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You And Your Friends - Part 1

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─────────────────────────────── i love you - fontaines d.c.

── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.

CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI

✦ . Summary: When your name appears in your late great-uncle’s will, you sell your house and move out to the Estate. A victorian manor, an endless garden, and too many candles to keep up with now belong to you—and so do the groundskeepers that come with it. But behind all the intricate furniture and shiny tile, you find that all things have secrets—even the handsome ones.

✦ . Characters: Tim Wright/Masky & Brian Thomas/Hoodie & Ticci Toby x Female Reader

✦ . Warning: Lore/canon-adjacent, gardener!Tim, woodworker!Toby, maintenance!Brian, fear, stalking, romantic tension, love square (lol), eventual smut, weapons, blood, alcohol, drunk make outs, risky make outs, talks of grief and mourning

✦ . Words: 17.6k

✦ . Note: Finally! I had to cut this fic into two parts because the setup and story became way longer than intended, but trust, the smut in the next part will make up for all the reading. Very not canon, but also not an AU?? You’ll see, you’ll see. Anyway, thank you again Angie for the beautiful art, and I can’t wait to see what ya’ll think!

Art by @z0l0fft.

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Grief is a weird feeling to have about someone you barely even knew.

The forest had grown thicker the farther you drove. Roads narrowed. Trees leaned inward like sentinels, their black limbs threading above your car like rib bones. The GPS had lost signal over twenty minutes ago, replaced by static and silence—but it was clear where you needed to go. The road dwindled until it barely fit your car alone, then the asphalt turned to packed gravel and weed-ridden dips. Until eventually, it all cleared out.

When the gates came into view, you didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath.

Tall wrought iron—laced with crawling ivy and something white growing through the slats, maybe fungi—stood wide open as if expecting you. Past them, the long gravel drive curled like a spine through mist that sat heavy on the ground, never quite clearing. It clung to the trees, to the stones, to the windows of your car like breath on glass. A crow watched from a crooked wooden post as you passed, unmoving, eyes beady and coal-black.

And then the manor revealed itself—huge, victorian, timeless.

It loomed at the top of the hill, its grey stones slick with dew and age. Ivy bloomed like veins across the façade. Balconies with wrought-iron railings curved out like ribs. Candles—real, flickering candles—lit the windowpanes, casting warm amber light through the dusk. Even from the drive, you could see the tall banisters inside the grand entry. The flames along them shivered into being as you approached, one by one. Unlit—then lit. Unlit—then lit.

The house was alive—sort of. Motion sensors are the face of the future nowadays.

You still weren’t sure why he’d left it to you.

Your great-uncle on your mother’s side—a man you hadn’t seen since you were seven—had died quietly in his sleep three months ago. No funeral. No obituary. Just a letter from an estate lawyer in an envelope that looked like it had been typed on a typewriter and licked shut.

“The Estate now belongs to you, as dictated in the will. The property is in your name. Immediate possession granted upon arrival. All expenses pertaining to the upkeep, facilities, and maintenance of the Estate shall be covered by the remaining balance of the previous owner’s account, per his final wishes.”

That was it. No explanation. No fine print. Just a manor no one in the family had spoken about in decades, and a name barely remembered from a childhood photo album.

But something in you hadn’t questioned it. Not really. Not when you saw the photos. Not when you sold your old place in less than a month. Not when you packed your life into a car and followed the map into fog.

Who gets a chance like this, right?

You parked beneath the massive archway, engine sputtering as you shut it off. You stepped out, the cool air hitting your face like a whip, the smell of gravel and moisture heavy in the dense air. For a moment, there was only silence—so full and thick it almost rang. Then the soft crunch of gravel behind your car.

You turned quickly.

A tall man in a thick ochre jacket stood just beyond the back of the vehicle, his arms crossed, the black of his gloves matching the dark mess of his hair. He looked rough around the edges—broad-shouldered, with tired eyes and a permanent scowl carved into his scruffy face. He has dark facial hair and a scowl that could kill.

“‘Bout time,” he muttered, not unkindly—more matter-of-fact. “You drive like an old woman.”

“…Excuse me?”

He jerked his head toward the house, already walking past you. “Tim. I’m the groundskeeper. You’ll meet the others eventually. I told ‘em you’d be late. You are.”

Charming.

You rolled your eyes, but there was something oddly comforting about how blunt he was. No sugar-coating. No fake sympathy about the death of your great-uncle—whom you hadn’t seen since you were seven and barely remembered. Just blunt honesty and a noticeable scent of soil, herbs, and faint cigarette smoke trailing behind him.

You popped the trunk and started pulling your suitcases out, straining with the last one when another figure appeared from the fog near the left side of the manor.

This one was leaner, a little taller, wearing a layered brown hoodie with a tool belt slung diagonally across his torso. Shorter light brown hair, less facial hair, and a better demeanor. His face was tense too, but not nearly as much as Tim’s—just the face of a man who worked all day. There was something… still about him. Gentle, but unreadable. He came forward quietly, gave you a nod, and took your last suitcase without a word.

“Uh—thanks,” you said, a little startled.

He looked at you for a beat longer than most people would. Not creepy. Just… deliberate. Like he was learning your shape. “Brian,” he finally said, voice low and smooth. “I handle the house, miss.”

And then, just as quiet as he’d arrived, he turned and headed up the wide stone stairs, suitcase in hand like it weighed nothing. His boots made no sound. Tim took a larger duffle bag in your hand, and made his way inside too.

Okay then.

You followed after them, feet echoing slightly on the stone. The doors were already open—enormous double slabs of oak carved with swirls and vines, polished but ancient. The inside of the manor was even more beautiful than you’d imagined.

It was like stepping into another century.

Marble floors half-covered in velvet rugs. Staircases that twisted up to balconies you couldn’t yet see. A chandelier that glittered like it was dripping crystals. Paintings of people you didn’t recognize lined the walls—eyes too lifelike, almost following you. And everywhere: those damn candles. Lit. Flickering, soft, and low like breath on skin.

“N-Nice, huh?”

A new voice behind you—lighter, raspier, but playful.

You turned to see a man standing in the wide hallway with a hatchet strapped to his belt and sleeves rolled to his elbows. He had on a flannel jacket over a hoodie, one side of his mouth pulled into a sharp grin. His eyes were bright and wild behind shaggy brown hair and orange safety goggles, and his head tilted just slightly when he looked you over. A large medical patch was taped over his left cheek, obviously covering some injury underneath. Height wise, he was in-between the two others, but was more muscular if the veins in his forearms had anything to say about it.

“You’re smaller than I th-thought you’d be,” he added, then stuck out his hand, bandages and tape covering most of his digits. “Toby, ma’am. I’m the one that makes shh-sure the place doesn’t get eaten by the fo-forest.”

He seemed to have a stutter, accompanied by the occasional jerk of his neck or pulse of his arm, but you ignored it. You took his hand, firm grip. “Nice to meet you.”

He snorted. “You say that now.”

“…What?”

“J-Joking.” He winked. “Mostly.”

Tim passed behind him with your second bag, muttering, “Don’t scare the damn girl yet, boy.”

“I’m not scared,” you said flatly, shifting your bag on your shoulder.

Brian, who had disappeared around the corner, reappeared beside the bannister. “We’ve got your room ready. East wing. End of the hall. It’s the only one with a red door. You’ll find it.”

That last part sent a chill down your spine. “…Find it?”

His head tilted. “You’ll see.”

And then, without another word, he turned and vanished up the stairs. You stood in the grand hall for a moment—your bags by your feet, your heart a low thrum behind your ribs—as the fog outside thickened against the windows like steam.

The manor wasn’t crumbling. It wasn’t rotting. It wasn't disgusting and falling apart like you predicted it would be. It was thrumming with life, with energy. Evidently, these men had taken care of it in your great-uncle’s wake.

It made the unease in your stomach dwindle—if only a little.

By the time Tim sauntered back down the steps, slightly out of breath, you decided it was time to settle in.

The grand staircase curved like a serpent’s spine, the banister warm beneath your palm as you ascended. Brian had said east wing, end of the hall, red door—but you hadn’t expected the house to feel like a cathedral inside a labyrinth. Every turn led into a new corridor. Every wall held art that didn’t look hung, but placed with purpose.

Your footsteps echoed as you walked. The silence swallowed them just as fast.

Candles flared to life as you passed—always just ahead, as if the house anticipated you. The flame never flickered when you got close. It simply burned steady, golden and watching.

You passed tall windows with thick velvet curtains, some drawn closed despite the dusk. The ones left open showed nothing beyond the glass but fog. No trees. No horizon. Just the endless, soft swirl of grey.

The walls were paneled in dark wood, inlaid with carvings of ivy and thorns, suns and moons, spirals and strange, knotted symbols you didn’t recognize. Beneath your boots, the floor shifted from rug to tile to smooth, gleaming wood again.

Then there were the paintings.

One hall was lined with portraits of people in archaic clothing—Victorian corsets, fur-lined coats, high collars and hollow eyes. The longer you looked at them, the more it felt like they weren’t portraits at all. Like they’d been preserved.

A woman in crimson lace. A boy holding a raven. A man with a scar beneath one blind eye. None of them smiled. All of them stone and stern. They looked like pieces you’d find in a haunted house.

You swallowed hard and kept walking, turning what felt like your third corner when you saw it: a tall, narrow door painted a dark oxblood red. The only color in the whole corridor wasn’t mahogany or black.

Brian had said the door would be red. You gripped the handle. It was iron—cool, almost damp. You pushed.

The room beyond was enormous.

Your shoes sank into an old but pristine rug patterned with intricate swirls and designs. The walls were a smoky, soft green, the ceilings high with beams that stretched like arms above your head. A chandelier hung here, too—smaller than the one in the entry, but full of dusty crystals that caught the candlelight and scattered it across the room in warm, golden webs.

There was a canopy bed, dark wood and velvet drapes, tall as you and made up with sheets that looked untouched. A writing desk sat in front of a window, and beside it, a small table cluttered with books. The spines were cracked and hand-bound. Some of them had no titles at all.

And everything—everything—looked too valuable to belong to someone like you.

You set your bag on the bed and stared for a second.

This was yours now.

All of it. The velvet. The crystals. The creaking floorboards and carved lintels and echoing halls.

It felt impossible.

And yet… right.

You opened your suitcase, started unpacking—folding clothes into drawers that looked untouched for decades, placing a few familiar things on the desk: a small photo frame, a worn notebook, the brass key your great-uncle’s lawyer had mailed you with the deed. The only thing in the envelope aside from that eerie letter.

For a moment, as you placed the key down, the candle beside it flared—not wildly, but like it had sighed. There really wasn’t any electrical lighting in the building from what you could see, so even now, the candles swirled and shifted the shadows around the thing.

You stared at it.

Your manor. Your estate. Your workmen taking care of it.

You smiled.

── .✦

You nearly got lost on your way back down—nearly—but you found your way.

The door at the back of the manor opened with a groan—deep and deliberate, like it hadn’t been used in years, yet still expected to swing open for you. A chill crept in through the frame, damp and heavy with mist, and you stepped out into the fog like crossing into a dream.

The air smelled like moss and wet stone. Somewhere, a wind chime rang softly, even though the air was still.

The backyard, if you could even call it that, unfurled in soft, uneven layers—stone paths winding through hedges and overgrown rose bushes, patches of ivy crawling over marble statues half-swallowed by time. The fog was thinner here, but still present, blanketing everything in that same quiet veil. It didn’t obscure so much as… blur.

You followed a winding path with grass growing between the stones, passing under an old iron arch where climbing roses had once bloomed. Now only a few deep crimson buds clung to the vines like drops of blood.

And then the garden opened wide. It was vast. Wild.

Bushes trimmed into winding mazes. Tiered flower beds that had long since spilled into one another. Tall wrought-iron trellises swallowed by tangled vines. A dry fountain with a statue of a weeping angel at its center, moss growing at her feet.

It looked like someone had manifested the pages of The Secret Garden right before your eyes—untamed but alive. Like it was waiting for someone to bring it back.

You smiled to yourself and wandered deeper.

Farther down the slope of the property, just beyond the edge of the garden, you spotted them—old horse stables, sunken slightly into the earth, their wooden frames dark with age but not ruin. You imagined them alive again: the soft sound of hooves on hay, the glow of lanterns, the scent of saddle oil and cedar shavings. You’d never owned a horse in your life, but the fantasy settled in your chest like a childhood wish remembered.

Maybe someday.

And then you noticed the lights.

Not in the manor—but past the stables, nestled beneath the trees. Three small homes. One with string lights blinking dimly around the porch. One with smoke curling from a chimney. One with an open window and the distant flicker of a lamp.

Tim. Brian. Toby.

Each of them lived just far enough to be separate, but close enough that the house was still central. Like planets orbiting the same haunted sun.

You watched the lights flicker for a few seconds before the cold began to settle into your arms. Evening had started its slow descent. The sun would vanish behind the trees soon, and you hadn’t eaten since morning.

You turned back toward the manor.

The kitchen, as you found it, was toward the back—through a side hall lit with lower, warmer candles and lined with faded cookbooks and hanging bundles of dried herbs. The door was thick and swinging, and it opened to reveal a space that looked untouched by time but somehow still in use.

It was enormous—long wooden counters, copper pots hanging from a ceiling rack, a cast-iron stove the size of a small car tucked into the far corner. The stone walls were smooth and soot-darkened, the floor a patchwork of cool brick. There was a wide sink with a spout shaped like a lion’s head, and an old-fashioned icebox humming softly in the corner like it shouldn’t even still work.

A long wooden table sat near the center, clearly used more for prep than dining. A thick butcher’s block was stained with time and something darker. But it was warm. Comforting, even. Like this place had fed generations.

You moved slowly through it, your fingers trailing across aged surfaces, and opened one of the cabinets to find a neat row of mismatched mugs and stoneware dishes. Another held jars labeled in someone’s looping script—dried lavender, thyme, dried lemon peel, powdered bone—

You closed that one quickly.

Your stomach gave a soft growl, and you leaned back against the counter with a slow exhale, still adjusting to the fact that this was yours. All of it.

Even the strange parts.

Especially the strange parts.

You rummaged until you found a pantry hidden behind an old cabinet door, stacked with dried goods and preserved jars. Salted meats wrapped in wax paper, bundles of dried root vegetables, and jars of cloudy olive oil lined the shelves beside sealed tins of flour and herbs.

You found a small iron pan, lit the stove with one of the long matches in the ceramic jar, and started cooking—nothing fancy. Just some chopped root veg in oil, crisped alongside strips of cured venison. The smell was rich and earthy, grounding. By the time you slid everything onto a plate and sat at the long wooden prep table, the sun had fully dipped behind the trees. The fog outside pressed thicker against the windows. The only sign of life being those three little lights in the distance.

You’d just taken your second bite when the kitchen door swung open with a loud creak and a gust of cold air.

You jumped, nearly dropping your fork. “Woah—”

There in the doorway stood Toby, orange goggles pressed up into his curly hair, boots muddy, cheeks flushed from the cold. He carried a huge bundle of chopped wood in his arms, his sleeves dusted in bark shavings and tiny splinters. He didn’t even notice you until he looked up.

“Oh—s-sorry,” he said, voice scratchy with fatigue. He stepped carefully around your chair. “Didn’t m-mean to freak you out. D-Doors around here—never shut r-right.”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, setting your fork down. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone. What’s the wood for?”

“You haven’t seen?” He shifted the bundle in his arms, nudging it higher against his chest. “For the f-fireplace. Main one. B-Brian says if we d-don’t keep it lit, the d-damp creeps in too fast. Makes th-the whole place… w-weird.”

You raised a brow. “Weirder than it already is?”

That earned a low laugh from him—half-muffled, like he didn’t quite mean to let it out. “C-Come on. I’ll show you.”

Abandoning your plate, you followed him through the side hall, past narrow windows and walls lined with dusty trimmings, until you reached a massive arched doorway you hadn’t noticed earlier. Toby shifted the firewood to one arm and pushed it open with his shoulder.

What lay beyond nearly took your breath away.

The living room—if you could even call it that—was huge. The ceiling stretched two stories up, supported by beams carved with twisting flowers and vines. Velvet armchairs and an enormous, half-moon couch faced the grand fireplace—a gothic structure carved into the far wall, its stone mantle etched with wolves and trees and a crescent moon overhead. It looked big enough to walk into.

“This used to be the h-heart of the house,” Toby said, dropping the firewood into a copper bin beside the hearth. “B-Brian says it was the first room built, like… b-before the rest of it. S-So, uh. It d-doesn’t like being empty.”

You watched as he crouched near the hearth and began arranging kindling with practiced ease. He struck a match and lit the fire slowly, methodically—like a ritual.

“So, are you guys all… like… hired workers? Or did you know my uncle?”

Toby paused as he fed in a piece of bark, letting the flames catch. “W-We’ve b-been here a long time,” he said slowly, without looking back at you. “Not hired. Not really. M-More like… we s-stay. Keep the place g-going. Make sure it d-doesn’t fall in on itself. We knew your uncle, though. He was a go-good guy.”

“That sounds… ominous.”

Toby snorted and tossed in a larger log. The fire flared golden, shadows dancing up the walls.

“It’s not so b-bad. Beats working in town.” He stood and dusted off his hands. “Less p-people. More ghosts.”

You gave him a look, trying to decide if he was joking.

“I—uh, I’m k-k-kinda kidding,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean. S-Sort of.”

A soft silence settled between you. The fire cracked and popped, filling the room with heat and flickering light. The velvet cushions looked more inviting now, less like relics and more like they belonged to someone real.

“So, uh…” Toby glanced at you, then away. “Y-You like it here? Or is it all t-too… creepy?”

You sat on the edge of the couch, curling your hands in your lap. “I think… it’s weird. But beautiful. And a little overwhelming. I’ve never had this much space. Or… history. Or silence. I used to live in town before this.”

He nodded, shuffling his boot across the rug. “It’s a lot. Y-You’ll get used to it. The h-house’s kinda like a dog. If you d-don’t freak out, it won’t either.”

That made you laugh quietly. “So I just have to let it sniff me and offer it a treat?”

Toby grinned. “E-Exactly.”

You both sat for a moment in the warm, flickering quiet. It was still awkward—but nice. Like two people orbiting the same strange world, slowly working up the courage to say more.

“Thanks for the fire,” you said softly.

He shrugged, eyes still on the flames. “Yeah. Any t-time.”

── .✦

The next morning, the sun filtered through the tall windows in slanted beams, catching the dust in the air like floating gold. For the first time since arriving, you could see the full shape of the manor’s interior in daylight—and now, it felt less like a haunted fairytale and more like a massive, elegant mess.

So, naturally… you grabbed a broom.

It started small. One corner. One rug. But by midday you had swept the grand hall, dusted two of the massive stair banisters, wiped cobwebs from the corners of three corridors, and even mopped the kitchen’s stone floor—nearly breaking your back with the old wooden mop you found hanging in the pantry like a forgotten relic. The house didn’t resist it, either. In fact, it almost felt like it appreciated the attention.

When you finally stopped for a break, your face was flushed and your arms ached.

You rolled your sleeves up, dug out a few actual lemons you’d found in a ceramic bowl in the pantry—clearly fresh—and squeezed them into an old pitcher you’d washed clean. The sugar was slightly clumped, the mint was just a little wilted, but the icebox had cubes in its tray, and somehow, miraculously, the lemonade turned out perfect.

You sipped once. Then twice. Cold. Tart. Sweet.

You stared at the glass. “…How the hell are these lemons fresh?”

And then the thought hit you. Tim. Maybe the boys would want some.

You weren’t sure what their dynamic was with one another—roommates? coworkers? allied cult members?—but there was something grounding about them. Like each had a place here and welcomed you smoothly. And after Toby’s kindness the night before, it felt right to offer.

You made your way out the back again, pitcher in one hand, two mismatched glasses in the other, and followed the path toward the garden. The fog was lighter in the daylight, but still hung low like a lazy ghost on the lawn. The breeze smelled of basil, wet stone, and rosemary.

You found Tim kneeling in the main garden bed.

His jacket was slung over the fence post, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands deep in the earth as he repotted a thick clump of herbs beside a basket already filled with tomatoes, squash, and—yep—lemons.

So that’s where they came from.

You approached slowly. “Hey.”

He didn’t look up at first, just kept working the soil between his fingers. “You clean the whole damn house or just beat it into submission?”

You blinked, then laughed. “Both.”

That made him glance up, dark eyes narrowing slightly against the sun. His face was ruddy from the heat, jaw dusted with stubble, hair mussed from sweat and wind. Despite his constant scowl, there was something steady about him. Like a wall you weren’t meant to get past—but if you did, you might find something behind it.

“I made lemonade,” you offered, lifting the pitcher a little. “From your lemons, apparently.”

He grunted and wiped his gloves on his jeans. “Guess you didn’t poison it. I’ll bite.”

You poured him a glass and handed it over. He took it, sipped once—and let out a very small, very faint huff of satisfaction. “…It’s good,” he admitted. “Better than the crap Toby tries to make.”

“Oh? What’s his specialty?”

“Filling the pitcher halfway with sugar.”

You laughed again, and Tim smirked into his glass. He leaned against the garden fence and nodded toward the manor.

“So. You settlin’ in?”

“I think so,” you said, looking back at the looming silhouette of the estate. “Still feels like a dream. Or maybe a hallucination. One with antique rugs and self-lighting candles.”

Tim tilted his head, expression unreadable. “You don’t remember it? From when you were a kid?”

You shook your head. “Not really. My great-uncle didn’t visit often. The few memories I do have feel… blurry. I definitely don’t remember it being this big”

He looked back at the soil, swirling the lemonade in his glass. “House has a way of messing with memory. Not on purpose, just… that’s what time does here. Gets soft around the edges.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just watched him press a few leaves flat against his palm and sniff them, as if checking their oil. His movements were efficient, practiced. You realized then—he didn’t just tend the garden. He knew it.

“So all the herbs and things in the kitchen are from you?” you asked, curious.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “If we don’t have the soil to grow it here, I make runs to town and restock on the weekends. Brian rigged up the cellar to keep things fresh longer. I grow it, he preserves it. Toby tries not to eat it raw.”

You giggled, and he looked vaguely amused at that. “I appreciate it,” you said sincerely. “The food, the garden, everything. It makes this place feel less… haunted.”

Tim raised a brow. “Don’t worry. You haven’t seen haunted yet.”

The way he said it—casual, with a smirk—made you shiver just slightly. He downed the rest of his lemonade and handed you the glass. “Thanks for the drink,” he said, already moving back to his plot. “And for cleaning. House hasn’t looked that awake in years.”

You blinked. “Awake?”

He crouched again in the dirt. “Yeah. You’ll see.”

── .✦

You wandered farther beyond the garden, past the sun-dappled hedges and the old stables, where the sound of rhythmic chop… chop… chop echoed between the trees. The scent of pine and cedar lingered in the warm air, carried on a breeze that whispered through the taller grass near the edge of the property.

There—beneath a crooked elm tree, stood Toby.

A heap of split logs lay stacked at his feet, the head of his axe buried in the next round of wood. He stood with his back toward you, moving with casual precision. Swing. Split. Breathe. Repeat.

He’d shed his jacket and hoodie, leaving only a pair of low-slung work jeans held by a belt and scuffed boots. His torso was lean but corded with muscle—not bulky, but built like someone who worked. Real work. Outdoor, constant, unforgiving work. His skin was pale beneath the sun but marked with the story of old violence: scars, some deep and thick, others more chaotic—slashing, jagged. A faded bruise bloomed low on one side of his ribs, yellowed at the edges like it had been there for weeks.

Were those from chopping wood? Or maybe losing a grip on his axe once in a while.

You swallowed, caught somewhere between curiosity and concern. “Hey,” you called gently, lifting the pitcher. “Brought you something.”

He turned, surprised—but only for a second. His orange safety goggles were high on the bridge of his nose, but he pushed them up into the mess of his hair and out of the way. A grin spread across his face as he wiped his hands on his pants and crossed the grass toward you.

“You’re just makin’ the r-rounds today, huh, ma’am?” he said, his voice lighter than yesterday. “Let me guess. B-Bribing the help?”

“I prefer the term being friendly.” You handed him a glass. “It’s lemonade. Your friend Tim said you have a habit of eating things raw, so I figured this was safer.”

Toby barked out a laugh. “Fair.”

He took the glass and tipped it back without hesitation, drinking deep. A small sound escaped him—somewhere between a sigh and a growl of satisfaction.

“Holy s-shit, that’s good.”

You smiled. “You’ve been out here a while?”

“Mmhm.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Couple hours, g-give or take. Need to s-stock up before sunset. Fires keep the ro-rooms warm, and Brian gets pissy when the h-hearth runs cold.”

Your eyes lingered a little too long on the lines of his shoulders, the thin sheen of dirt across his forearms, the livid scarring at the base of his throat. It wasn’t just that he was shirtless—it was the contrast. The way he looked so at home out here, in the open air, alone with the work and the trees and the sound of his own breath.

“You’re not sweating,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You’ve been chopping wood in full sun and there’s nothing. You’re completely dry.”

Toby shrugged one shoulder, his smile still crooked but looser now. “Ah. Y-Yeah. I don’t really… d-do that.”

You blinked. “Don’t do what? Sweat?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the trees. “Got this we-weird thing. Got a lotta weird things, a-actually. Basically means I don’t feel pain, and my b-body doesn’t know how to cool itself. S-Sweating’s for fancy people with functioning nerves.”

“Oh,” you said softly, surprised by his bluntness. “Does it bother you?”

He shrugged again. “Not really. Gets dangerous sometimes. Gotta be careful not to o-overheat, but I grew up with it. You l-learn.”

There was something in the way he said it—matter-of-fact, no self-pity. Like this was just another fact of his body, same as height or eye color. You respected that.

“Well, I think you’re officially the most interesting groundskeeper I’ve ever met,” you said lightly, sipping from your own glass.

He smirked. “What, y-you meet a lotta g-gr-groundskeepers in your spare time?”

You raised a brow. “Recently, yeah.”

That pulled another laugh from him, softer this time. He stepped back to his chopping block, gripping the axe again but not lifting it yet. “You h-headin’ back in soon?”

“Yeah. Thought I’d find Brian before lunch.”

Toby gave you a look—still playful, but more pointed. “He’ll probably be d-down in the basement. Or the attic. Or inside the w-walls, depending on his mood.”

You smiled. “Duly noted.”

“See you t-tonight?”

The question hung in the air a little longer than it needed to.

You nodded. “See you tonight.”

Toby tilted his head, grin widening, then brought the axe down with a solid crack that echoed through the clearing as you turned and started back toward the manor.

── .✦

Back inside the manor, the temperature shifted again—cooler near the baseboards, warmer near the windows. You set the empty lemonade glasses in the sink, then wandered deeper through the halls, listening for any sound of life.

But the house had gone still again.

Brian hadn’t been in the kitchen. Or the study. Or any of the main rooms you’d passed on your first night. You called his name once—softly—but the silence felt too thick for your voice to carry. Like the house was holding its breath.

You were halfway up the second staircase when you noticed the attic door was cracked open. Faint scraping sounds drifted down from above. Metal against wood. A low, intermittent hum. You crept upward, hand brushing the railing, and carefully pushed open the door at the top.

The attic stretched wide—long beams crisscrossed beneath the sloped ceiling, and narrow windows filtered in beams of afternoon light muted by fog. Dust motes danced in the air, and the scent of old cedar and metal filled your lungs.

Near the far wall, surrounded by tangled cords and open toolboxes, was Brian.

He was crouched with his back half to you, one gloved hand propping his weight, holding a flashlight between his teeth, and the other arm elbow-deep in a fuse box he’d clearly carved into the paneling himself. Wires looped over his shoulders, slung like bandoliers across his chest. A bundle of bulbs and a roll of copper wiring sat nearby, along with an ancient notebook opened to a sketched schematic of the manor.

You stepped into the room. “Wow. This is… intense.”

He paused, flashlight still clenched in his mouth. Then, without turning around, he pulled it free and said simply, “Didn’t hear you come up, miss.”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

He sat back on his heels, then finally looked over his shoulder. A black balaclava covered his face, pushed up above his nose—but even from here, you could tell he was flushed and dusty, a smudge of soot on his jaw. He dusted off his hands on his thighs and pulled the balaclava up over his eyes—clean-shaven, pale, and faintly freckled, though dust clung to the edge of his lip like he’d been breathing in drywall for hours. His face was flushed from the heat of the attic, but he didn’t seem to mind.

You looked at him sideways. “You always wear that thing while you work?”

“Helps with insulation dust,” he said simply, tugging off one glove with his teeth. “And anonymity. Never know when you might need to do something suspicious.”

You stepped closer, eyeing the schematic. “So, you’re installing power? I thought this place ran on candlelight and ten-thousand windows.”

Brian gave a quiet huff—his version of a laugh. “Most of it does. But some rooms don’t hold flame well. Too damp, too old. Wiring’s a mess—wood’s not standard, walls shift more than you’d think. Takes work to keep it functional. Trying to at least get wiring set up.

You noticed the marks on his hands as he peeled off his second glove—faint burns, small healed cuts, calluses thick across his palms. This wasn’t a hobby. This was his life.

You took a few steps closer, careful not to trip on the wires, and held out the last glass of lemonade you’d saved. “I’ve been passing these out like a traveling salesman. You’re my final stop.”

He accepted the glass without hesitation, fingertips brushing yours briefly. “I knew I smelt something good in the kitchen earlier.”

He drank slowly, savoring it. You watched his throat work as he swallowed, the soft sigh of contentment that followed.

“And you do this all yourself?”

“No one else wants to. Toby’s a hazard with anything that sparks, and Tim gets bored and walks off halfway through. So it’s me.”

You watched him reconnect a copper strand and twist it into place, working with efficient silence. “Do you like it?” you asked after a moment.

He glanced up. “The house?”

You nodded.

Brian leaned back slightly, resting one hand on his knee. His eyes were unreadable—grey, but storm-dark, thoughtful. He looked past you for a moment, toward the narrow attic windows where the fog curled thick around the edges of the glass. “…It’s alive,” he said finally. “Not in the fairy tale way. More like a forest. Or an animal. Old. Temperamental. But loyal.”

You let that settle, then smiled. “You sound like Toby talking about the fireplace.”

Brian smirked faintly, then stood—slow and fluid, brushing dust from his thighs as he did. “So you’ve been making the rounds,” he said. “Cleaning, lemonade, talking to the help.”

“I’m trying to settle in. Or make friends. Or at least figure out what kind of weird energy field I walked into.”

He tilted his head. “How’s that going?”

You gave a half-smile. “It’s all weird. But… nice. You and your friends are kind.”

He considered that for a moment, then pulled the balaclava back down over the lower half of his face, just as casually as one might tuck away a strand of hair. “It’s lunch.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been at it since morning. So has everyone else. We usually raid the pantry for lunch, but it’s been a bit since we’ve had an actual person living here. Still putting my bets that Toby is in the kitchen, though. Come on, miss.” He turned toward the attic door, already descending without looking back.

You stared after him, eyebrows lifted, then followed, suddenly aware of how hungry you really were.

── .✦

The kitchen door creaked open as you and Brian stepped inside, the familiar scent of lemon peel and old stone greeting you like an old coat. The light had shifted—afternoon now, golden and slanting through the small windows, catching dust motes dancing lazily in the air.

You sat the now-empty pitcher into the deep sink, finding that two empty cups were also there.

Toby was already at the prep table, chewing on something that looked suspiciously like a raw root vegetable. He blinked at the both of you, eyes bright behind his shaggy hair.

“I d-didn’t wanna wait,” he said around the bite. “W-Wasn’t sure if anyone was actually comin’ to feed me.”

“That’s a turnip,” Brian said flatly, dropping his toolbox near the door. “You’re not a rabbit.”

Tim followed a second later, stepping in through the back with dirt still on his hands and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. “It’s better than that jerky he found in the cellar. Looked like it was from the civil war.”

You set your hands on your hips. “Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll cook something.”

That made all three of them pause. Brian raised an eyebrow. Toby tilted his head like a curious dog. Tim blinked, as if processing the idea of being cooked for was not something that happened often around here.

“I mean. If you’re okay with that?” you added, unsure. “Just something simple.”

Brian, mercifully, nodded. “That sounds good.”

Tim grunted and lit his cigarette, exhaling through his nose like a dragon. “Long as it’s not raw.”

You laughed, rolled up your sleeves, and made your way to the pantry. The garden haul was still fresh on the counter—squash, some greens, and a bundle of tomatoes. There were eggs in the icebox, too. A cast-iron skillet and a few minutes later, something vaguely resembling a vegetable hash with fried eggs was sizzling on the stove.

The boys stayed seated while you cooked, lounging like tired lions around the kitchen table. Tim smoked slowly and passed the cigarette over to Brian, who took a pull and said nothing as the smoke curled around his jaw. Toby kicked his boots up on the bench and tapped the side of his glass of water with a rhythm that might’ve been a song if it weren’t so off-beat.

“So,” Tim said, looking at you as he handed the cigarette across the table to Toby. “You still freaked out?”

You flipped something in the pan. “Define freaked out.”

“New house. Dead relative. Haunted furniture.”

You snorted. “I think I’m still waiting for it to hit me. My great-uncle was basically a ghost in my memory. Nice enough guy when I met him as a kid, but I didn’t know him. Just stories and whispers from family reunions.”

“You ever visit the manor back then?” Brian asked, voice soft.

You shook your head. “No. I think my mom didn’t want us here. Something about it spooked her, but she never said much. He sent me letters once or twice when I was little—super formal, written like he was from another time.”

“Sounds like him,” Tim muttered.

“I didn’t expect to be left all this,” you said, more quietly now. “It doesn’t feel real. Like I’m house-sitting for someone who’s just… gone forever.”

The kitchen settled for a moment—just the sizzle of the skillet, the soft knock of Toby setting his boots back on the floor.

“He must’ve l-liked you,” Toby offered after a second. “People don’t leave big fancy m-manor houses to folks they hate.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “Maybe. Or maybe the house picked me.”

Tim grunted. “Wouldn’t put it past it.”

You plated the food and set it down in front of them, one after the other. It wasn’t much—just hot, real food—but the way they looked at it, you would’ve thought you’d handed them steak and gold.

“Okay,” you said, grabbing your own plate and sliding into a seat. “As long as you guys keep this place from falling apart, meals are on me.”

Toby immediately dug in with no hesitation. “Marry me,” he mumbled through a mouthful of squash.

Brian chuckled, quiet and low, and Tim actually gave a gruff, “Not bad.”

The four of you ate in warm silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of fork against plate or soft exhale from one of them. There was something peaceful about it—something unspoken and good. You didn’t feel like a stranger anymore. Not really.

Just… someone sitting at a worn wooden table with three men who belonged to a house that might’ve just decided to keep you, too.

── .✦

Later that night, the manor had settled into its usual hush—the kind that pressed into your ears and made even your own heartbeat sound too loud.

You padded barefoot through the parlor in your sleep shirt, arms folded loosely as you stepped into the familiar glow of the main hearth. Toby was already there, kneeling in front of the massive fireplace, stacking wood with one hand and shielding the sparks from catching his hoodie with the other.

He glanced over his shoulder as you entered, his hair falling into his face and eyes flickering in the firelight.

“W-Wasn’t sure if you’d be up, ma’am,” he said, reaching for the iron poker. “But I figured you’d wanna w-wake up warm.”

You offered him a small smile, arms hugging your sides. “I appreciate that.”

Toby gave a short nod, pushing one last log into place and prodding the fire until it flared and caught fully. The light bloomed across the room, casting shadows behind every antique and over every tapestry like they were breathing.

You hesitated before speaking again. “Is this all you do? All day, every day?”

“Mhm. Nothing m-much else to do.”

That made your brow knit slightly, but before you could talk further, Toby stood up and brushed ash from his palms onto his jeans.

“I’ll l-leave you to it,” he muttered, jerking his chin toward the stairs. “Don’t stay up too l-late.”

And just like that, he was gone—boots creaking faintly down the east corridor as the fire cracked behind you.

You lingered for a moment, watching the flames twist, before taking a deep breath and heading for the stairs. The candles along the banisters were already lit, flickering gently in their iron sconces. You didn’t remember lighting them.

The house felt different tonight.

Still, you made your way up the stairs, letting your hand trail the smooth wood of the railing, eyes flicking from room to room as you passed. The air had cooled. The quiet was too quiet.

And that feeling—that skittish, crawling feeling—had started just halfway up the second floor.

The sensation of being watched. Not from a doorway. Not from the windows. From behind.

You paused on the landing, turning sharply, expecting to see someone—or something—lurking just out of view. Nothing. Just the usual dim hallway behind you, cluttered with towering paintings and narrow furniture too old to move without it groaning.

You swallowed and walked faster, arms crossed now, fingers clenched.

Your door was an even deeper red during the night. You reached it quickly, opened it quicker, and stepped inside.

But the feeling followed.

You shut the door. Locked it. Turned slowly, eyes scanning the room. You checked behind the wardrobe. The curtains. Even peeked under your bed with a half-nervous laugh.

There was nothing there.

But your skin prickled. The air had shifted. The warmth from the hearth hadn’t followed you up here. And the candlelight didn’t seem to push back the dark in quite the same way. You crossed the room and stood in front of the large arched window, pulling the heavy curtain aside to let the cool air in through the old glass.

The garden stretched wide below you, cloaked in fog, silvered in moonlight.

At first, there was nothing.

And then—movement. A low, fast shape darting between the edge of the hedges and the tree line. It skittered unnaturally, fast and hunched, limbs too long, too bent. Animal-like, but not quite right. Not quite animal.

You blinked, breath caught in your throat.

Gone.

Just like that—whatever it was had vanished into the mist, leaving only the rippling hush of the trees and the slow churn of fog behind it.

You stood at the window long after it disappeared, heart beating too loud, hand still clutched around the curtain.

This place was beautiful.

But beautiful things always have ugly secrets.

── .✦

The days began to blur, in that soft, timeless way that only came with old places and new beginnings.

Each morning started the same: the manor bathed in cold light, the fog peeling back just enough to make out the treetops from your window. The air always smelled like moss and stone and smoke from last night’s fire.

You’d wake, dress, and wander through the halls with a hand grazing the banister, slowly learning the rhythm of the house. You knew now that the second door on the left in the east wing led to a linen closet that always creaked when you opened it. That the library had a slant in the floor that pulled your steps just slightly downhill. That the attic moaned louder on rainy days.

And—most importantly—that the back kitchen always got the best light come late morning.

You cooked there more often now. It had become a kind of ritual. Every day around noon, you’d gather what you could from the pantry or the garden haul left near the sink, and make something simple but warm. Always enough for four. Toby started showing up early, tracking dirt and twigs through the hall. Tim came in with his sleeves rolled and arms flecked in soil. Brian, reliably, walked in last—quiet, steady, with his tool belt slung low and a smudge of dust near his jaw.

You talked over meals now. Little things.

Toby cracked dumb jokes and asked you about your favorite horror movies. Tim corrected your technique when chopping herbs but grunted approvingly when the food came out good anyway. Brian listened more than he spoke, but when he did, he always made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

And it was good. Better than good. It felt normal in a place that refused to be.

But when the sun went down… that’s when the house changed.

You told yourself it was the shadows. The candlelight. The wind through the rafters. You didn’t want to be dramatic. But the sense of being watched hadn’t gone away—it had only grown. Like something just outside the light was waiting for you to pass by. Some nights you couldn’t shake the thought that the house itself was testing you. Watching how you moved. What you touched.

And then came the window.

It had been four or five days since you arrived. You’d just finished washing the dishes from dinner and had said goodnight to Toby at the fireplace. The manor was dark now, lit only by flickering wall sconces and the low burn of the fire still dying in the main room. You were halfway up the staircase, your hand brushing the banister, eyes on your feet so you didn’t trip—

SLAM.

Something hit your window. Hard. Glass rattled. Wood groaned. Your heart nearly tore out of your chest.

You stopped cold on the stairs, breath caught in your throat. Your room was on the second floor. Nothing should’ve been able to hit your window. A bird, maybe. But what would a bird be doing flying around at this time of night?

You waited. Listening. Chest heaving. But there was no follow-up. No footsteps. No scraping. Just the fire crackling below, and your own blood thudding behind your ears.

You didn’t go to your room right away. You waited, perched halfway up the stairs with your back to the wall like it would protect you. You watched the hallway. Watched the ceiling. Watched the window across the corridor in case something tried again.

Eventually, you climbed the rest of the stairs and locked your door. You didn’t even peek outside. Not this time.

You slept with the candles lit and the covers pulled up tight.

And in the morning, when the sun finally reached your windows and the world felt solid again…

You knew you had to tell someone.

── .✦

You stood beside Brian at the window, arms folded tight across your chest as the early morning light filtered through the glass. The fog hadn’t burned off yet. It never did this early. The world outside still looked bleached and still, like it was holding its breath.

Brian thumbed the latch and pushed the window open with a soft groan of old hinges. The cool air rolled in, sharp with pine and wet earth. He leaned halfway out, peering around the frame, his gloved fingers dragging carefully over the wood.

“No cracks,” he muttered, inspecting the pane from the inside now. “Seal’s still good. No warping. If something hit it, it didn’t leave a mark.”

“I know something hit it.” You didn’t mean to sound so insistent, but the memory of it—the sound of it—was still buzzing under your skin. “It wasn’t a branch or some little bird. It hit like a body.”

Brian glanced at you, eyes stern and inspecting, his balaclava pushed up above his forehead. “A bat, maybe,” he offered gently. “Sometimes they clip the glass on a dive.”

You shook your head. “No. Too heavy. I heard the weight in it.”

He studied you for a moment, expression unreadable.

The manor groaned above your heads, one of its long, slow creaks that had no clear source. The sound felt like a sigh in the bones of the house.

Brian turned fully to you, closing the window with a soft click. “This place… it’s old,” he said finally. “Built with too many corners and not enough insulation. It creaks, and talks, and stretches. Gets inside your head if you let it, miss.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked back at the glass, as if something might still be out there, watching from the fog.

Brian stepped a little closer, tilting his head to your eye level, lowering his voice. “But just in case,” he said, “I’ll do a sweep.”

Your brows lifted slightly. “A sweep?” you repeated.

He nodded once. “Top to bottom. Every locked door, every loose board. I’ll even check the cellar if that makes you feel better.”

You exhaled slowly. The knot in your stomach didn’t unravel, but it loosened enough to let you breathe. “Thanks, Brian,” you said, voice soft. “I know it sounds crazy, but… I just need to know it’s only me in here.”

Brian looked at you for a beat longer, then gave the smallest nod—firm, final. “I’ll make sure of it.”

── .✦

You couldn’t sit still.

Your hands ached from scrubbing. Your shirt was damp with sweat from dragging rugs across the floors and beating dust from the curtains. The bucket sloshed at your side as you scrubbed down a banister that hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

The manor felt like it was pressing in on you. Like every wall had inched closer. Like the air was just a little too heavy to breathe.

Somewhere above you, Brian was still checking the upper floors. You could hear the occasional creak of boots overhead. The creak of doors opening. Closing. The quiet, focused hum of him doing his job for you.

You stayed on the main level, brushing cobwebs from molding and muttering to yourself as you wiped a smudge that wasn’t coming out.

“This fuckin’… Damn piece of…” you said to no one, shoving the rag harder against the banister.

“You know you’re talkin’ to yourself, right?”

The voice made you jump, nearly dropping the rag. You turned to see Tim standing just inside the hall, shoulder propped against the doorframe and a sweat-damp towel slung around his neck. Dirt clung to the knees of his jeans. His arms were still dusted with the morning’s garden work.

He watched you for a beat, then glanced down at the overly-clean railing. “Place looks like it’s about to sparkle off the foundation,” he said. “You alright?”

You gave him a weak smile. “Yeah. Just… keeping busy.”

Tim grunted. “I can see that.” He took a few steps closer, eyes narrowing slightly. “Or you’re spiraling. Hard to tell.”

Your smile wavered.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asked bluntly.

You blinked. “What?”

“C’mon,” he said, already turning back toward the hall. “I know a spot. You need fresh air, and this place isn’t gonna give it to you.”

You hesitated, rag still in hand, heartbeat too fast from everything—not just the window, but the sense of something looming. Like waiting inside too long would rot you from the inside out.

You dropped the rag into the bucket and followed him.

Tim didn’t talk much as you walked. He led you through the kitchen, out the back door, down past the garden rows where tomatoes were just starting to bloom fat and red on the vine. The fog had thinned, but the air was still cool and wet with mist.

You followed him through a break in the hedges you hadn’t noticed before, tall green walls parting like a quiet secret, and ducked beneath an old iron gate barely hanging on its hinges.

Beyond it was a pocket of quiet earth. The path widened into a small, shaded clearing, half-eaten by time. And there, rising from the center like a breath held for a hundred years, was an enormous willow tree. Its sweeping branches curved down to kiss the ground, green veils of hanging limbs dancing gently in the windless air.

You stepped into the space like stepping into a memory.

Tim watched your face as you looked around. He didn’t smile, but he did seem… softer.

“Used to keep horses back this way,” he said, nodding toward the leaning remains of a corral beyond the willow. “Gate’s been rusted shut for years now. No one really comes back here. Figured you could use a place the house hasn’t sunk its claws into yet.”

You turned to him, your voice quieter now. “How did you know?”

Tim shrugged, looking away. “You clean like someone who’s tryna stop thinking. And you keep looking around like you’re being followed.”

You swallowed, arms folding loosely across your chest. The sound of the willow’s leaves whispering overhead filled the silence.

“Something hit my window last night,” you murmured.

Tim’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

“It was loud. Heavy. And we’re not talking about a squirrel kind of hit. It felt like someone threw themselves at the glass.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he walked to the edge of the clearing and plucked a long reed of grass, chewing on the end thoughtfully.

“Brian’s got the house,” he said finally. “If something was inside, he’ll find it. But out here…” He glanced up toward the tree line beyond the clearing. “Out here, sometimes things pass through.”

You followed his gaze, but the trees offered no answers. Only shadow. “I don’t like that,” you admitted quietly.

“Good,” he said, flicking the grass aside. “Means you’re smart.”

You gave a weak chuckle. He nudged your arm gently with his elbow. “You’re not alone here, y’know. Even when it feels like it. We’re all just down the path if you ever need company at night.”

You looked over at him. He wasn’t looking back—just staring at the tree, brow furrowed like he was looking for something.

Still, the words stuck with you.

── .✦

The clink of dishes in the sink echoed lightly through the kitchen as you wiped your hands on a towel and glanced toward the table. Tim and Brian sat opposite each other, both half-reclined in that unbothered, post-dinner kind of way—full stomachs, tired limbs, quiet minds. The air was warm with the smell of roasted root vegetables and fried herbs, smoke curling faintly from the open window where Tim had lit another cigarette.

Brian leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyes half-lidded under the pulled-up balaclava. “Did a sweep top to bottom,” he said, his voice that same low, gravel-soft hum. “No one in the house but us. A few mice in the attic, but I scared ’em off.”

You nodded, your hands pausing over a plate. “Nothing in the cellar?”

Brian shook his head. “Didn’t check the cellar. Thought I’d leave that to the guy who actually enjoys being in it.”

Tim snorted. “Or the guy who’s not scared of black mold.”

Right on cue, the back door creaked open.

Toby stepped inside, arms full of chopped logs, boots leaving faint mud prints on the tile that you would have to mop tomorrow. His shirt was still grimy with dirt across the collarbone, and a few wood shavings clung to his forearms. He dropped the load with a thunk near the door, then stretched with a groan and popped his neck side to side.

“F-fire’s gonna feel good tonight,” he said, brushing off his palms.

Brian stood, and Tim followed, stretching his back with a wince. The three of them wandered to the main room, you trailing behind after flicking off the kitchen light that Brian has recently installed—a single swinging bulb above the prep table. You had thanked him vigorously for actual lighting.

The living room glowed dimly in the candlelight, the grand hearth yawning cold in its frame. Toby knelt in front of it and began arranging the wood with jerky hands. The kind of casual rhythm that came from years of repetition—stack, crumple, spark. He muttered something under his breath as the kindling caught, and soon the flames licked high, warm and golden.

They all settled on the old furniture—worn velvet armchairs, the moon-shaped grand couch, the kind of low coffee table that had probably held everything from chamber music sheet music to ashtrays. You perched near the edge of the couch, leaning back as the fire cracked.

Tim lit another cigarette and passed it lazily between himself and Brian. Toby, cross-legged on the rug, stared into the fire.

Then, casually—too casually—he said, “Was down in the c-cellar earlier. Thought I’d check the foundation near the—uh, near the south wall.”

Brian raised a brow. “Since when do you care about the foundation?”

Toby smirked. “I d-don’t. But I do care about the crate of whisky I found tucked behind an old wine rack.”

Tim straightened a bit. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope,” Toby said, popping the ‘p.’ “Unopened. Labeled. Looks like it hasn’t been touched since… I d-dunno. Prohibition?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Toby looked up at you and grinned, a little sideways and lazy. “I mean, w-would be a shame to let it go to waste. C-call it a housewarming gift. Or a—uh—a rite of passage, since no one’s drunk in th-this house in… hell, probably a hundred years.”

Brian gave a short, amused grunt. “I’m not carrying your ass back to your place if you go blind.”

“I’ll g-get my own ass back home, thank you very much.”

He stood with a groan, brushing ash from his jeans and glancing toward you. “C’mon, ma’am. You wanna see the scariest r-room in the house?”

You hesitated for half a second—but only half.

“Lead the way,” you said, rising to your feet and grabbing a candle off the mantle.

Tim chuckled as you passed. “If you come back with a ghost attachment, I’m not helping you do an exorcism.”

“D-don’t listen to him,” Toby muttered as he opened the cellar door for you, grinning. “The ghosts down there are friendly. M-Mostly.”

The stone steps creaked beneath your feet as you followed Toby into the cellar, candlelight dancing against the old walls. The air shifted as you descended—cool, dense, and heavy with the scent of soil and something metallic. Your breath fogged faintly as you exhaled.

The cellar was cluttered chaos. Dust-covered furniture leaned against each other like drunk old men at a bar, and crates were stacked two or three high, marked with fading labels and water stains. Cobwebs stretched across the ceiling beams like forgotten lace, and somewhere to your left, something scurried behind a box.

“Cozy,” you muttered.

Toby snorted. “W-wait till you see the whiskey.”

You ducked under a low archway as he led you to a darkened corner of the room. He tugged an old steamer trunk aside with a grunt, then leaned over a wooden crate tucked behind it. The top creaked as he pried it open with a pocket knife, and when it gave, you both leaned in.

Eight bottles, dark amber liquid sealed and labeled, nestled in straw like buried treasure.

“Holy shit,” you whispered.

Toby let out a breathy, delighted laugh. “Still sealed. Damn near g-glorious.”

He reached in and pulled out a bottle, holding it up to the candlelight. “You think this still tastes like p-piss, or—?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” you grinned.

He looked at you, his expression playful, then uncorked the bottle with a pop and took a swig without hesitation. His face soured, then relaxed into something pleasantly surprised.

“Oh, that’s smooth,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Gimme,” you said, already holding out your hand.

You took the bottle, tilted it back, and let the warmth slide down your throat. It burned, but in that satisfying way that made you cough once and then grin like an idiot.

When you looked back at Toby, he was smirking. “S-so, does that count as our first kiss? Or…”

You choked on your laugh and turned away, waving the bottle at him. “Shut up.”

He just laughed harder, the sound bouncing off the stone walls.

You both kept grinning like fools as you plucked a second bottle from the crate and wandered deeper into the cellar, passing shelves full of dusty wine bottles, old books, and water-damaged boxes. It was oddly quiet down here, peaceful even—until your foot nudged a crate shoved beneath an old table.

You knelt, bottle tucked under your arm, and pulled it out. The lid was loose, and inside were piles of brittle folders, Polaroids faded to shades of yellow, and a black leather sketchbook with a name embossed faintly on the corner.

Your great-uncle’s name.

“Hey…” you said, flipping it open. “I think this was his.”

Toby had gone still. You glanced up—his eyes were fixed on the sketchbook, his body tense like a wire pulled too tight.

You frowned. “What’s with the face?”

“N-nothing,” he said too fast. “Just—uh. Could be p-personal.”

You ignored him gently and flipped through the pages. At first, it was harmless—drawings of birds, floorplans, some messy handwriting—but then you paused.

Page after page of… something.

Thin, contorted creatures. Eyes too big, mouths too wide. Lanky limbs and claws and hunched poses crouched in unnatural positions. One stood on two legs like a person, but its face was bare—no eyes, no lips, just skin stretched over nothing. Your stomach turned a little.

“What the hell,” you murmured, eyebrows lifting. “Okay, yeah, my uncle was always kinda a freak. My mom used to say he lived in ‘his own little world.’ This is some kind of nightmare fuel.”

Toby gave a dry chuckle but didn’t look amused. He stepped forward, took the sketchbook gently from your hands, and without another word, tossed it onto the pile of blankets and boxes nearby.

“Trust me, ma’am,” he said, voice lower now. “It’s just sketches. D-don’t let your head make it worse than it is.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but before you could ask anything else, he tapped your shoulder with the back of his hand.

“C’mon. We’ve got w-whiskey, and a fire upstairs, and I d-don’t feel like staying sober tonight.”

You hesitated just a second longer, glancing back at the sketchbook where it had landed, the corner of a monster’s limbs still peeking from the page.

Then you followed Toby up the stairs—two bottles in hand, heart just a little heavier than before.

The fire crackled to life by the time you both returned to the main room, each with a bottle tucked under your arm like some ancient treasure trove. Tim and Brian were already there—Tim sprawled on one of the deep velvet armchairs with his boots kicked up, and Brian perched more neatly on the edge of the couch, examining a set of crystal shot glasses he must’ve pulled from one of the manor’s many gilded display cabinets.

“You weren’t kidding,” Tim muttered, holding up a glass to the firelight as you entered. “I think this one’s older than I am.”

“Technically,” Brian said without looking up, “all of this is.”

Toby dropped into one of the armchairs with a grunt, already working the cork loose from the first bottle. “T-then we’re doin’ it justice.”

With a satisfying pop, the whiskey bottle opened. You passed the second to Brian, who poured for everyone with careful hands—four glasses, thick cut-crystal shining orange with firelight and anticipation.

The first round hit your throat like a match struck inside your chest. You coughed. Brian only flinched slightly. Tim winced and grimaced and immediately lit a cigarette to chase the burn away.

Toby? Toby barely blinked.

“You didn’t even make a face,” you accused, half-laughing.

“W-well, I don’t feel it,” he replied with a shrug. “T-tastes like spicy tree bark. That’s about it.”

Tim chuckled, raising his glass again. “Bastard’s cheating. He doesn’t feel pain, so the burn’s nothing. Bet he could drink a whole bottle and barely stumble.”

“You say that l-like it’s not a skill,” Toby said with a grin, clinking his glass against yours before throwing another shot back.

The fire burned brighter, casting long shadows against the dark, high walls. Layers of coats were shrugged off and draped over the couches. Boots untied. Someone opened a window just a crack to let the cold air mingle with the warmth and smoke. Brian leaned back with his second glass, quiet but relaxed, one leg crossed over the other. Tim was still nursing his cigarette between his fingers, occasionally tapping the ash into a cracked ceramic dish.

Conversation shifted—small stories, shared work gripes, little observations about the manor. You learned that Tim once tried to plant a pear tree and was “personally offended” when a deer ate them. Brian admitted he doesn’t hang around much in the manor because the wiring hums too loud at night. Toby, half-slouched in his seat, mentioned offhandedly that he once got locked in the cellar for three hours and just decided to nap.

“Of course you napped,” you snorted. “That place is like… haunted and musty. You didn’t even freak out?”

He stretched his legs out in front of him and shrugged. “If something wanted to c-c-come get me, it missed its chance.”

Tim let out a bark of laughter. “The only thing that’s gonna get you, boy, is tetanus.”

“L-l-lotta overlap there, actually.”

The whiskey flowed in slow waves. Nobody rushed it, but it warmed everything. The room, your limbs, the tension you hadn’t realized had been knotted in your shoulders since the window incident. You leaned into the couch cushions, eyes fluttering closed for a second as the fire snapped and the others kept talking.

And in that moment—just a flicker—you felt like you belonged here. With them. In this big, haunted house in the woods, surrounded by fog and secrets and soft-spoken strangers who were slowly becoming something else.

It finally felt like your home. Maybe.

── .✦

The fire had dwindled to low, glowing embers—the kind that whispered instead of roared, casting flickering shadows that danced along the high stone mantle. The warmth still held, lingering like the comfort of thick blankets and shared laughter.

Brian stretched with a soft grunt, rising from the couch and setting his now-empty glass back on the side table. “I’m heading out,” he murmured, grabbing his things, rubbing at his neck. “If I stay any longer, I’ll fall asleep on that damn chair.”

Tim was already up, swiping his jacket off the back of the couch. “Yeah, ‘m done too. You two try not to fall into the fire or whatever.”

Toby offered a lazy wave from his spot beside you, his legs splayed, head tipping slightly to the side. You giggled and returned it, feeling delightfully heavy and light at once—like your limbs weren’t quite connected to your body.

The door clicked shut behind the other two, leaving you and Toby in the amber haze of the manor’s massive sitting room.

You shifted to stand and promptly tripped over the edge of the couch.

“Woah—wh-whoa, easy,” Toby said, catching your elbow with one hand and half-laughing, half-hiccupping. “Y-you’re not allowed to get a c-concussion your first week here.”

“I’m fine,” you giggled, swaying into his side. “It’s the rug’s fault.”

He smirked, slipping an arm around your waist and nudging you toward the hallway. “C’mon, l-let’s get you to bed, light-weight.”

You leaned into him without resistance, your body warm and soft with buzzed comfort, the steady rhythm of your footsteps echoing against the old walls. The flicker of the candles guiding the way shimmered a little more than usual.

At your door, Toby reached out to push it open and half-led, half-carried you inside. The room welcomed you with its familiar scent—aged wood, cool linen, candle wax.

“I got it, I got it,” you mumbled, trying to wriggle free to climb onto the bed yourself.

But he followed, hands still on your arms, trying to help you—and then his foot caught on the edge of the rug.

You both toppled—onto the mattress.

His weight pressed into you—not crushing, but grounding, and for a moment, the two of you just lay there, breathless with stunned laughter. “Oh my God,” you wheezed, “You tackled me!”

Toby laughed, nose scrunching, his forehead resting against yours. “I tr-tr-tried to help—th-the damn rug’s out for blood.”

You giggled again, chest rising and falling beneath his. His laughter slowed. So did yours. And when your eyes met—wide and glassy in the low candlelight—everything shifted.

The air thinned. The laughter settled into something slower. Quieter.

Toby’s gaze dropped to your lips. He blinked, breath hitching. “S-s-sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled, but didn’t move.

Your heart thumped hard in your chest. His hands were on either side of your head, arms braced, holding himself up—but barely.

“…Don’t be,” you said softly.

The distance closed—tentative, but magnetic.

His lips met yours, uncertain at first, as if checking you were still okay with it. Then deeper, a little hungrier. One of his hands slid up into your hair, the other curling into the sheet beneath you. He tasted strongly like smoke and whiskey, and when you sighed against him, he pulled you just a little closer.

The kiss lingered, warm and real, like something neither of you meant to do but somehow needed to happen.

He was about to lift himself off you—muttering a soft, stuttered apology—when your hand found the front of his shirt. You sat up slowly, the room swaying just a bit with the motion, and before he could step back, you tugged him down again.

“Toby,” you whispered, voice low. “Stay.”

“M-Ma’am?” His eyes flicked to yours, wide and caught between hesitation and want—but when you leaned in again, kissing him deeper this time, that hesitation crumbled.

The second kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was hot, desperate, heady. His hands found your waist, sliding under the hem of your shirt, callused palms dragging across your skin. You gasped softly into his mouth, fingers curling into his jacket as he leaned you back onto the mattress, bodies tangled.

You felt him everywhere—his breath, the weight of him, the tremble in his touch that wasn’t quite from nerves. He pushed your shirt higher, mouth trailing clumsy, hungry kisses along your jaw and throat, and you arched into him like you’d been waiting for this since the moment you met.

But then—

The room tilted. Not in the way it had before. The wave of alcohol that had been simmering in your bloodstream surged forward all at once—your limbs going heavy, your chest tightening with a sudden, unsteady breath.

Your fingers faltered.

Toby froze instantly. He pulled back just enough to see your face, stilling as his breath came hard and fast between you.

“You okay, ma’am?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You blinked slowly, heart pounding. “Just… dizzy. It hit me all at once.”

A beat passed. And then Toby moved off you. Not in a rush—but carefully, like something inside him had just shifted. He sat at the edge of the bed and ran a hand down his face before adjusting his jeans, trying to catch his breath. The patch on his cheek was slightly ruffled, pulling at the edges.

“I—” he started, then cleared his throat. “I sh-shouldn’t’ve done that. I shouldn’t b-be—taking a-advantage of you like that. You’re my boss.”

“You weren’t,” you said quickly, sitting up beside him, shirt still rumpled, your skin still buzzing with heat. “It was me too. I wanted to.”

He gave you a long, unreadable look—torn between guilt and longing.

“…Still,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the floor. “You’ve had a l-lot to drink. I—don’t wanna do anything you’d regret in the m-morning.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just studied his profile, the slight flush in his cheeks, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands had curled into fists in his lap.

“I won’t regret it,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond, just exhaled, slow and quiet.

Then, finally, he stood. You followed him to the door, still half-stumbling and dizzy. Toby looked back at you with something that wasn’t quite a smile. Something softer. A little sad.

“Night,” he said, voice low and rough.

You nodded. “Night.”

Neither of you moved for a second too long. And then he stepped out, closing the door behind him with the same care he did everything else—but now it felt heavier.

A week. You’ve been here a week and you’re already trying to fuck the help.

You turned and buried your face into the velvet pillows, grumbling until you fell asleep.

── .✦

Things got normal again.

Not normal—nothing about the manor quite fit that word—but familiar. You woke with the sun filtering through gauzy curtains, made coffee in a robe that dragged across boot-scraped floors, and opened windows to let in the wet scent of pine and fog. The eerie quiet was less eerie now—more like a hush, a secret being kept just for you.

And nothing exceptionally creepy had happened since Brian swept the place, which was a plus.

Toby still chopped wood past the edge of the garden. Tim still muttered to himself while trimming basil and pinching off squash blossoms. And Brian… well, Brian always seemed to be nearby, half in shadow, doing some quiet task no one had asked him to do.

Toby had been distant since that night—polite, gentle, even funny—but different. He didn’t linger like he used to. Still smiled when he passed you, still brought in logs every night, still let his shoulder brush yours sometimes when no one was looking. But the energy between you had shifted. Neither of you said anything about it.

And yet… he was still kind.

They all were.

The guys had started dropping in more—never lingering long, but always stopping in for something. Brian would bring a box of old bulbs and tinker with the kitchen sconces while you made tea. Tim would wipe dirt on your shirt just to make you swear at him, then duck in to ask if you needed anything from the garden. And Toby would pop by with mushrooms or cool rocks he’d found in the woods, only to “accidentally” stay for half an hour while you made lunch.

You liked it. The quiet company. The slow growing of something that felt almost like home.

And then you found the keys. A ring of them, heavy and old, hidden in the very back of a kitchen cupboard behind dusty linens and a chipped porcelain soup tureen. They jingled like they were singing—thick iron ones, tiny ornate ones, long bronze ones with curling teeth.

The exploring began that afternoon.

You unlocked a narrow room with stained glass windows and a dozen abandoned easels—your great-uncle’s forgotten artist studio, the paint still cracked dry on the palettes like ghosts of color.

Two more bathrooms were revealed, one with a velvet fainting couch and a mirror too tall to clean.

And then—your uncle’s office.

The door creaked open like it hadn’t in years. Dust danced in the sunlight pooling through tall windows. You saw more of those drawings tucked in desk drawers—strange, lean figures with hollow eyes and gaping mouths, crouched and twisted in impossible shapes. You stared at them for a moment, uneasy, but eventually tucked them back and turned the key in the lock once more.

You didn’t tell the guys. You don’t really know why.

And things… stayed normal.

Until lunch.

Tim was in the garden. Toby was somewhere in the woods, you assumed. That left just you and Brian.

He’d wandered in through the back door, quiet as usual, stripping off his gloves and balaclava and setting them beside the old bread box without a word. You stood at the stove, stirring something simple—rosemary chicken, a side of boiled potatoes, some roasted carrots Tim had left on the counter with a note that just said “eat these.”

He stepped forward, pulling a chair out at the kitchen table and sitting down backward in it, arms resting across the top like he was settling in.

“Smells good,” he said. “Have you always cooked for people?”

“Only the people who don’t scare me,” you teased, tossing him a wink over your shoulder.

He huffed a small laugh, head tilting. “…So not Toby, then.”

You snorted. “Toby’s just awkward.”

Brian’s eyes flicked toward the floor. “He’s been quieter.”

You didn’t answer. The moment stretched long and warm with the scent of herbs and firewood. Outside, the fog pressed softly against the windows, as if waiting to be let in.

“I found a bunch of old keys earlier,” you said after a beat, just to fill the quiet. “Unlocked some weird rooms.”

That got his attention. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. A whole art room. My uncle was definitely a painter.”

“Painter, hunter, craftsman—bit of everything.”

The rosemary clung to your fingers as you moved to slice the last of the carrots, humming quietly to yourself. The kitchen was warm—steam curling from the pot on the stove, the sound of a ticking clock mingling with the crackle of the oven. Brian said nothing, but you could feel him watching. His silence filled the corners of the room.

Your knife slipped.

“Shit,” you hissed, jerking your hand back from the cutting board.

Brian was on his feet in seconds. You barely had time to turn before his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm—as he brought your hand closer to his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” you started, embarrassed by the sting and the sudden attention, but he shook his head.

“Don’t move,” he murmured, already pulling something from his back pocket—a worn handkerchief, navy with fraying edges. He licked it without hesitation, then gently dabbed at the smear of blood on the side of your finger.

You blinked.

His touch was… soft. Careful. You stared at him while he worked, at the way his eyelids lowered, at the faint crinkle of his brow beneath a singular smudge of dirt.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, glancing up at you. “Wasn’t watching you close enough.”

You gave a breathless laugh. “It’s not your fault I’m clumsy.”

He looked down at your hand again, cradled in his palm like something breakable. And then—without thinking—he leaned forward and kissed the tip of your finger. It was feather-light, almost nothing. “All better.”

But your breath caught. His eyes flicked up, and the change in the room was immediate.

Brian froze. “…Shit,” he muttered, straightening slightly, hand still on yours. “I don’t know why the fuck I did that—Sorry, miss.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He watched you a second longer—then his voice lowered, uncertain. “…Was that okay?”

You nodded before you could stop yourself.

You only realized how close he’d gotten when his other hand rose slowly—fingertips brushing your jaw, then coaxing you forward. The touch was barely there, as if asking permission.

And then he kissed you. Just a soft, tentative press of his mouth to yours. A test. A moment.

You leaned in before he could pull away.

His hand slipped to your waist, guiding you back gently, until your hips met the edge of the counter and the breath left your lungs. His mouth moved against yours again—slow, easy, but deepening, pulling a sound from you that surprised both of you.

His fingers curled tighter against your side, your arms finding his chest, fisting in the worn fabric of his hoodie. He tasted like cigars and woodsmoke, felt like fire and hit coals, and kissed like he’d been holding his breath for days.

Brian didn’t pull away. In fact, he leaned in harder.

His hand slid beneath your thighs, strong and steady, and before you could react, he’d lifted you clean off your feet and set you on the counter with a soft thud—cool wood meeting the backs of your legs, your breath catching.

He stepped between your knees like he’d done it before, like he belonged there, and kissed you deeper. Hungrier.

Your arms locked around his shoulders, fingers digging into the back of his hoodie as he pressed flush against you. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs dragging slow, thoughtless circles into your skin through the fabric of your shorts. You felt him—all of him—through his jeans as he rutted forward once, twice, a soft, strangled sound escaping from the back of his throat into your mouth.

He kissed like he wanted to climb inside you and burn the memory into his tongue.

Your head tilted back, a quiet gasp slipping out. And then—

Pop. A sharp sizzle. A curl of smoke. Then the unmistakable, nostril-burning scent of burning oil and meat.

You both froze. You turned in unison toward the stove. The skillet hissed violently, thick black smoke rising from where the chicken had completely charred on one side.

“Shit,” you barked, hopping down from the counter.

Brian stumbled back as you grabbed the pan, yanking it off the burner with a dishrag and blowing at the smoke. The kitchen window fogged as the scent of scorched garlic, meat, and herbs thickened the air.

You groaned, laughing behind your hands as you set the pan down in the sink. “Well,” you muttered, still breathless, “guess that’s lunch ruined.”

Brian stood off to the side, rubbing the back of his neck, his face red and tense, “That’s my bad,” he said, voice low and rough. “Shouldn’t’ve distracted you, miss.”

You looked at each other. Long. Quiet. Still tasting one another.

His eyes flicked down to your hand. “…You’re not bleeding anymore,” he murmured. “That’s good.”

You nodded mutely.

He shifted, like he wanted to say something else—do something else—but then glanced toward the door and cleared his throat.

“I should… go check the attic wiring. Make sure we’re not about to have an electrical fire on top of a kitchen one.”

You nodded again. “Yeah. Yeah, go… do that.”

He hesitated. Then gave a tight, unreadable smile before slipping out into the hallway. You stared after him, wide-eyed, heart thudding in your ears. Then you turned to the table, dropped into the nearest chair, and planted your face in your hands.

“Mmhmm,” you groaned, muffled against your arms. “Cool. Awesome. Love this for me.” You sat there for a moment, the smell of burnt food still hanging in the air like a guilty fog, and let your thoughts spin out of control.

You had just kissed Brian. Properly. After kissing Toby. On the mouth. In your bed.

You groaned again. You were living in a crumbling manor, isolated in the woods, with three ridiculously attractive men who couldn’t seem to stay out of your kitchen or your personal space.

This was getting out of hand.

── .✦

The laundry was warm in your hands, soft from the sun, your fingers folding shirt after shirt in the hush of your room. The manor was quiet—eerily so—as it always was in the late mornings, the old floorboards creaking beneath your bare feet as you moved. A candle on the dresser flickered even though there was no breeze, and a distant grandfather clock ticked steady from somewhere down the hall.

You were just halfway through organizing socks when the sharp honk of a truck horn cut through the silence.

Your head snapped up. That wasn’t usual.

You padded over to the window and pulled back the sheer curtain. Across the courtyard and around the bend of the fog-lined gravel drive, a beat-up, pale red pickup was crawling around the side of the manor—old, boxy, and definitely vintage. You squinted.

Curious, you tugged on your shoes and hurried down the stairs, the back door swinging open with a long groan. The air was warm, a little muggy with the heat, and sure enough, Tim had parked in the shaded gravel behind the manor, hopping down from the driver’s seat with his usual scowl and an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips.

You approached as he pulled open the tailgate, revealing the small mountain of brown paper sacks in the truck bed.

“Groceries?” you asked, blinking.

“Town run,” he grunted, reaching in for a crate of canned goods. “No one grows pork or tobacco out here, shockingly.”

You laughed. “Need help?”

He jerked his chin. “Sure. You know where the pantry is.”

You both got to work, hauling bags in pairs, stepping in and out of the fog-cooled shade of the house. The scent of fresh dirt clung to the bags—root vegetables, herbs, hand-wrapped cheeses, wax paper packages of smoked meat. The manor’s ancient kitchen felt alive as you moved through it, pantry doors swinging open, cupboards filled with new life after you stripped them bare for meals.

You reached into one of the last bags near the cab and pulled something small and unexpected: a thick brown paper envelope with a bold, hand-labeled sticker on the front. You turned it over.

“Sunflower seeds?” you asked, confused.

Tim looked over his shoulder as he slid a new carton of eggs into the icebox. “Yeah. They’re in season. Thought maybe you’d wanna see something outside that’s not brown or gray for once.”

You blinked. He didn’t say it with any sentiment—his voice was rough and offhand, like he hadn’t even thought twice about it—but something warm tugged in your chest all the same.

“I’d love to plant them,” you said quietly, fingers curling around the seed packet.

He gave a little shrug, grabbing the last crate. “Then let’s do it. Dirt’s soft from the rain yesterday.”

You tucked the envelope into your pocket and followed him outside, down past the thinning garden rows and tangled vines, your shoes brushing against grass and clover. Tim led you to a space just past the last vegetable bed—a patch of rough soil along the back fence line that caught a good bit of sun in the afternoon hours. The willow tree swayed far in the distance.

You both knelt in the dirt, side by side, working quietly, fingers digging into the earth.

The sunflower seeds were smooth and pale, and you tucked them carefully into the ground one by one, pressing them into little cradles of soil. Tim didn’t say much—just made quiet little comments about spacing and depth—but it was nice, the silence. Companionable.

The warm scent of damp earth lingered thick around you both as you tucked the last of the sunflower seeds into their little patches of turned soil. A soft breeze passed over the back garden, stirring your hair and making the willow leaves rustle in the distance. Tim worked quietly, sleeves rolled to the elbows and thick gloves caked in dirt, occasionally glancing over at your technique—though he didn’t correct it much after the first time.

You reached for the last handful of seeds and caught him watching.

“What?” you asked, brushing hair behind your ear.

He gave a low grunt and pulled his gloves tighter at the wrist. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’ I’ll have to get you a pair of gloves if you’re so hellbent on helpin’ all the damn time.”

You smiled, digging your hands into the dirt anyway. “What, these?” you wiggled your muddy fingers. “This is half the fun.”

“‘Til you’re cryin’ about a splinter,” he muttered, but there was a faint smirk pulling at his mouth.

When the last seed was pressed into the soil and the garden patch looked neat and content, you sat back with a sigh, brushing your hands on your thighs. Tim stood and stretched his back, cracking his neck and watching the plot like he could already see the golden blooms rising.

“You’ve got dirt on your face,” he said suddenly.

Your brows pinched. “Where?”

He stepped closer. “Right here.”

Before you could react, he swiped one gloved finger across your cheek—not brushing the dirt off, but smearing it more, dragging a streak of soil across your skin.

Your jaw dropped. “Tim!”

“What?” he said innocently, tugging his glove tighter.

With a mock gasp, you scooped up a little handful of loose soil and chucked it at his chest. The dirt splattered across his shirt, leaving brown specks on his already stained flannel.

His eyes narrowed—but the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?”

You gave him a smug look just before he bent down and lobbed a clump of soil right back at you, hitting your shoulder with a soft thud. A laugh broke from your chest, and then the two of you were at war—ducking behind planting beds, flinging dirt with your bare hands, shrieking and dodging with abandon. The whole back garden filled with laughter and the shuffle of boots and sneakers on grass and soil.

You scooped up a particularly wet clump and turned to throw it—

But your foot caught on the edge of a planting bed. You yelped, pitching forward, hands instinctively flailing for balance—

Tim’s arms shot out fast, catching you by the waist as you stumbled into him. He pulled you up quick, steadying you like it was nothing.

But now you were right there. Panting. Dirt smeared across your face. Your palms flat against his chest, his hands gripping your waist. The sun hung warm behind you both, haze pooling at the edges of the woods, and suddenly the garden felt very small.

You glanced up at him—he was already looking down at you. Close enough to see the specks of dirt on his cheekbones, the sweat at his brow, the heat behind his tired eyes. His breath brushed your skin. Neither of you moved.

You swallowed hard.

Your fingers twitched against his chest as the moment hung heavy—muddy clothes, pounding hearts, breath caught in your throat. You felt it when he tensed slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to do either, but then you began to pull back, heat crawling up your neck, preparing to laugh it off—

But Tim reached up, tugging his glove off with his teeth in one smooth motion, then tucking it in his pocket.

“Hold still,” he muttered, voice low and rough.

You froze as he reached out, calloused, bare fingers brushing gently across your cheek—wiping the dirt smear away with a care that startled you. You blinked up at him, mouth parting slightly, and his lips quirked in something almost fond.

“You’re so damn clumsy,” he said, shaking his head.

You let out a breathy laugh, unsure how else to respond, eyes darting away—but he caught your jaw, firm but not rough, guiding your face back to his.

“Nuh uh,” he said softly. “Don’t look away.”

You stared at him, nerves buzzing beneath your skin, lips parting to say something—to make a joke, or tease, or shut it down before your heart leapt out of your ribs—but his fingers slid down to your neck, warm and anchoring.

“You always do that,” he muttered. “Deflect when you get nervous.”

Your eyes widened. “I do not—”

But the words died on your lips.

Because Tim silenced you with his. It was hot—sudden—his hand tightening at your waist and the other still beneath your jaw, pulling you in like he’d been holding back for days. You gasped softly against him, his mouth rough and certain, lips parting yours as he tugged you flush to his body, every inch of him pressed warm and solid against you.

You curled your hands into the front of his shirt instinctively, half-steadying yourself, half-dragging him closer as his teeth grazed your lower lip. You tasted sweat, earth, and cigarettes—and under it all, him. Tim kissed like he worked—with full intent and no hesitation once he’d started.

When he finally pulled back, barely an inch, his breath was ragged and warm against your cheek. His hand still cradled your jaw. You just stared at each other, caught, trembling slightly in the fading heat of the afternoon.

“…Still nervous?” he asked, voice husky.

You swallowed hard, lips swollen, cheeks burning. “…A little,” you breathed.

And he just smirked.

Your breath caught in your throat the second his lips curled, and it was like the weight of everything suddenly crashed down.

Holy. Shit.

You stepped back like you’d touched fire.

“I—I have to go,” you blurted, already untangling yourself from his arms. “Sorry—I didn’t mean—I mean I did—but I didn’t—oh my god.”

“Hey, wait—” Tim started, reaching for you. But you were already scrambling toward the manor, shoes slapping the dirt path, heart pounding so hard in your chest it sounded like thunder in your ears.

You didn’t stop until you were back inside, up the stairs, down the hall, and flinging yourself into your bedroom like something was chasing you. You hit the bed face-first with a muffled scream.

Then rolled.

Then screamed again—this time into a pillow. You flailed, limbs a mess across the duvet, before groaning and yanking at your hair in both hands, whispering frantic, breathless nonsense like “Oh my god, oh my god, what the fuck is happening—”

You slammed your head gently—but repeatedly—into your mattress.

“What am I even doing?” you groaned, rolling again, now hanging halfway off the bed. “Oh my god, what the hell is wrong with me?”

Your hands dragged down your face as everything came flooding back with horrifying clarity.

Toby—on your bed, after the firelight and whiskey.

Brian—against the counter, your finger still stinging, the smoke curling behind you.

And now Tim, just outside, with sun and soil and heat still clinging to your clothes.

You’d kissed each of them. You weren’t sure if you were the luckiest person alive or absolutely doomed.

And dusk was in two hours. You stared blankly at the ceiling.

Dinner was going to be hell.

── .✦

Dinner time rolled around, and the silence was louder than anything you could’ve cooked.

You’d made too much food—roasted potatoes, seared green beans from Tim’s garden, that lemon-pepper chicken recipe you were weirdly proud of—but no one came. No knock. No thump of boots in the hall. No door creaking open with a muttered “smells good in here.”

Not even Toby dragging in firewood.

Your stomach sat tight in your belly as the minutes ticked by. You kept glancing at the door, willing it to open, practically begging for one of them to appear—even if it was just to yell.

But the manor remained still.

“Maybe they’re mad,” you whispered, poking at your food with the side of your fork. “Maybe they’re talking. Figuring out what to do with the idiot who kissed all three of them.”

The thought made you wince. Rip each other apart, or rip you instead. You barely ate. The chicken dried out, the beans went cold, and your whiskey glass stayed untouched. It all felt like some sort of punishment. You washed the dishes in silence, the clang of ceramic against sink echoing too loud, too empty, as if the walls were holding their breath.

And when the fire never started in the main room, you knew—they weren’t coming.

Upstairs, your pacing felt frantic. You chewed your thumbnail, dragged your hands down your face, cursed at the floorboards and the ceiling and yourself.

“This is stupid,” you hissed. “They’re grown men. It’s not like I planned for any of this to happen! I just—” You bit off your sentence. “I should go down there. Just check in. Make sure they’re not—fighting or something.”

But when you pulled the curtain aside, peeking through your bedroom window, you froze. The cabins were glowing softly—three little stars in the fog, warm and yellow through the mist. Lights on in each one. They were there. Alive. Not dead. Not bleeding.

Just… absent from your space.

You let out a breath—relief and guilt tangled in your chest like briars.

Then something moved—fast.

Your eyes snapped to the right, and you swore—you swore—you saw something skitter across the edge of the fog, just beyond the garden. Thin. Pale. Animal-like—but not an animal. The legs bent wrong. The way it moved was wrong.

And then—

A shadow sprinted after it—a human silhouette.

Your breath hitched.

“What the fuck—” you whispered, heart slamming into your ribs. You staggered back from the window, breath ragged, ears ringing.

Something was out there. And someone was chasing it.

You tried to rationalize.

Maybe it was a stray dog. Some hunter going after an animal. Maybe—God, maybe someone lost their pet, and it slipped through the woods and they just—

But no one lived out here. There were no neighbors. No houses for miles. Just trees, fog, and the wind biting through the gaps in the manor’s old windows.

Your breath started to come faster. You moved back toward the window, hands trembling as you reached for the curtain again, trying to calm yourself, to see—to prove to your own damn brain that there was nothing out there. Then—

BANG.

A single, deafening gunshot cracked through the courtyard. You screamed.

The windows rattled in their frames, the sound echoing off the trees like it had split the ground in two. You dropped back, stumbling, your hand flying to your chest as your heart tried to burst free.

No no no no no—

You whipped back to the window, scanning frantically—but there was nothing. Just thick mist. Shifting branches. But the cabin lights were still on, glowing like weak lighthouses in a sea of gray.

Your hands moved before your thoughts could catch up. You grabbed the first jacket you saw, yanking it over your shoulders. You didn’t even bother with shoes. Your hand smacked against the bannister as you bolted down the stairs, breath ragged, throat dry.

Whoever—whatever—was out there had a gun. That meant this wasn’t some animal. This wasn’t some illusion brought on by isolation and guilt and the ache in your chest.

This was real. And it meant one of two things.

Someone was here to rob you—or someone was here to hurt you.

The manor’s back doors groaned as you flung them open, and the air outside hit you like a bucket of ice water. Your breath turned to fog as you sprinted into the night, the gravel biting at your bare feet, eyes scanning, searching—

You had to get to someone. Anyone. You didn’t care who. Tim, Toby, Brian—hell, all three. Just someone real, someone armed, someone who knew what to do. There’s no way they didn’t hear the shot.

The fog felt thicker tonight. The kind that clung to your skin like a damp sheet, swallowing sound and vision whole. Your pulse pounded behind your eyes as you ran across the grass, your head whipping around at every creak, every twig snap.

The cabins were up ahead. Yellow lights. Them.

And something moved in the trees to your left.

You faltered. Your steps stuttered on the dewy grass, and your body jerked to a stop, chest heaving with the rush of adrenaline as your eyes locked on the shape.

A figure. Human-sized. Standing motionless at the edge of the tree line just beyond the veil of fog. Still. Too still.

Your heart surged, panic curling up your throat like bile, but still—you called out, voice cracking, “T-Toby? Brian? Tim?”

No response. The figure didn’t move—just shifted. The kind of shift that makes your instincts scream. A slow tilt of the head like a dog confused, or a curious predator.

Your heart skipped. Then stuttered. You called again, louder, more desperate now. “Hey! This isn’t fucking funny guys! Is this some prank or something?!”

The thing stood up. No… it unfolded.

Long. Too long. Limbs stretching like they weren’t made for a human frame. Slender arms reaching toward the dirt. A body hunched and sickly in silhouette, pale and sinewy and wrong.

Your brain was already screaming, but your legs stayed locked. Your eyes immediately welled with tears, lips parting to scream, to shout, to call for anybody—

Until it moved on all fours. Fast. Not a lurch. Not a shuffle.

A sprint—straight at you.

You shrieked, a sharp, raw sound that tore up your throat as you spun and bolted, feet slamming the grass, sprinting so hard your lungs burned. The fog seemed to clutch at your legs, dragging you back with every step. You screamed their names again, over and over, begging,

“TOBY! BRIAN! TIM—HELP!!”

Behind you, that thing tore through the grass like knives through silk. Heavy, wet thuds of too-long limbs slamming the earth. You could feel it closing in.

The cabins were just ahead. Closer—closer—

You screamed—but no sound made it out.

One second, sprinting full speed toward the cabins, lungs burning, throat raw from shouting—and the next, a pair of arms slammed into you from the side, snatching you mid-stride and throwing you to the ground.

You hit the grass hard, dirt scraping your elbows and back as you rolled with the momentum. The breath whooshed out of you, replaced instantly with pure, primal terror. You kicked, tried to scramble back, chest rising and falling like you were drowning.

It got me. It got me. It got—

Then you saw him. Not him—not right away. A shape—crouched, lean. Orange goggles glinting in the fog, and a metal muzzle strapped over his mouth. Broad shoulders, stained hoodie. A hatchet in one gloved hand, twitching fingers on the other. Your brain scrambled to identify it, to rationalize, but nothing came.

And he was already gone, sprinting into the fog like a goddamn feral animal. The creature was mid-lunge. You saw it rear up, gangly limbs arching, the sharp silhouette of it rising like a nightmare.

Then—CRACK.

The blade of his hatchet buried deep in the side of its head with a wet, awful thud. The thing spasmed, a shriek escaping it—inhuman, high-pitched, wrong.

And he didn’t stop. He yanked the hatchet free—then slammed it down again. Again. And again. Over and over until blood and black matter sprayed into the fog like a horror show. You saw its limbs twitch once. Then stop. And he just kept chopping.

You could only watch. Your body refused to move. Then it did—all at once, violently—your limbs shaking as you scrambled backwards through the grass, breath ripping through your chest like glass shards, full-blown panic setting in.

You didn’t know where to look, what to do, your vision going fuzzy at the edges.

Click.

The cold, metallic cock of a shotgun behind you froze your blood. You twisted, gasping, eyes wide.

And there they were. Two silhouettes walking slowly through the fog like something out of a fever dream. The one in front wore a dirty white mask with ink-black eyes and a painted mouth. A taller figure flanked him, face hidden under his yellow hood and black balaclava. One carried a shotgun. The other a pistol. They joined the third figure panting over the creature, digging his boot into the side of it before jerking his hatchet out.

And they were all staring at you.

Your heart thudded in your chest like a war drum, and the realization hit you like a slap.

Tim. Brian. Toby. But not like you’d ever seen them before.

And for the first time, you realized—

You didn’t know a damn thing about the men living on this land.

Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

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