightening with determination.

“Don’t look,” Elliot muttered under his breath.

“I’m not,” she whispered too quickly.

They reached the second staircase, the one leading up to Elliot's floor. Sam adjusted her grip again.

“Okay,” she said, blowing hair out of her face, “last stretch. We’ve got this.”

“We definitely don’t,” Elliot muttered.

But they went anyway.

By the time they reached the second-floor landing, they were both sweating, laughing breathlessly, and wildly off-balance. 

The box slammed into the wall once, only once, because Sam barked, “Elliot! Watch the corner!”

“I am watching-!”

“You’re watching the wrong corner!”

They paused outside Room 5, both panting, both half-hysterical with laughter.

Sam leaned against the wall. “We shouldn’t be proud of his, but I kind of am.”

Elliot wiped his forehead. “This is the greatest accomplishment of my adult life.”

“Same.”

Together, they shoved the box the last few inches and into Room 5. It scraped across the floor and landed with a heavy thud.

They both collapsed into laughter again, exhausted, triumphant, and very, very aware of how close they were standing once the adrenaline faded.

Sam caught her breath and smiled at him, warm, bright, familiar in a way that made Elliot’s pulse trip.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Round two: assembling the damned thing.”

“We’re doomed.” Elliot grinned.

She nudged him with her shoulder. “Completely.”

And then, without ceremony or hesitation, they stepped fully into his room leaving the door open behind them.

“Elliot Ward,” Sam puffed, “if this desk was one milligram heavier, I’d sue the manufacturer.”

He laughed, still breathless himself. “You offered to help.”

“I regretted it halfway up the first staircase,” she said, straightening and moving to kneel beside the box. “But I’m no quitter.”

Elliot grabbed the scissors from his bedside drawer and handed them to her. She accepted them with a grin that was far too mischievous for something as mundane as opening packaging, then sliced the tape with a victorious flourish.

The cardboard flaps sprang open, spilling out what could generously be described as “desk components.” Inside was a chaotic heap of wooden boards that didn’t even look like they belonged to the same species, let along the same piece of furniture. A bag of screws rolled to the edge immediately, rattling like a cheap maraca auditioning for attention, and a single folded instruction sheet lay on top already looking overwhelmed by the responsibility it had been saddles with.

Sam stared down at it all in silence before saying “…This is going to go horribly, isn’t it?”

“Oh, catastrophically,” Elliot said. “But now we’ve committed.”

Sam sat cross legged on the floor, nudging his knee lightly with hers. “Then let’s die heroes.”

He smiled, more than he meant to, and sat opposite her. For a moment, the open door, the eerie quiet of the hallway, and even Room 2 felt far away. It was just the two of them, cross-legged in the soft afternoon light of his room, about to battle furniture like idiots.

It felt… weirdly perfect.

The instructions were not in English.

Well, technically they were, but they read like someone had translated them using a dictionary and blindfolds.

Elliot frowned at the sheet. “Okay… step one says: Insert the B into the C while the C is not inserted into the B.”

Sam blinked. “…That’s physically impossible.”

“Correct,” he said, dropping the paper onto the floor. “We’re winging it.”

They each grabbed a board. Immediately, they both oriented them the wrong way.

Five minutes later, Sam held up a plank with a crew half-in, half-out. “I’m… ninety percent sure this is upside-down.”

Elliot squinted. “I’m… ninety percent sure we’re upside down.”

They both dissolved into laughter. The kind that curled Sam forward and made Elliot forget, for a moment, that his chest was supposed to stay still and normal around her.

They kept going,

Sam dropped a handful of screws. 

Elliot misread the diagram again. 

Sam accidentally hit her head on the underside of the half-built desk. 

Elliot put a panel on backwards. 

Sam tried to fix it and somehow made it worse.

At one point she leaned back against his bed, groaning dramatically. “This desk is going to fall apart if someone breathes near it.”

Elliot sat next to her, shoulders bumping. “But we’ll have built it. Badly. Together.”

Sam smiled, a soft, warm one that she didn’t even try to hide.

They returned to work, still terrible but determined, still laughing every few minutes, spark flying so naturally that neither of them pretended not to notice anymore.

The desk, against all odds, was standing.

It wobbled if you looked at it too hard, one leg seemed to be having an existential crisis about height, and one corner of the surface dipped an almost imperceptible amount. But it was recognisably a desk. A read usable desk. In Elliot Ward’s room. Assembled by two people who had spent the last forty minutes arguing about which way up a bracket was supposed to go.

Sam sat back on her heels on the floor, cheeks flushed, hair slightly mussed from where she’d pushed it out of her face a hundred times. She stared at their creation with wide-eyed satisfaction.

“We did it,” she breathed. “We actually did it. And nobody died.”

Elliot, sitting opposite her with an Allen key still clutched in his fist like a tiny, stupid sword, let out a disbelieving laugh. “I’m… genuinely impressed with us.”

“Same,” Sam said. “I thought at least one of us would lose a finger.”

He leaned forward and gave the desk a cautious nudge. It shuddered but stayed upright.

“See?” he said. “Sturdy.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Optimistic.”

Before he could reply, a knock sounded on his open doorframe.

They both turned.

Harper leaned there, arms folded, head tilted, taking in the scene: the half-flattened carboard box in the middle of the floor, a small graveyard of plastic bags and discarded screws, Sam and Elliot sitting cross-legged on the carpet, and the slightly lopsided new desk.

She blinked once. “How many health and safety violations are happening in here?”

Sam snorted. “At least seven.”

“We’re fine,” Elliot said. “Only minor emotional damage.”

Harper stepped in, eyeing the desk warily as if it might fall over if she looked at it wrong. “It sounded like you were fighting a wardrobe in here. I thought I should come check nobody had nailed themselves to anything.”

“We got there in the end,” Sam said proudly. “Look. Functional furniture. No blood sacrifice.”

Elliot gestured at the desk. “It even vaguely resembles the picture on the box.”

Harper circled it once, inspecting the joints with exaggerate care. She pressed down lightly on the surface; it dipped a millimetre, then settled.

“Well,” she said finally, “I’ve seen worse. Jordan once built a bedside table that collapsed under the weight of a single book.”

“I heard you both swear a few times while building this,” Harper added.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

Harper smirked. “I hear everything in this house. Walls are thin, remember?”

Sam and Elliot shared a quick, instinctive glance at that, both thinking, for a half-second, of last night. Of waking up tangled together. Harper didn’t seem to notice. She was focussed on the desk.

“You two did alright,” she said, softer now. “Seriously. It looks good.”

Sam beamed. Elliot felt an embarrassing swell of pride at the approval.

“Well done, Team Sammiot,” Harper said, backing toward the door. “Try not to break it in the first twenty-four hours.”

“No promises,” Sam said.

Harper rolled her eyes fondly and disappeared back into the hallway, her footsteps retreating toward Room 4.

Silence settled in the wake of her exit, quieter now that the rustle of cardboard and clatter of dropped screws was gone. Elliot and Sam stayed on the floor for a few seconds, just breathing and looking at the desk as if it might suddenly fall over if they looked away.

Eventually, Elliot exhaled. “Right. I should probably… actually use the thing.”

“Imagine that” Sam said. “Using a desk as a desk.”

He shot her a look and pushed himself up from the floor, joints protesting a little. Sam followed, brushing dust off her clothing.

Elliot slid his laptop onto the new desk and plugged it in. it looked oddly right sitting there, as though the room had been waiting for this piece to click into place. The angle of light from the far wall lamp caught the screen just so. For the first time since moving in, his room looked like a space someone actually lived and worked in, not just slept in.

Sam perched on the edge of his bed, then shifted back until she could lean against the wall, folding her legs beneath her. She pulled her notes and laptop from the pile she’d dropped near the door earlier and arranged them around her like a nest.

“I’ll be quiet,” she said. “Promise. I just… might as well study here while you work.”

“You can talk,” Elliot said, opening his laptop. “I’ll just pretend to be productive.”

“Perfect,” she said. “Mutual delusion.”

They fell into a surprisingly east rhythm.

The room hummed with a soft, pacifying silence, broken only by the gently clack of keys, the flick of pages, and the occasional sigh. The light outside shifted slowly, moving from bright afternoon towards something softer, more subdued, painting the sloped ceiling of Room 5 in muted gold.

Elliot lost himself in wireframes and UI notes, but every so often, he became aware of same again. The quiet scratch of her pen, the rustle of her turning a page, the way she absentmindedly chewed the end of her pencil when she was stuck. He glanced back occasionally for a second at a time.

At one point he turned and found her already looking at him. They both froze, caught mid-glance. Sam’s eyes widened, then she smiled, small and soft and a little shy.

“What?” she said.

“Nothing,” Elliot replied, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “Just… checking you hadn’t fallen asleep on any of my notes I left over there.”

“I would never disrespect your noted like that,” she said. “Your bed, maybe. Your notes? Sacred.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and turned back to his screen, heart a little lighter than it had been that morning.

Time passed in gentle stretches. The house was unusually calm around them. No strange creaks, no unsettled footsteps, no dragging sounds. Just the soft whisper of normality, fragile but welcome.

Eventually, Sam stretched, her spine popping softly as she arched her back against the call. “I should… probably go do something resembling real like,” she said, gathering her papers together into a messy stack.

Elliot looked up from his laptop, taking in the way her hair had fallen loose around her face, the tiny crease between her brows from concentration, the way her t-shirt hung off one shoulder. Something warm and dangerous tugged at his chest.

“Yeah,” he said lightly. “Can’t hide in here forever.”

She smiled and slid off the bed, stuffing her notes into her bag. For a moment, she fussed with the strap, fingers fidgeting in a way that felt strangely unlike her usual easy movements.

“Thanks,” she said, voice suddenly softer. “For letting me… invade your space. Again.”

“You’re not invading,” Elliot said. “You’re… good company.”

The words came out more earnest than he intended. Sams eyes flicked up to meet his, something bright and startled in them.

“Right,” she said quickly, cheeky flushing. “Well. I’ll… see you later.”

She turned toward the door then paused.

Before Elliot could process what was happening, she stepped back toward him, slipped her arms around his shoulders from behind, and hugged him. Properly hugged him, pressing in close, her chin brushing his shoulder, her chest against his back.

It felt like an instinct more than a decision. A reflex.

Elliot went absolutely still.

Her warmth seeped through his t-shirt, the contact sudden and overwhelming. He smelled the faint clean scent of her shampoo; felt the way she exhaled quietly against his neck.

“Thank you,” she murmured, so soft he almost didn’t hear it.

Then she seemed to realise what she was doing.

She released him as quickly as she’d grabbed him, stepping back so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet. Her face was bright red now, eyes wide.

“Sorry- I- uh- automatic reaction,” she stammered, clutching her bag strap like a lifeline. “I’m gonna… yeah. I’m gonna go.”

“Sam-” he started, twisting in his chair.

But she was already halfway out the door, mumbling something that might have been “see you later” before disappearing into the hallway.

Elliot sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway, his heart hammering far too hard for someone who had technically just built a slightly wobbly desk.

His back still felt warm where she’d pressed into him.

The door clicked shut behind Sam, and the silence returned almost immediately. Not an oppressive silence. Not eerie. Just… empty.

The room felt bigger without her. Too big for one person. Elliot stood there for a moment in the middle of his room, hands limp at his sides, brain still trying to catch up with the last few minutes.

He realised he was smiling.

At nothing.

Then he realised that he’d realised he was smiling, and his smile grew even dumber.

“Oh my god,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand over his face in mortified amusement. “Pull yourself together, dude.”

He glanced at his laptop still open on the newly built desk. The half-finished work page stared back at him. Lines of UI sketches patiently waiting.

Nope. Not happening.

He closed the laptop gently, then stretched, long and slow joints slicking softly. He rubbed both eyes with his hands.

He was tired. More emotionally than physically. The kind of tired that felt full, warm, and impossible to work through.

“I’m done for the day,” he said to no one.

He left his room and padded quietly up to the attic bathroom.

The house was still, almost peaceful, not the sort of calm that follows too much adrenaline.

He washed his face, brushed his teeth, splashed cold water over the back of his neck, and felt himself gradually unwind.

By the time he headed back, the corridor felt familiar again, the kind of lived-in quiet he was used to.

He reached Room 5, reached his hand lazily toward the doorknob and… paused.

Something was on the floor.

A small shape. Right in front of the threshold. Placed neatly.

Elliot frowned and crouched down.

It was the pen.

The same tarnished brass fountain pen they’d found outside Room 2. The one Jordan had joked belonged in a Victorian museum. The one none of them had claimed.

It sat perfectly centred across the gap between the doorframe and the floorboard, as if laid there deliberately, waiting to be seen.

A cold ripple crawled up Elliot's spine. He swallowed, suddenly aware of how quiet the house really was.

He straightened slowly, eyes flicking down the staircase toward the first-floor landing. Toward Room 2.

That floor was silent. Still. Sleeping.

But Elliot no longer believed the house ever truly slept.

He reached down and picked up the pen. Cold metal pressing sharply against his fingers.

Something had put it there.

Something had chosen him this time. Elliot stepped into his room, pen still in his hand, and closed the door behind him.