Chapter Text
Life in the house carried on as normal. Whatever doubts you had been feeling about Sam’s affection toward you seemed to have dissipated along with your hangover, as you were back to geeking out about Starlight Overheaders! with her over Thiscord the next day. This was a relief felt by every object in the house: Generally, unhappy homeowners were the harbingers of dirty, dilapidated homes, but more than that, there were those who didn’t wish to see your cheerful, gentle disposition ruined by any means.
“Oh, that anything mar that smile, which is like a breath of spring,” effused Hector to no one in particular as he watched you chuckling to yourself, reading your phone in bed, “to incite disquiet in that voice like summer rain… I could not bear it.”
“Running out of original material, Hector?” asked Betty with a lazy smirk, casting a glance at the vent from her place next to you on the bed. “Because I could swear I heard the lyrics to ‘Jolene’ in there somewhere.”
Hector startled and made an incoherent remark, embarrassed at having been heard, and clambered away from the bedroom through his duct.
You were being discussed similarly in the kitchen.
“I dunno,” said Stefan, sauteing a cast-iron pan of vegetables with one hand and stirring a pot of sauce with the other. “I mean, I’m glad nothin’ bad happened with that influence-whatever, but it really has been way too long since anyone’s been over. I want to show off some of my signature dishes. I want to delight a crowd with my food! There are only so many times I can heat up frozen pizzas and dino nuggies before I lose—my—mind—”
“Buh-KAW!”
“You right, Mr. Cluckles, you right—fed is best and all that. But even so, I can—and want to—do so much more.”
Mitchell, to whom Stefan had been directing his words and who was only half-listening, continued to write something on his sandwich board as he said, “I, for one, wouldn’t mind if some of these hypothetical guests brought some food from the outside with them. Even on those rare occasions our human uses you, Stefan, I have to say the plates that are created are quite...prosaic. No fault of yours, of course.”
“You mean like a potluck?” interrupted Wyndolyn, drawn like a moth to a flame to any talk about entertaining guests. “Ooh, that could be fun! Someone could bring chips and dip, someone else could bring fried chicken….”
“You wanna talk about prosaic?” barked Stefan, whirling around with his frying pan mid-flip and catching the vegetables in a wide arc. “Chips and dip? Fried chicken? No! If this is the first gathering had by our human in this house, I’m not settling for anything less than porchetta!” He gave the vegetables one final toss and caught them on a plate. Mitchell and Wyndolyn clapped enthusiastically, like patrons at a hibachi grill.
“Are you sure we can risk the casualties?” came a hoarse whisper, startling them and drawing their attention to the corner where Luke was crouched, his rotating-dish-shield held up as if to give him cover from… something. “So many innocents have already been lost to the swarmers… and you would invite more into this war zone!? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND!?”
Stefan tossed a morsel of hot, buttery broccoli at Luke, who instinctively caught it in his mouth like a dog and swallowed it whole. “Here,” he said, “eat this and shut up. Normal people are trying to talk here.”
Luke growled, but accepted another toss of broccoli without complaint.
“I think you guys are forgetting one major problem with your little party plan,” interjected Curt, appearing at Wyndolyn’s shoulder and leaning on it, shaking his head.
“And what would that be?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s just a tiny issue,” said Rod, coming to Wyndolyn’s other side. “Just the fact that our human only has one friend.”
“So unless you’re planning to make a whole poor-cheddar for two people,” continued Curt.
“You may want to curb your enthusiasm,” finished Rod with a grin, “before you end up wasting your cheddar on ingredients.”
“It’s porr-chett-a!” cried Cabrizzio indignantly. “You must roll your r’s!”
“A’ight, a’ight, slow your roll!”
“Your pork roll, that is!”
“You guys aren’t funny,” remarked Wyndolyn blandly as Curt and Rod heaved with laughter, obviously disagreeing with her.
You came down the stairs just then, yawning widely, your hair and pajamas a tousled mess. As you entered the kitchen, the objects regarded you with a comfortable warmth, a tacit acknowledgment of your presence as well as your place as the homeowner. Of course they knew you were blind and deaf to them, so they did not greet you, but their eyes still followed you for a moment as you opened Freddy’s chest to look for some breakfast before returning to their conversation—except Stefan, who watched you pull yet another frozen pastry from the ice box in quiet despair.
“Even if it is just a two-person party,” said Chairemi, joining the conversation and resting her elbow on Abel, her chin in her hand, “it would be nice if someone, anyone came by to hang out. It’s never lonely around here for us, but our human hasn’t had any contact with anyone else in so long... That can’t be healthy.”
“I mean, yeah,” said Stefan, cracking an egg into his cast iron. “Remember Vaughn?”
“Who?”
“Exactly.”
You stared at your phone as you waited for your breakfast to finish spinning in Luke’s chest cavity. Sam sent you another Thiscord message, but this time when you opened it, you frowned slightly, looking pensive. The objects took notice of this, like weather vanes tuned in to your mood.
“Looks like Sam’s offering that spot at Valdivian again,” announced Phoenicia in explanation. “That’s the third time this month!”
“Uuugh, just take it already!” Chairemi groaned at you. “We all know you want to!”
Indeed, Lady Memoria had relayed to a majority of them how you had gone to the attic to look for a replacement light bulb for Lux, only to spot your customer service degree gathering dust in a cardboard box, and then burst into tears.
“There was snot, too,” Beau had corroborated at the time, shaking her head. “Must’ve been real torn up about it. If it were me with all that free time, though, I wouldn’t be all that upset over not having a job.”
“You already have a ton of free time though, Beau,” remarked Lady Memoria. “And no job.” This comment went ignored.
Back in the present, Chairemi was sighing as she sat across the table from you, watching you eat your breakfast pastry halfheartedly and saying, “Even if it was just Sam… Ooh, and maybe she’d have an object with her—a purse maybe, or sunglasses, or—“
“OR MAYBE SOME CHAPSTICK?” shrieked Harper, who had been listening from the laundry room, followed by Dirk’s bellow of, “Oh, great, HERE WE GO AGAIN—“
Dorian shut himself, closing off the laundry room and muffling the couple’s screaming somewhat. Chairemi continued, as if there had been no interruption, “—even if there was just one more, that would be one more I could invite to try improv, or even just one more audience member!”
Sighs resounded around the kitchen. The possibility of you having even one person over, never mind a whole party, felt more unlikely with each passing moment. You chewed your pastry groggily, gazing into nothingness, until your phone lit up again. Tapping Phoenicia with your pinky to avoid smearing her with grease, you navigated back to your conversation with Sam on Thiscord. Your eyes widened.
“Oooooh, someone buy me a lottery ticket!” squealed Phoenicia. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’re never gonna believe this, but your wish is about to come true! Sam is coming over to play!”
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
Being a homebody and unemployed, you had only three activities to keep you occupied: hobbies, exercise, and cleaning—but considering Kristof and Duncan could draw high-res portraits in the dust on each other’s backs, and Chance was more of a fidget toy than an actual game piece these days, you really were only spending your days reading, watching TV, and playing video games, with maybe ten minutes set aside for staring at your sports equipment and saying, “I’ll start tomorrow.” Thus, when Sam insisted she come see you that very night—to perform a “wellness check,” she had said, jokingly, though she promised to bring snacks as well—you found yourself cleaning in earnest, running Hoove all over, dusting Shelley—noting how she wobbled and making a mental note to fix that later—then having to pull Hoove out again to suck up the dust you had just dislodged.
The house wasn’t really dirty, per se—as someone on a fixed income, you were loathe to imagine any of your possessions becoming damaged due to poor maintenance, needing to be fixed by a hired (and likely expensive) technician, or else replaced entirely, so you were careful not to make messes—but it was dusty, and more than a little disorganized. Dolly watched you from behind Koa as you raced back and forth, returning books to their shelves in the office, then running upstairs with Clarence draped languidly in your arms, his arms hooked behind your neck. He leaned his head back and, noticing Dolly, grinned at her and said, “Ooh, look at me, still warm from Drysdale and everything!” before disappearing from her view around the corner. Hoove came and collapsed on the floor next to where she stood, breathing heavily.
“How’re you holdin’ up, sugar?” asked Dolly.
“I’m… just fine,” wheezed Hoove, clutching his ribs. “Most I’ve been run in months! It’s not bad exercise, but still, you’d think it was common sense to vacuum after you dust—oh, and, uh, sorry if we’ve disturbed any of your work, Professor.”
Dolly squeezed Lint Eastwood to her hip, her expression sadly resigned as she replied, “Aw, it’s not your fault, hun. Don’t worry about it. Besides,” she added, cheering a little, “at least my Mecca is still safe: The archaeology site for the ancient Dustonians hasn’t been disturbed!”
“Glad to hear.”
You raced back downstairs, tripping on Stella’s last step and skidding into Front Dorian, slamming into him full-force and bumping your nose on his wooden chest: “Ouch!”
Dorian barely quivered, as steadfast as ever, but gave you a concerned look and asked, more out of habit than expectation of a reply, “You all right, love?”
You rubbed your nose tenderly, a small tear pooling in the corner of your eye, before looking at where you had collided with Dorian and gasping softly, “Oh no! I’m sorry!”
It wasn’t that unusual for humans to apologize to their objects: The need to personify most anything non-human was, at the very least, quite endearing from the objects’ perspective, but it was also the subject of much philosophical musing; Dolly herself had written papers on it during her tenure at D.I.R.T. Did humans personify objects because of a subconscious connection to the wavelengths of the objects, or for a different reason? Which came first, human or object consciousness?—and if neither was the cause of the other, then from whence did their respective wavelengths stem from? Whole object religions were devoted to the philosophy; maybe Friar Errol’s religion even had an opinion on it, though no one cared to ask.
Therefore it was not too surprising to Dorian to hear you apologize to him, despite not knowing he was there; the perceived transgression that you felt deserving of apology, however, did surprise him, because until you put your fingers to the small scratch in his stomach, he didn’t even notice it was there.
“My belt must have scraped you,” you muttered, tracing your finger along the scratch—only about a ¼” long. “I’m sorry. I’ll see if I can’t get some wood filler for it later.”
Dolly sighed, about to remark on what a softie you were, but stopped when she saw the look on Dorian’s face. The ever-stoic and unflappable Dorian was… blushing? Hoove had noticed it too, his mouth slightly agape.
Dorian noticed them staring, and his blush deepened. He cleared his throat roughly, then said, louder than necessary, “All right, there’s nothin’ to see here, you two. Move along.”
“Oh?” asked Hoove, grinning widely. “Embarrassed you were seen getting fing—?”
“The laundry!” you gasped suddenly. You ran back down the hall to the laundry room, where you had left Washford waiting with his chest half-open.
It wasn’t just Dorian; many of the objects were getting far more attention than they were accustomed to in light of Sam’s impending visit: You took Hoove’s attachment to Keyes’ pedals, to the chagrin of the former and delight of the latter; organized all of Penelope’s supplies, tidying her to such an extreme that her curly hair somehow got slicked into a neat bun; checked on Vaughn for the first time since you bought him, making him scream as if his eyes were burning as light poured down into the crawlspace; and even took a microfiber cloth to Hector’s grate in every room. The noises coming from the HVAC as you rubbed your fingers between the bars were not fit for general audiences.
“Well now, Gorgeous,” chuckled Johnny, sweating and pulling at his collar as you stubbornly scrubbed his grout with an old toothbrush, “were you plannin’ on showerin’ with the little lady or somethin’? ‘Course, I wouldn’t mind a bigger audience….”
“Jean Loo sinks zey must be planning to eat in here, too,” said Jean Loo, every inch of him blindingly white and sparkling, and smelling strongly of bleach. “If zis iz ze case, you are welcome to take ze stage; Jean Loo doubts zis ‘Sam’ can handle his crapping (read: cool rapping). She may find your particular, eh, muzical stylings more palatable.”
Johnny was immediately suspicious of this generosity. “What’re you tryin’ to say, slick?”
“Zat your muzic iz for little babies.”
“Now you listen—doho!” Johnny crumpled as you shoved your gloved hand down the shower drain, removing a glob of hair and tossing it to Cam. Jean Loo and Amir both felt the need to avert their eyes.
Cam was having the best day of his life. You dragged him around the house from place to place, where you gave him coffee grounds you had cleared from Kopi’s joints, months-old streusel shaken out of Miranda’s hair, enough dust to create his own model Ancient Dustonian Civilization, and much more. His liner had to be replaced several times. He laid back, allowing you to drag him, sighing with satisfaction and saying, “Ah, yeah. This is livin’.”
You had been very, very busy—you had even taken the time to carefully remove the spider living in the back corner of Cabrizzio’s top shelf, oblivious to his high-pitched urging for you to hurry while covering his head. But as the promised time of Sam's arrival drew nearer and almost every object in the house had been cleaned, organized, moved, or otherwise touched in some way, it was, of all people, Jacques who asked the question everyone was thinking: "Why the hell's the human puttin' in so much effort for this lass? Is this supposed to be some romantic rendezvous or somethin'?"
The HVAC groaned to life jarringly, blasting chilly air.
"A date? Must be fate!" shouted Telly as they scanned all 5,000 of their channels with their 15,000 shows, searching for the perfect movie for you and Sam to watch. "There could be no other our human could tolerate!"
"C'mon, that's not true," said Rod with a sympathetic look that couldn't hide the mischievous quirk to his smile. "After all, Dorian was 'tolerated' pretty well this morning, wasn't he? Even got promised a little fillin’ later, huh?"
Dorian frowned, a slight pink tinge appearing in his cheeks, but he refused to take the bait.
"Damn," said Curt, eyeing his friend slyly, "even on accident, the front door gets banged more than you do."
"Ooooh!" hissed Rod, shaking his wrist as if he'd just been singed, though he was still smiling. "Damn, that was shady!"
"I'd offer to shed some light," Dante joined in with a grin, "but you might just get burned again." This earned him a whooping laugh from Curt and Rod.
"If it is a date, you must be excited, Dante," said Mateo, his head barely visible in the middle of a massive cuddle puddle of inanimals. "You finally get to set a romantic mood!"
"Hell yeah I am!" replied Dante, pumping his fists enthusiastically. "Romance is what I was built for!"
"We're all gettin' a lil' carried away, I think," chimed in Abel, his round cheeks rosy as he rubbed his neck in shy contemplation. "We don't really know if this is a date or not. A fire might be nice, though, what with all the cold from the rain.…" This earned an appreciative blast of temperate air from Hector.
"You're right," agreed Dante, "but just because it's not a date doesn't mean it can't be intimate. That kind of comfortable affection is important between platonic friends, too!"
"Oh, pish-posh!" cried Scandalabra, butting into the conversation. His interruption was met by groans and scowls, but he ignored them. He placed his hands on his hips and continued, "An intimate atmosphere will surely lead to a kiss, from whence there can be no return to platonic friendship! I, for one, shall certainly help set the mood with my romantic candlelight!" He cackled deviously, his hand pressed to his cheek, and exclaimed with a trill, "Oh, the divine drrrrama! The scandal!"
"As if you could hold a candle to me!" crackled Dante, sparks rising as he grinned competitively. "I'm just getting warmed up!"
"It's a competition now?" asked Abel with a hopeless sigh.
"Ummmm, good luck setting the mood under fucking fluorescent lighting," said Lux, pouting as they touched up their lipgloss with their pinky, their other hand holding up a compact mirror. "Unleeeessss you want to admit who the real star of the light show is in this house."
Dante fumed, unable to decide which light fixture was more infuriating to deal with.
"Hey, hey, let's not let things get too dark," interceded Rod, putting his hands up and stepping between Dante and Lux. "There's not gonna be any atmosphere if the date gets postponed because a fuse got blown or the rug caught fire, a'ight? Let's keep this competition friendly."
"Again, why is this a competition?" came the voice of reason from Abel.
"Ain't nothin' wrong with a lil' friendly one-up-man-ship," grinned Rod, that mischievous quirk returning. "How about this: everyone contributes to a romantic atmosphere, and whoever can make 'em kiss, wins. Sound good?"
"Sounds stupid," said Curt. "How are we supposed to know which thing caused the kiss?"
"We'd have a judge," explained Rod. "Someone who wouldn't be able to participate anyway... like Wyndolyn. Right, Wyndolyn?"
Wyndolyn shrugged. "Sure, fine, whatever."
"I personally think windows are very romantic," said Curt, needlessly defensive, "but fine. And what do we get for winning?"
"Hmm... how about a shout-out from Phoenicia?"
"Hell no!" exclaimed Phoenicia with a laugh. "God forbid one of you kids wins! My views would tank for sure!"
"Okay, ouch. Well then, what about personal meals from Stefan for a week?"
"Don't drag me into this!" came Stefan's bark from the kitchen. "I'm busy enough as it is!"
"Okay, okay." Rod tapped his finger to his chin, thinking hard; then he snapped his fingers and said, "Got it. Whoever wins is King for a Day: anything they want—within reason—requested from anyone, and their wish shall be granted. How does that sound?"
“How exactly do you plan on participating?” asked Dante skeptically. “You’re a rod.”
“Ah-ah-ah,” tutted Rod, waggling his finger at Dante. “Not just Rod. We’re called Curt and Rod for a reason. Naturally, we’re a team.”
“But that means two Kings for a Day! That’s not fair!”
Arguments began to break out here and there amidst the group, only quelled when Wyndolyn shouted over everyone, “All right, all right, listen up! You all do your best to get the mood right, and the two objects that I think contributed the most to the evening get to be the Kings! Bonus points if they kiss. Got it?”
There were murmurs of assent from the group, and suddenly the competitive spirit came alive, much to Abel and Hector’s quiet dismay. Word quickly spread throughout the house, reaching those upstairs and in every corner of every room. And when you came downstairs that afternoon after washing off the day's hard work, you found the candelabra lit, the fireplace roaring, the lights dimmed, the curtains drawn, and soft, classical music playing from the TV. You scratched your head, wondering how you could have set up the living room this way and forgotten already, but you had no time to ponder: It was almost time for Sam to arrive.
✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
Sam was fashionably late, standing on your doorstep holding two tote-bags of snacks. She squealed when she saw you, bouncing up and down as she crossed the threshold. She set down her bags and threw her arms around you in a tight hug.
"It's so good to see you!" she cried, twisting you energetically as you embraced in the entryway. "It's been too long!"
"It has," you gasped, unable to breathe, but thankfully she let go a moment later, taking up her bags again.
"I haven't seen this place since move-in day," she said, gazing around as she shuffled her shoes off her feet. "Looks great! Haven't had a chance to hang up your art yet?"
"I'll get around to it eventually."
"Let me know when you do! I wanna see that photo you took at the beach hanging up on your wall—I bet it'd look great next to the front door!"
"You think so?"
"Yeah!"
The two of you moved to the living room, where you had set up bowls for the various snacks. Sam pulled bags of chips and candy out of her totes, not knowing she was being scrutinized by Daisuke, who was watching her with his hands folded into the sleeves of his hakama. To him, Sam seemed to have a judicious prudence in her choice of what dish for which snack, and earned herself nods of approval; Mitchell, however, wrinkled his nose at the selection, deeming them extremely imbalanced, nutrition-wise, and indicative of an unrefined palate. He turned to Stefan and asked, almost pleadingly, “Do you think you’ll be making dinner for them?”
“I doubt it.” Stefan was taking a break for once, Mr. Cluckles resting in his hands. He looked at Mitchell with an inscrutable expression and said, “Personally, I think this whole competition thing is stupid. Trying to force two people together.... Friendship is not ‘less-than’ romance, and it can be just as fulfilling as any other kind of relationship, as long as the people involved put in the effort.”
“That’s so wise,” said Mitchell in awe, clearly touched. “I had no idea you—“
“...which is why I told Eddie and Volt I’d give them free meals for a week if they sabotaged it.”
“What?”
Stefan let out a booming, evil laugh, echoed by Mr. Cluckles. Mitchell pinched the bridge of his nose and returned to watching the scene in the living room. He couldn’t deny he was curious as to how it all would play out.
“So, what’re we watching?” asked Sam as she settled herself on the couch.
Before you could reply, Telly instantly switched to a romcom that was just starting. The two of you looked at them in confusion.
“Uh, sorry, some of my stuff’s been acting weird,” you explained. “The air conditioner also has a mind of its own today.”
Cold air blasted from the vent, making Sam shiver. She looked around and spotted Mateo nearby. She grabbed him, threw him around her shoulders, and held out an arm for you to come join her beneath him.
“We can just watch this. C’mon, hurry! I’m freezing!”
Wyndolyn shot Hector a surprised but encouraging thumbs up. Hector buried his face in his hands, furious at himself for his miscalculation.
You and Sam huddled beneath Mateo, eyes focused on Telly as you shoveled snacks into your mouths. The movie was incredibly bland, the plot forgettable—something about a rich, white, female CEO falling in love with a rich, white, male handyman in her hometown—but it was still highly enjoyable to make fun of it with your best friend. The two of you giggled into the darkening evening, until only the lights of Telly, Dante, and Scandelabra surrounded you. Lux had gotten bored and turned off early, abandoning the competition.
When the movie ended, you picked another M&M out of the bowl of trail mix and asked, “So, what next? Did you want to find another movie?”
“How about a tour?” suggested Sam. “I helped bring all the furniture in, but never saw how you ended up arranging it.”
“Sure,” you replied, feeling exceedingly grateful that you had spent all that time cleaning earlier. The two of you stepped into the anteroom where Keyes resided, still huddled together under Mateo, and you began to needlessly explain the objects there, but stopped abruptly when you noticed Gaia spinning around on her own.
“What are you doing?” hissed Keyes. “You are distracting them from my beauty!”
“Ah don’t know!” squeaked Gaia, still spinning. “Ah joost wanted ta do somethin’!”
You slowly paced over to Gaia and touched the top of her head with the pad of your finger, making her squeak again and ceasing her movement. You looked over at Sam, unsure of what to say, but Sam simply smiled and raised her eyebrows, saying, “You have a ghost? Cool!”
“Not that I’ve noticed,” you replied seriously. “It probably just started spinning because of the HVAC. Anyway, I got this globe from—“
The sudden sound of a record player bursting into song at full volume made you both jump; Rainey had begun to dance and swing around the dining room to her frenetic music. Every object in the vicinity covered their ears.
“Rainey!” shouted Bev as she ducked behind her bar, as if to protect herself from the bizarre tunes. “RAINEY! IT’S TOO LOUD!”
“Whaaaat?” called Rainey as she did the jitterbug, and she continued the jitterbug even as the music switched to a deafening rendition of Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture.”
You ran to Rainey and quickly, but carefully, lifted her needle off the record. Your heart was pounding in your throat as silence resumed once again.
“Dude,” said Sam, sounding equally impressed and astonished, “your house is definitely haunted.”
“Oh, stop,” you sighed irritably. “A spinning globe and malfunctioning record player don’t mean anything—“
The power went out, pitching the house into total darkness. Sam shrieked and latched onto you, peering around, and you shivered next to her, trying to focus. You pulled Phoenicia out of your pocket and aimed her flashlight, collecting yourself with deep breaths. In the kitchen, Stefan was grinning at you maniacally.
“Just a power surge,” you said confidently. “We just have to flip the breaker. Come on, it’s just upstairs—“
Sam gripped your arm, refusing to move.
“Sam?”
She pointed wordlessly to the floor near Gaia. You looked, at first not seeing anything unusual, but then you noticed how the globe cast a shadow on the floor—a shadow that should not still be there with your flashlight shining directly at it. You swallowed, still shivering, and asked Sam shakily, “Breaker box?”
She nodded, and the two of you shuffled off backward, staring at the shadow, still huddled together under Mateo, who was doing his best to keep you both warm and secure. Once you reached the foyer, you decided the shadow must have been a trick of the light and that it wasn’t worth thinking about at the moment. The dismissal made you feel slightly better.
Stella’s old joints creaked under your feet as you ascended, and when you finally reached the breaker box, Sam was trembling against you as if she had just climbed a snow-covered mountain. Wyndolyn was marking points down for Eddie and Volt, though she wasn’t sure if they were participating or not.
You opened the panel and shone Phoenicia’s flashlight against the switches. She smiled and waved at Eddie, who was sitting at the bar, nursing a drink, and he gave an unsmiling nod and single-motion wave in response. Volt greeted her more warmly, but didn’t invite her in just yet; he had his eyes trained on you, waiting to see what you were going to do.
The shadows were making it difficult to see which switches were flipped, so you decided to feel along the columns with your fingers. Eddie’s posture stiffened noticeably, his eyes widening as he stared into his drink. Volt put a hand to his mouth, his cheeks starting to flush as a strange smile crossed his face. Phoenicia decided now was a good time to check Placebook and looked away.
You found the breaker and flipped it, and you could hear the electronic beeps of your appliances from all around as the power returned. Soft light returned to the lamps in the bedroom and home gym, and you turned to Sam with a reassuring smile and said, “See? Nothing to be scared of.”
Sam wasn’t looking at you. She was looking past you, in the direction of the attic door, and she was as white as a sheet. You turned to follow her gaze.
There was someone in the attic, floating about a foot off the ground. She was staring at you with wide, watery, piercing blue eyes. You caught a blur of pink and denim blue before the attic door suddenly slammed shut, and Sam screamed as she stumbled backward in horror.
In the ensuing panic, Mateo fell harmlessly to the ground, where he sat in confusion—he had seen neither the shadow nor the ghost, and could only ineffectually urge the two of you to stay calm, looking to Dorian for help. Dorian had shut himself to try to protect you from the fright of seeing Zoey, but had obviously done so too late; he locked himself, deciding it was the only thing left he could do to help. Celia and Florence, who had been roused from their rest by the commotion, came down to the landing then, but when Celia looked at Dorian questioningly, he could only grimace at her.
You pulled Sam to her feet as she babbled and pointed toward the attic door with a shaking finger, then led her to the bedroom where you urged her to sit down and collect herself. Ben-Hwa, who had been waiting for you two to come upstairs so they could score some points with Wyndolyn, tactfully returned to Abel’s drawer at Betty’s side.
When Sam had finally had enough time to breathe and calm herself down, she looked you dead in the eye and said, “You need to move.”
“No,” you replied simply.
Sam scowled at you. You grabbed Mateo and wrapped him around Sam comfortingly, taking a few steadying breaths yourself. Mateo placed his head against Sam’s, trying to will her into feeling his embrace.
“After what you just saw, you won’t move?”
“No, I will not.”
“Why?”
“Well, firstly, I have no money,” you answered with a small laugh.
“You can sell your stuff.”
“I don’t want to. I like my stuff.” You looked around the room, smiling somberly. Behind the veil of reality, upheld by disbelief’s suspension, your gaze was met by each thing you owned, and they watched you with pity and regret. You seemed so small to them then, so alone. You were surrounded by love, but unable to feel it. But still you smiled.
“I love my house,” you stated simply. “I’m happy here. I’m comfortable. And even if there is a ghost, who knows? Maybe they love this house just as much as I do. We could have that in common.”
Sam sighed in resignation and replied, “Can’t relate, but if you’re fine with it, then I guess I got nothing to say.”
“Thanks, Sam.”
The two of you shared a quiet moment, and for an instant, it seemed like there was still hope for the competition after all; but then the two of you headed back downstairs, and all the tension was gone. Another movie was put on Telly’s screen and you watched from under Mateo, and when you went to the kitchen later to wash your bowls, you decidedly avoided looking into the corner with the weird shadow. That was a mystery for another day.
As the evening came to an end and you were saying your goodbyes at Front Dorian, Dante folded his arms and sighed heavily, shaking his head. “This competition was a stupid idea.”
“Yeah,” admitted Rod, “I don’t know who thought it was a good idea in the first place.”
“It was you, genius,” pointed out Curt.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“I hope you all learned a valuable lesson about messin’ with other people’s relationships,” snapped Stefan as he sharpened a paring knife.
“Buh-kaw!”
“Exactly! Now the poor kid thinks the house is haunted. Was it worth it? Hmm?”
“I still think things would’ve been fine if Eddie hadn’t cut the power,” huffed Rod. “Talk about bad timing!”
“The ‘when’ wasn’t specified,” grumbled Eddie. “I did what I was supposed to, so the deal’s still on.”
Before Rod could ask what that meant, they were interrupted by Scandalabra wailing that if the humans weren’t going to kiss, the least someone could do was kiss him. Again, he was ignored.
“Don’t be a stranger, okay?” Sam was saying to you as she hovered on the doorstep. “Anything you need, you just let me know. ...except ghost-busting. You’re on your own with that.”
“Okay, okay,” you laughed, stifling a yawn.
“I had fun tonight. I’m glad you’re still doing well, despite…. Well, despite the fact that you live alone in a big ol’ haunted house and you haven’t left in like a year.”
“A few months,” you corrected coolly. “But thanks. Glad to see you’re still doing well despite working at Valdivian.”
“It’s really not that bad. You get used to the cult stuff after a while.” She adopted a coy expression as she said, “I still think you’d be really good at it.”
“I’ll think about it,” you said, for the hundredth time. Sam just grinned at you. “I’ll see you around,” she said.
“Yeah, see you.” You were about to close the door, but Sam stopped it with her foot.
“Forget something—?” you started, but stopped when Sam swooped in and planted a light kiss on your cheek. You blinked at her in surprise, but she just winked cheekily and said, “That’s for saving me from the ghost. Don’t overthink it. See you, bestie!” She skipped down the walk to where her car was parked, leaving you dumbstruck in the doorway.
Inside, Wyndolyn was being bombarded on all sides.
“THAT STILL COUNTS! THAT STILL COUNTS, RIGHT?”
“THE COMPETITION IS STILL ON, BAYBEEEEEEEE!”
“WHO WON? WHO WON, WYNDOLYN?”
In the end, after much commotion and arguing, Wyndolyn declared Hector and Mateo to be the winners due to their unparalleled teamwork—mostly because she figured they would be the two least-problematic kings. And she was right: Mateo simply asked for extra hands to help walk his inanimals, and Hector asked for nothing, simply content with the fact that you indeed seemed to not be overthinking the kiss, and were continuing on as if nothing had happened. Life for everyone in the house went on as it had been, unchanged but for the fact that all were now aware of the ghost in the attic, and that there was a blank application for a remote position at Valdivian left under the magazines on the coffee table.