Chapter 8

Elliot drifted back into sleep the same way a person sinks in cold water; slowly, cautiously, still half-listening for something that might pull him under again. After finding the old note on his desk hours earlier, he’d stood frozen for a long moment, heart hammering against his ribs, the words burned into the back of his mind.

I must not let her forget me.

She drifts further each day.

I cannot lose her.

The handwriting had been old-fashioned, the ink uneven, like someone had written it in a trembling hand. He had almost convinced himself it wasn’t really there, some trick of exhaustion or nerves, until he touched it. Until he felt the weight of it. The age of the paper. The truth of it.

Even then, he’d forced himself to move. The only thing that made sense was to go back to Sam.

He had slipped quietly across the room, back towards the bed being careful not to make too much noise as though the house might hear. Sam was still wrapped beneath his duvet, curled in the warm space he’d left behind. Her breathing was soft and even, her face half-buried in the pillow. She hadn’t even stirred when he climbed back in beside her.

He'd lay stiff and shaken for a minute just watching her, grounding himself in the sight of her. Something about the rise and fall of her chest, the gentle weight of her arm resting lightly on the duvet, pulled him gradually back toward calm. Slowly, tentatively, he slid closer until he felt her warmth soak into him.

And then she shifted in her sleep, as if her body recognised his return before her mind did. She breathed a quiet sigh, rolled toward him, and tucked herself against his chest in one unthinking movement.

Her forehead brushed his collarbone. Her hand settled just under his ribs; her leg slid over his.

Elliot had frozen and then melted.

He hadn’t expected her to seek him out even subconsciously. He hadn’t expected to feel safe despite the fear coiled inside him.

But the moment her weight settled against him; the world thinned around its edges. The house. The note. Room 2. All of it faded just enough for him to breathe again.

And in that tiny, fragile pocket of warmth, he drifted off.

When morning came, it was gentle.

Elliot woke to muted sunlight pressing softly through the curtains, dust moted turning lazily in the golden slant of light. The room was quiet. The kind of quiet that felt earned rather than ominous. Sam was still curled into him exactly as she’d been when he fell asleep. Her head rested on his chest, her breath warm through his shirt. His arm was draped under her should, holding her unconsciously.

He blinked slowly, letting the moment settle.

For the first time in days, he felt something like peace.

Sam stirred faintly, her fingers brushing lightly against his side, but she didn’t wake yet. Elliot looked down at her, at the way her hair fell messily over her cheek, at the tiny frown she wore when she dreamed, at the way she seemed so perfectly at home in his arms.

He let out a slow, steadying breath. For a few seconds it didn’t matter what the house was. Or what the note meant. Or what waited behind the black door on the first floor.

All that mattered was this. Sam in his arms. Warm. Safe. Here.

He reached out with his free hand toward the bedside unit. Not to touch the photo of his sister, just to look at it. The frame caught the light, the familiar face of the one person he’d lost staring back at him softly.

His sister’s smile, frozen in a moment of summer sunlight from a year that felt like another lifetime, looked back at him. He reached out without thinking and touched the top edge of the frame with his fingertips, tracing the familiar outline.

That was when Sam stirred.

Her eyelashes fluttered against his chest before her eyes opened, slow and unfocussed, then warm and aware. She blinked up at him, a sleepy, shy smile forming as she realised how close they still were.

“Morning…” she murmured, voice low and rough with sleep.

“Hey,” Elliot whispered back, unable to stop himself from smiling.

Sam shifted just slightly, enough to follow his earlier line of sight to the photo. She studied it for a moment, then looked back at him with a gentleness that made his throat tighten,

“Who is she?” she asked softly.

Elliot hesitated. Not out of reluctance, but because saying it still required a breath he didn’t always have. But Sam’s voice held no pressure, no expectation. Just quiet curiosity.

“That’s my sister,” he said eventually. “Anna.”

Sam’s expression softened further, though she didn’t move away from him. “She’s beautiful.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “She… passed away a few months before I moved here.”

“Oh.” It wasn’t pity that coloured her tone, but something more grounded. Something that said I hear you rather than I’m sorry for you.

“She was the only family I had left,” he continued quietly. “After she died, Leeds just… became too much. Everywhere I went reminded me of her. So I left. Came here.”

Sam didn’t try to offer platitudes or mirror his grief with her own. Instead, she shifted slightly so she could rest her forehead lightly against his chest again, her hand brushing a reassuring circle over his ribs.

“I get that,” she said softly. “Not in the same way. But… my parents were always busy. My mum volunteered at the mosque every day. My dad’s job kept him late. I grew up around people, but I’ve never really felt… looked after, I guess. I kind of learned to be on my own.”

Elliot looked down at her, surprised by how much of that admission sounded like something she’d never told anyone else.

“That’s why I moved into this place,” she went on. “To get space. To be independent. To figure out who I am. But…”

Her fingers curled slightly into his shirt.

“…I don’t feel alone when I’m with you.”

Something in Elliot’s chest tightened, then loosened all at once. Like someone had unclipped a weight he didn’t know he was carrying.

He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Sam…”

Her eyes lifted to meet his. They were warm, nervous, hopeful.

“Yesterday,” he said quietly, “in town… I didn’t want to say anything in case I scared you off, but I…”

He swallowed.

“I really like you. A lot.”

A soft blush rose in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. If anything, she inched closer, her breath warming his skin.

For a moment neither of them moved, as though they were both waiting for permission from the other.

Then Sam lifted her chin up.

Elliot leaned in.

The distance between them dissolved in a soft, uncertain brush of lips. Gentle, slow, almost questioning. Sam’s hand found his shoulder. Elliot's breath caught as he cupped her cheek, thumb grazing the warm edge of her skin,

The kiss deepened just slightly, a second longer, then another. Still cautious, still discovering, but filled with a quiet, trembling sweetness neither of them had expected to feel so strongly.

When they finally parted, they stayed close, foreheads touching.

Sam let out a tiny, breathy laugh. The kind that came from nerves and happiness tangled together.

Elliot exhaled shakily, smiling despite himself.

They left Elliot’s room still wrapped in the soft, warm haze of the morning, the kind of quiet that followed when two people had finally said the thing they’d both been keeping in their chests. Sam’s fingers laced with his as they stepped into the hallway, neither of them trying to hide it or make excuses. It just… fit. Natural. Warm. Certain.

The house was still, but the stillness no longer felt unnerving. Not with Sam walking by his side, her thumb brushing now and then over the back of his hand. Her hair was tied in a loose, sleepy bun; he noticed the faint crease the duvet had left on her cheek. She looked beautiful in the unguarded way people did right after waking.

They descended the first flight of stairs together. Room 2’s black door loomed on the landing, but the air around it felt quiet for once, undisturbed. Sam stayed close, but she didn’t tense like she had the night before.

Maybe the house was sleeping too.

On the ground floor, faint sunlight streamed through the frosted glass panels by the front door, softening everything with a pale gold light. The dining room door was ajar, and the lounge looked empty. David’s door upstairs had been closed; Elliot assumed he was either sleeping in or already lost in whatever book he’d been reading before.

The atmosphere was gentle, unthreatening. A rare kindness from the house.

Sam gave his arm a slight tug, smiling. “Come on. You’re cooking.”

The kitchen was quiet when they stepped inside, the kind of Sunday stillness that made the morning feel softer somehow. Elliot moved automatically toward the cupboards, pulling out eggs, bread, mushrooms, then hesitated glancing at Sam.

“Okay with all this?” he asked gently. “I know you don’t eat everything.”

Sam gave him a grateful little smile. One that crinkled her eyes and made her look impossibly warm in the pale morning light. “Thanks for checking. No pork, obviously,” she said with a light laugh.” But everything else is fine. I’m not… super religious or anything, but I still follow the rules,”

“Easy,” he said, relieved. “I can work with that.”

“Elliot,” she teased, nudging him with her hip as she moved past to rinse some tomatoes at the sink, “I’ve seen you cook. You can definitely handle ‘no bacon.’”

He pressed a hand to his chest theatrically. “You wound me.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling as she dried the tomatoes. “You love it.”

They moved around each other naturally, almost unconsciously; Elliot setting pans on the hob, Sam chopping vegetables, both reaching past one another with easy familiarity. It felt domestic in a way that made Elliot's heart thud a little too loudly in his chest.

At one point Sam brushed flour off his cheek with her thumb, laughing softly when he blinked in surprise. “You look like you’ve been attacked by a bakery,” she said.

“I’m going for a rustic aesthetic,” he replied, trying to sound casual despite the way her touch burned pleasantly across his skin.

They cooked side by side, talking quietly about nothing in particular. Her coursework, his design project, a joke Jordan made. The house around them remained quiet, but it didn’t feel eerie this morning. It felt like they were wrapped in their own small world, sealed off from everything unsettling.

When the pan began to sizzle and the smell of mushrooms and garlic filled the kitchen, Sam leaned lightly into his shoulder.

“I could get used to this,” she murmured.

Elliot swallowed, warmth flaring in his chest. “Me too.”

The kitchen filled with the soft, savoury warmth of grilled tomatoes and garlic mushrooms as Elliot scraped the last batch onto a plate. Sam was beside him, flipping the final pancake with a small, triumphant grin as it landed perfectly flat in the pan.

“See?” she said, nudging him gently with her elbow. “I can cook.”

“That was one pancake,” Elliot said, deadpan. “Out of a sample size of one.”

She scoffed dramatically and slid the pancake onto the growing stack. “Statistically flawless, then.”

They moved easily around each other, shoulders occasionally brushing, their movements unconsciously synchronised now; her passing him a clean plate before he reached for it, him opening the cupboard just as she stepped toward it. It felt domestic in a wat that startled Elliot with how natural it already seemed.

Sam carried the plates to the table while Elliot set out cutlery and a bottle of maple syrup.

They sat beside each other at the small wooden table, sunlight pooling across the varnished surface, warming the plates. Sam drizzled syrup over her pancaked, then a little onto the tomatoes as well.

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “Syrup on tomatoes? Really?”

Sam gave him a smug, slow-blinking cat expression as she took a bite. “It’s elite, actually.”

“Okay. I trust your superior culinary instincts,” he said, cutting into a pancake and taking a considered bite. “Hmm. Sweet and… aggressively tomato.”

“Exactly,” she said proudly, stealing a slice of tomato from his plate with her fork. “Balanced.”

They ate in the kind of comfortable quiet that only came when two people felt absolutely safe in each other’s presence. Every so often Sam looked up at him, catching his eye, and then they’d both look away with sheepish smiles, like teenagers discovering a crush for the first time.

Halfway through the meal, Sam reached over and brushed a crumb from his cheek with her thumb. The gesture was so small, so natural, that it startled them both. Her hand lingered a heartbeat too long before she drew it back.

“Sorry,” she murmured, suddenly shy.

“Don’t be,” Elliot said softly. “It’s… nice.”

Her smile in response was tiny but luminous.

They were still close when it happened.

Elliot had leaned in to press a short, warm kiss to Sam’s lips; nothing dramatic, nothing showy, just a gentle touch that made her smile against his mouth. It was brief, sweet, and honest.

And the moment his hand slid lightly along her waist, the kitchen door swung inward.

Harper stepped inside carrying her mug.

She stopped dead.

Sam squeaked and jerked back an inch, though Elliot’s hand was still caught loosely at her hip. Elliot froze so hard he forgot how to breathe.

Harper’s eyebrows climbed nearly to her hairline before a slow grin spread across her face.

“Oh,” she said, drawing out the single word like it was a discovery she had been waiting to witness. “Right. I see how it is.”

Sam covered her face with both hands, too flustered to speak. Elliot attempted a noise that might have been “good morning” if it hadn’t left his throat sounding strangled.

Harper took the last sip from her mug, nodded with theatrical approval, and walked to the kettle.

“Well,” she added lightly, “if this is what happened when I leave you two alone for five minutes, I should disappear more often.”

Sam let out a quiet groan and peeked through her fingers. “Harper, please-”

Harper cut her off with a knowing little smile. “Sam, relax. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

There was something warm in her tone. Familiar. A kind of gentle amusement that suggested she wasn’t remotely surprised.

Elliot caught the look, too. Harper wasn’t shocked. Not even mildly thrown.

If anything, she seemed… satisfied.

Harper’s gaze drifted pointedly to their still-intertwined fingers resting on the table between their plated. “Honestly,” she went on, “I’m impressed it took you two this long.”

Sam’s mouth fell open in wordless horror. “Harper!”

“What?” Harper asked innocently. “You talk to me, remember? I pay attention.”

Sam’s eyes widened, a silent plea for Harper to stop talking, which only confirmed it. Sam had told her something. Maybe not everything, but enough that Harper had been waiting for this to happen.

Harper poured herself a fresh coffee, hiding a tiny smirk behind the steam. “For the record,” she added casually, “I’m really happy for you both.”

Sam looked like she wanted simultaneously to hide under the table and beam with pride.

Elliot felt his face heat but couldn’t stop smiling. Not when Sam glanced at him with a helpless, flustered affection that made his chest tighten in a good way.

Harper took her first sip of the fresh coffee, totally at ease. “And don’t worry,” she said, waving a hand, “your secret’s safe with me. Well… if it was still a secret.”

Sam buried her face in her hands again while Harper laughed softly and slid into the seat opposite them, as if the morning had unfolded exactly as she’d predicted.

Elliot rose first, collecting the empty plates almost automatically, his hand brushing Sam’s shoulder as he passed. She stood too, giving Harper a small, sheepish smile before joining him at the sink.

“I’ll wash,” Elliot said, rolling up his sleeved.

Sam shook her head. “No, I’ll wash. You dry. You burned yourself last time you tried to tackle a frying pan.”

“That was one time.”

“It was less than twenty minutes ago.”

He conceded with a soft huff of laughter. “Fine. I’ll dry.”

They found an easy rhythm together; Sam at the tap, sleeves pushed halfway up her arms, Elliot standing close beside her with a tea towel slung over his shoulder. The sink filled with warm water and bubbles, and the room settled into a calmer, domestic quiet.

Every so often their shoulders brushed. Neither stepped away.

Harper remained at the table with her coffee, chin resting on her hand, watching them with an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement, affection, and a sharp curiosity she didn’t bother disguising. She tracked the way they moved, almost like they had done this a hundred times before rather than just this morning.

Elliot passed Sam a clean towel when she flicked soap onto herself by accident. Sam nudged him with her elbow when he drifted into a daze. He kept reaching for plates before she finished rinsing them, and she kept bumping him gently aside with her hip.

Close. Comfortable. Completely natural.

And Harper saw every second of it.

When the last pan was dried and the countertops wiped down, Elliot leaned his hip against the counter and exhaled, finally letting himself relax. Sam set the cloth aside and folded her arms loosely, looking more thoughtful than before.

Harper took a slow sip of coffee, narrowed her eyes at the two of them, and finally spoke.

“What’s with the faces?”

Elliot blinked. “Faces?”

“You’re both distracted,” Harper said, pointing between them with her mug. “And not int the cute, oh-my-god-we’re-finally-holding-hands kind of way.”

Sam flushed immediately, her hand curling into the hem of her oversized shirt. 

“Harper-”

“Nope,” Harper interrupted. She leaned back in the chair, posture suddenly sHarper. “There’s something you’re not saying. I can feel it.”

Elliot and Sam exchanged a quick glance. One filled with silent debate, a mutual “you tell her,” “no you tell her.” Harper arched a brow.

“Okay,” Sam said softly, moving closer to Elliot. “Something… happened last night.”

Harper’s amusement evaporated. “What happened?”

Elliot cleared his throat. “Room 2.”

Harper stiffened instantly. “What about it?”

“The door,” Sam whispered. “It was open a crack. And the moment we noticed it…” she swallowed. “It slammed shit. Hard.”

Harper stared at them, waiting for a punchline that never came.

Elliot continued quietly, “We were halfway up the stairs. No draft, no movement. Just… slammed. Like someone inside wanted us to know they were awake.”

Harper’s fingers tightened around her coffee mug. “Shit.”

Sam nodded.

“And that’s not all,” Elliot said. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and carefully removed the folded piece of aged paper. He placed it on the table in front of Harper ad though handling something fragile or contaminated.

Sam’s eyes widened slightly. “Eliot… you didn’t show me that.”

He looked at her, apologetic. “I didn’t want to wake you. You were finally sleeping peacefully. I didn’t want to… worry you.”

Sam softened at that, then steppe forward without hesitation and wrapped her arms around him.

Elliot tensed for a split second surprised, before his hand settled against her back and he pulled her in just as tightly. The contact eased something in both of them, smoothing out the last of the anxiety that had been clinging to the morning.

“You can wake me,” she said against his shoulder, voice low but firm. “I want to know these things. I want to be there for you.”

Thay eased apart slowly, still close, hands brushing as they separated.

Harper unfolded the note with slow, deliberate movements. Her breath caught as she scanned the faded handwriting.

Elliot watched her reaction closely.

“It was on my desk this morning,” he said quietly. “I didn’t put it there.”

Harper looked up at them both, the humour she usually wielded so effortlessly was nowhere to be seen. Her expression had sharpened. Serious, thoughtful, and unsettled.

“Okay,” she said at last. “This… this is real. And we need to take it seriously.”

Elliot was the first to hear footsteps on the stairs.

Heavy, uneven ones. David’s characteristic shuffle that usually meant he’d just woken or hadn’t yet had coffee. A moment later, David appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair slightly damp, glasses pushed up onto his forehead like he’d forgotten they were there. He wore his usual weekend clothes; dark jeans and a navy quarter-zip jumper, the sort of practical, slightly old-fashioned outfit that suited him perfectly.

In his hands was a small leather-bound book.

“Either of you drop this?” he asked, holding it out halfway.

Elliot shook his head immediately. “No, that’s not mine.”

Sam frowned. “Where did you find it?”

“On the floor outside your room, Elliot,” David replied. “Right at the threshold. Thought maybe it slipped out of a bag or something. I almost stepped on it.”

He set the book down on the dining table between them.

Up close, it was clearly old; the leather cracked and brittle, the edges of the pages yellowed, the faint musty smell of paper that had lived through a century.

Harper’s eyes widened as she recognised the distinctive looping handwriting embossed faintly into the inside cover.

Sam leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… Eleanor Caldwell’s.”

The room fell very still.

No one reached for the journal yet.

It felt like something that demanded caution. Reverence, even.

And a growing dread settled over all three of them as they realised: It hadn’t just been found. It had been left.

Harper opened the journal carefully, as though it might sigh or crumble if handled too quickly. The spine gave a faint crack, old but preserved surprisingly well, and she smoothed the first page flat with the side of her hand.

The handwriting immediately struck all of them. Neat. Elegant. Confident loops and straight lines. The sort of penmanship taught with patience and pride.

Harper read aloud quietly, her voice soft so as not to disturb the stillness settling over the kitchen.

Thomas returned early today. We walked the grounds and discussed adding roses along the west wall.

Another entry dated only a week later:

Prepared bread and broth for supper. Thomas said it reminded him of our first winter here. He makes me laugh even now.

Sam leaned closer, her shoulder brushing Elliot's. the pages felt like stepping backward through time, each line a domestic snapshot of a life that once filled this house.

The early entries painted Eleanor as a grounded observant woman, warm in tone and steady in detail. She mentioned household tasks, small social visits, Thomas’s work as a merchant, and frequent references to “my husband, Thomas,” often written with a quiet affection that made Sam smile sadly.

Harper turned another page, revealing a list of garden plans and a small sketch of the back fence. Nothing strange or sinister, just a woman living an ordinary life with her husband. 

But as Harper continued, the neat script began to waver. Just a little. Enough to make her slow down.

Harper flipped a few more pages.

The difference was immediate.

The letters were still recognisable, the same hand, but now they leaned too far left and pressed too hard into the paper. The ink looked darker where the nib had hesitated or dragged.

Harper read another entry, dated several months after the earlier ones:

Thomas is late returning. I am sure he said he would be home by dusk. I must remember to ask him tomorrow what kept him. I feel I have asked him before.

Sam’s breath hitched softly.

Harper continued.

Visitors came today. A woman I did not know embraced me as though we were old companions. I could not place her name.

The next page contained only a short paragraph:

I spent the morning preparing for my wedding. Mother says the dress is nearly finished. Thomas will be so pleased. I hope he asks me soon.

Harper stopped reading.

Elliot’s heart dropped.

Sam pressed a hand to her mouth. “But… she was already married.”

Harper nodded, voice steady but quiet. “These entries are months, maybe years after the ones where she writes about Thomas as her husband.”

She flipped again.

The handwriting deteriorated further: letters malformed, words repeated, thoughts unfinished. One page contained the same sentence three times, each written with increasing uncertainty.

I cannot keep my thoughts in order.

Another: 

Thomas says I wandered last night. I do not remember leaving the bed.

The final coherent line before the journal devolved into near-illegible scratches:

I fear something slipping from me, but I do not know what.

A long, heavy silence settled over the group once Harper closed the journal halfway, her fingers still resting on the worn leather as though afraid to open again or to put it down.

Sam exhaled shakily. “This… this is dementia,” she said softly. “Or early Alzheimer’s. They didn’t have names for it back then, but…” Her voice wavered. “My Nani had it. It started almost the exact same way. Little slips. Repeating days. Forgetting people she loved.”

Elliot watched her expression tighten, a familiar kind of grief shadowing her eyes. He reached across, gently brushing the back of her hand in support. She offered him a faint, grateful smile.

“It fits,” Harper murmured. “The confusion the repetition, the handwriting getting worse… it makes sense now. Or as much as anything does.”

But the explanation didn’t ease the tension. If anything, it deepened it.

Sam swallowed, looking at the journal as though it might break her heart a second time. “She must have been terrified. And Thomas… watching her fade like that…” she shook her head.

Harper nodded, her voice unusually quiet. “It makes the note in your room even more devastating.” She looked at Elliot. “He wasn’t just leaving messages. He was begging.”

Elliot felt the words hit somewhere uncomfortably deep. The raw desperation in the note echoed through his chest, and before he could stop himself, his mind flicked to Sam; bright, alive, warm beside him now. The thought of losing her like that, of watching her slip away day-by-day, made his stomach twitch painfully.

He pushed the feeling down quickly, embarrassed by the intensity of it. Silly. They’d only known each other a week. They’d only kissed that morning. But the emotion lingered, stubborn and uninvited.

He forced a breath. “Thomas must have felt helpless,” he said quietly. “Like he was losing her in slow motion.”

Sam squeezed his hand gently. “No one should have to go through that alone.”

They sat together in shared sorrow. Not just Eleanor’s decline, but for the ghost of a marriage still echoing through the house more than a century later.

The heaviness of the afternoon still clung to the house, like dust that didn’t quite settle. Elliot wandered into the kitchen to find Jordan rummaging around in a lower cupboard, muttering something about “needing to reorganise this mess before it kills me.”

Jordan pulled out a saucepan with a triumphant noise. “Ah-ha! I knew this house was hiding it from me.”

Elliot leaned against the counter, arms folded loosely. “You cooking tonight?”

“Yep,” Jordan said, standing and inspecting the pan like it might bite him. “Thought I’d do something comforting. Something with carbs. Carbs help everything.”

He paused and peered at Elliot, narrowing his eyes. “You good? You look emotionally marinated.”

Elliot let out a quiet laugh. “It’s been a lot today.”

“I know,” Jordan said, softer. He filled the pan with water and placed it on the hob. “But you’re handling it. Better than I would, honestly.”

Elliot shrugged, not sure he agreed. “Harper and Sam are upstairs. Harper’s filling her in. I figured id help with dinner.”

Jordan grinned. “Look at you, domestic king. Grab a chopping board. Mushrooms. Let’s go.”

Elliot washed his hands and began slicing. For a few moments, there was only the rhythm of the knife, the hiss of the hob warming, the gently familiarity of kitchen sounds grounding him in the moment.

Jordan stirred sauce in a pan, then spoke casually; too casually. “So… you and Sam?”

Elliot froze for half a second, then resumed chopping. “What about us?”

Jordan snorted. “Mate. You two basically radiate ‘new couple’ vibes. If it were any more obvious, Harper would start charging you rent as a pair.”

Elliot's ears warmed up. “We… kissed. Today.”

Jordan nearly dropped the wooden spoon. “Finally! Jesus, I was beginning to think I’d have to trap you two in the cupboard under the stairs.”

Elliot shook his head with a small, helpless laugh. “It’s… recent. And we’re both overwhelmed. But I really like her.”

Jodan’s face softened at that. “Good. Because she’s good for you. And you’re good for her. The way she looks at you? Like she’s finally exhaling after holding her breath for years.”

Elliot swallowed, the compliment landing deeper than Jordan probably intended. He didn’t know what to say, so he focussed on the mushrooms.

Jordan bumped his shoulder. “I’m thrilled for you both. Honestly. You deserve something good. Both of you.”

Elliot looked up, gratitude tightening his chest. “Thanks.”

Jordan nodded and turned back to the stove. “Right, enough emotions. Pass me the paprika before I start crying into the sauce.”

Elliot smirked, fetched the spice jar, and handed it over. As he did, he glanced out the kitchen window. 

Dinner filled the kitchen with warm, rich smells. Garlic, herbs, the earthy comfort of sautéed mushrooms and a creamy sauce simmering away. Elliot helped Jordan plate everything, and together they carried dishes to the dining table.

Jordan stepped back, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “Right then. Go summon the troops.”

Elliot headed to the base of the stairs. “Dinner’s ready!” he called.

Harper appeared first, stretching. “Smells incredible,” she said, descending with a smile.

Sam followed moments later from her own room, hair slightly messier and her cheeks a little warm, like she’d hurried the moment she heard his voice. She drifted straight to Elliot’s side without thinking, brushing her fingers lightly along his arm before stepping past him.

Elliot felt the contact all the way down to his chest.

David came last, emerging from his room on the first floor with a book tucked under his arm. “Evening,” he said, giving a small nod before joining them at the table.

Everyone sat together, the housemates sharing one space, one meal, one brief moment of normalcy.

Elliot took the seat beside Sam, who nudged her knee against his under the table. He glanced her way, and she offered a tiny, secret smile meant for him alone.

Jordan bowed dramatically over the steaming dishes. “Ladies, gents, and Elliot who slices mushrooms like a man running from his past… dinner is served.”

Elliot rolled his eyes, but Sam’s quiet laugh made his chest ache with warmth.

Dinner wound down slowly, the kitchen warm with leftover steam and the quiet clatter of plates. Jordan and Elliot lingered behind after everyone else drifted away, Harper retreating upstairs with her coffee, David vanishing into his room, Sam offering Elliot a small smile before slipping toward the staircase.

Jordan rinsed the pan while Elliot wiped down the counters, the soft rhythm of their movements settling the last of the heavy atmosphere from the journal.

“Big day,” Jordan said with a half-grin, budging Elliot with his elbow. “You look good though. Happier.”

Elliot felt the warmth crawl up his neck but didn’t deny it. “Yeah. I am.”

Jordan gave him a light smack on the back. “Good. About time something nice happened around here.”

They stacked the last plates on the drying rack. The moment the final dish clicked into place, Elliot turned and stopped. Sam stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting for him.

She didn’t call out. Didn’t wave. She just watched him with that gentle, warm look he was starting to recognise as meant only for him. Her hands were clasped loosely in front of her, her posture relaxed, but her eyes held that quiet question:

Ready?

Allied dried his hands and walked toward her. She smiled and stepped aside so he could walk beside her, and together they climbed the stairs. Slow, unhurried, a comfortable silence between them.

On the first floor landing she paused briefly at her door, turning the handle with casual familiarity. She didn’t disappear inside, she simply leaned in, grabbed a folded bundle of night clothes from just inside the doorway, and then turned back to him.

No hesitation. No questions.

She followed him right into his room.

Inside, the room felt smaller than usual. Not cramped, just full of something warm and expectant. Elliot shut the door softly behind them while Sam walked toward the bed, placing her folded night clothes neatly on the duvet.

They both shifted into a kind of polite choreography, giving each other space without needing to say it.

“I’ll, uh, turn away,” Elliot said, clearing his throat as he stepped toward the window.

Sam let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Me too. Fair’s fair.”

Elliot turned his back, staring very intently at the wardrobe missing its door as he heard the faint rustle of clothes behind him. He tried his best not to imagine anything to vividly; her skin, the way her hair would fall forward as she unhooked her bra, but the brain of a twenty-something man was never going to win that fight. Heat crept up his neck, and he forced himself to focus on the frayed metal of the broken hinge in front of him.

Behind him, fabric slipped to the floor. A small, shy exhale left her and somehow, the moment became even more intimate without a single thing being seen.

When she quietly said, “Okay,” he turned around.

Her discarded bra hung over the back of his desk chair in a haphazard loop, and the rest of her earlier clothes lay in a small, messy pile beside where she’d changed. The sight hit him with a surprising punch of domesticity, as if some part of her had already settled into the space.

He swallowed, turned politely away as he changed, and felt her awareness of him like a soft pressure in the air. She respectfully faced the wall, but he knew she felt it too. The charged looseness, the shared vulnerability. 

When they finally turned back toward each other, both dressed in soft night clothes and lit only be the glow of the bedside lamp, something gentle passed between them. A quiet understanding. A mutual trust. A sense that this, whatever it was, mattered.

“Come on,” she whispered, patting the space beside her on the bed.

Elliot climbed in beside her, his heartbeat settling as she shifted into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They settled beneath the covers, facing each other, close enough that Elliot could feel the warmth of Sam’s breath on his lips. The bedside lamp cast a soft glow over her face, turning the moment into something suspended, private, and impossibly intimate.

For a while they just looked at each other; the kind of look that felt like it stripped away every wall, every defence, every excuse either of them had left.

Their voices dropped naturally to whispers as they talked, quietly. Honestly.

They talked about the Eleanor-Thomas story. How it wasn’t just eerie, but heartbreaking. About how the thought of losing someone, even someone they’d only known a week settled too deeply in both of them. About how terrifying it felt that it already mattered this much.

Sam’s hand slid across the sheets to find his. Elliot’s thumb brushed her knuckles.

A beat of silence passed, then Sam whispered in a barely audible tone, “I don’t want to lose you.”

Elliot exhaled shakily. “You won’t.”

The distance between them evaporated.

She leaned in first… or maybe he did… and their mouths met in a soft, searching kiss that quickly became something deeper. Sam’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. Elliot’s hand moved to the back of her neck, guiding her gently but with unmistakable hunger.

Their lips parted and her tongue brushed his, tentative at first, then bolder when he answered in kind. The kiss warmed, deepened, turned slow and melting and unbearably tender all at once. It stole Elliot’s breath in the best possible way.

When they finally drew back, their foreheads rested together, breath unsteady, hearts thudding in the same frantic rhythm.

Sam’s smile was dazed, a little shy, a little stunned.

Elliot couldn’t help smiling too.

Their hands stayed entwined together, fingers tangled like they were afraid to let go.

They shifted closer instinctively. Bodies finding a fit as though this wasn’t the third night but the hundredth. Sam tucked herself against Elliot’s chest, one leg brushed his. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her gently into the curve of him.

Her breathing steadied.

His followed.

The room felt warm, quiet, safe. A soft pocket of peace inside a house full of shadows and unanswered questions.

Sam murmured something sleepy and content against his chest. Elliot pressed a small kiss to the top of her head, letting his eyes fall shut.

No fear touched them this time.