#peculiar

She floats a little higher now, chin on the ceiling beam, and coaxes her voice into casual cheer. “Morning, Enoch.”

He mutters something that might be “Mornin’” or might equally be a curse. The look he flicks upward isn’t cruel, but it is distant as if she’s become part of the wallpaper. And that hurts more than any sharp word.

TIME SKIP

The dining room hums with silverware and small talk while wan November light folds itself onto the long table. Olive hangs just below the ceiling cornice, pretending to inspect a cobweb so she won’t have to watch Enoch brood five chairs away, yet she can’t stop counting the place settings.

One extra plate. One extra cup. One extra napkin.

'He’s coming,' Enoch had said. 'He'll be here by supper.'

Olive’s pulse has been clanging ever since.

Enoch sits rigid beside the empty chair, knuckles white around the water glass he hasn’t lifted. Olive sees how he mutters silent rehearsals to himself, little jaw-twitch giveaways that anyone else would miss. She used to think that meant he was scheming, now she understands it’s what he does when he’s frightened.

And Enoch O’Connor is very much afraid.

The grandfather clock in the foyer strikes six, stalls, and coughs on its own chime. A chill draught flicks every candle flame side ways. Conversation stills, even Millard’s invisible napkin freezes mid-dab.

Then the front door swings open and a boy steps into the threshold. Frost crystals bead on his coat, melt and vanish. He’s handsome in a lived in, windblown way, with eyes lit like struck matches the instant they lock on Enoch.

Everything else slips out of focus for Olive because Enoch is smiling. Not his usual thin victory curve, but something shy and aching, like a candle held inside cupped palms.

Enoch stands up, bridges the space in three strides and tangles his fingers in the newcomer’s coat lapels, kissing him full on the mouth. Gasps ricochet off the foyer walls. Olive’s own breath deserts her. She rises six inches before the weight of her surprise hauls her back down with a clank.

Enoch draws away just far enough to rasp, “Thought the rails would swallow you.” His voice is unsteady, but his hand doesn’t leave the boy’s jaw.

The newcomer’s grin is pure sunrise. “Nearly, but you forget I know someone who raises the dead. A delay in schedule is child’s play.”

Enoch’s answering smile is so bright Olive almost shields her eyes. He ushers you to the seat beside his, never releasing your hand, and only remembers the rest of the household when you clear your throat and nod toward the silent audience.

“Everyone,” he mutters, cheeks flaming, “this is Y/N.”

You do a small bow. “Apologies for arriving late. Miss Kovar insisted I carry her compliments and also half a bakery’s worth of kolache.” You set the parcel on the table with a grin. “Apparently love travels best when sugared.”

Tentative laughter prickles the tension. Chairs scrape and conversations stutter back to life. All normal noises except Enoch is glowing.

Even as he courts his best glower, the corners of his mouth keep betraying him, hitching upward every time your shoulder bumps his.

“Stop crowdin’ me.” Enoch mutters, yet makes no effort to shift. Instead his hand hooks over the back of your chair, thumb stroking the unexposed skin of your neck.

Olive watches from across the roast, astonished. This is the boy who once referred to hugs as “unsanitary sentiment.” Now he’s practically nesting around you like a raven shielding a stolen jewel.

You spear a partridge morsel before holding it to his lips with a smirk. “Eat, misery guts. You’ve missed at least three meals stalking train platforms.”

Enoch narrows his eyes but takes the bite straight from your fork. “Wasn't stalking. Timetables were inaccurate.”

“A tragedy,” you sigh theatrically. “Shall I write the rail office a threatening letter in dead-ferret ink?”

“Shut up,” Enoch says, but the reprimand washes out on a laugh.

You lounge back, smug. “There it is. An actual giggle. Mark the calendar, everyone.”

Bronwyn grins. “Noted. Six-oh-eight post meridiem: Enoch O’Connor proves he has lungs for something other than sighs.”

Enoch tries for menace, fails, and ends up nudging his knee against yours beneath the table. When your hand drifts to his thigh he exhales, shoulders losing another ounce of tension before he's practically leaning so far in your personal space you might as well share a chair.

Olive’s cheeks burn. Her chest feels helium thin and molten all at once.

So this is why Enoch never looked at her the way she looked at him. Not because he was heartless, oblivious or delighting in cruelty. But because his heart had already wandered into another loop and built a nest there.