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The digital clock on the bedside table glowed 3:17 a.m.
Buck didn’t remember waking up.
For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the unfamiliar shadow the streetlamp cast across the ceiling. The house felt bigger in the dark. Bigger than it had during the day, when sunlight filled the corners and everything seemed manageable.
The air was still.
Then—
A soft creak somewhere above him.
Buck swallowed.
It was an old house. Houses made noise. Pipes shifted. Wood expanded. He knew that.
He turned his head toward the other side of the bed out of habit.
Empty.
Right.
He rolled onto his back again and exhaled slowly through his nose.
Another sound. Not loud. Just… present.
Above him.
Buck closed his eyes.
“It’s just the house,” he murmured into the dark.
He didn’t reach for his phone.
He didn’t text.
He stayed where he was.
Because this was his house.
And he was fine.
Another sound.
Not the long, stretching groan of pipes adjusting.
Not the wind pressing against the siding.
A dull thud.
Faint.
But distinct.
Buck’s eyes opened. Slowly. He didn’t move. Didn’t sit up this time. Didn’t call out. Didn’t reach for the lamp.
He just listened.
The house held its breath with him.
A full second. Two.
Nothing.
Buck turned his head toward the clock again.
3:17 a.m.
The numbers hadn’t changed.
He watched them for a moment, waiting for the minute to tick over.
It didn’t.
“It’s just the house,” he said again, quieter this time.
He stayed where he was.
Another shift above him.
Buck kept his eyes on the ceiling.
The streetlight outside cut a pale line across the plaster. He followed it with his gaze instead of looking toward the attic hatch in the hallway.
He didn’t believe in ghosts.
He didn’t.
For a second, he considered reaching for his phone.
Eddie would still be awake. Or half-awake. Or asleep but light enough that the vibration would pull him up immediately.
Buck could already hear it —
“What’s wrong?”
Low. Rough with sleep. Instantly alert.
Nothing’s wrong. The move wasn’t about them.
He’d said that. Meant it.
He wanted something that was his. Walls he chose. A space he built from scratch instead of folding himself into someone else’s.
He’d been proud signing the paperwork.
Proud carrying the first box in.
Proud the first night he’d locked the door behind him and stood alone in the quiet.
This is what you wanted.
Another soft knock overhead.
Buck’s jaw tightened.
Independence shouldn’t require backup at 3:17 in the morning.
His thumb hovered over his phone on the nightstand.
He didn’t pick it up.
The silence stretched.
Then—
A heavier thud. Directly above him. The sound of weight adjusting.
Buck went still.
This one wasn’t imagination. It wasn’t pipes or wind or old framing sighing into the night.
It was deliberate.
His heart kicked once, hard, against his ribs.
Dust drifted faintly from somewhere near the ceiling vent, catching the sliver of streetlight.
Buck listened.
Nothing.
Just his own breathing.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed.
The floor was cool beneath his feet.
Another sound.
A slow scrape. Above him.
Buck looked toward the doorway, toward the hallway where the attic hatch waited.
He reached for his phone.
This time, he picked it up.
His thumb hovered over Eddie’s name.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Then pressed call.
“Buck?”
Not groggy. Not confused. Just alert.
Buck let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
“Okay,” he said, aiming for light. “Don’t freak out.”
There was a rustle on the other end — sheets shifting, feet hitting the floor.
Eddie was already standing.
“I’m not,” Eddie said, calm and steady. “What’s going on?”
Buck glanced at the ceiling.
Another faint scrape.
“Something’s just… weird,” he said. “Probably nothing. Old house stuff.”
Silence. Not disbelief. Assessment.
“I’m coming over.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know. “Text me if it gets louder.”
The line went dead.
Eddie’s halfway to the door before he realises he never grabbed a jacket.
I should’ve stayed the first night.
Not because Buck asked.
Because Eddie knew what that house would feel like in the dark.
He doesn’t spiral. Doesn’t catastrophize.
He just moves.
The engine turns over on the first try.
Eddie pulls out of the driveway without turning on the radio.
The streets are empty at this hour. Streetlights blur past in steady intervals, orange and gold against the windshield.
His hands are steady on the wheel.
He isn’t panicking.
Buck said don’t freak out.
He isn’t.
But Buck’s voice had been tight in that way he tries to sand down — casual wrapped around something sharp.
When Buck said he was moving, Eddie had nodded.
“It’s not about us.”
“I know.”
And he had.
Love isn’t ownership.
If Buck wanted something that was his — something chosen instead of inherited — Eddie would never stand in the way of that.
He just hadn’t expected his own house to feel so quiet after.
Christopher had asked the first night where Buck was.
Eddie had said, “At his place.”
Like that explained it.
The light ahead turns green.
Eddie presses the gas.
He doesn’t think about ghosts. He thinks about Buck alone in a dark house at 3:17 in the morning.
Eddie drives a little faster.
Eddie turns onto Buck’s street.
The house comes into view at the end of the row — dark except for the faint glow of a streetlamp cutting across the front steps.
Buck is still sitting on the edge of the bed when light sweeps across the bedroom wall — a brief wash of white through the thin curtains before it disappears again.
He exhales, slow and steady, only then realising he’d been holding his breath.
The house creaks once more. Quieter this time. Or maybe it just doesn’t matter as much.
A car door shuts outside. Footsteps crunch against gravel — measured, familiar.
Buck stands.
He doesn’t rush to the door. Doesn’t run.
He just moves.
Because this is still his house.
But Eddie is here now.
And that changes the air in it.
The knock is quiet. Two firm raps against the wood.
Buck has the door open before a third can land.
Eddie stands there in yesterday’s jeans and a worn t-shirt, keys still looped around his fingers. His hair is slightly mussed from sleep, but his eyes are clear — alert.
They move over Buck immediately.
Not the house. His face, shoulders, hands.
A flicker there — something soft, almost tender — when he finds no visible damage.
His jaw tightens anyway.
“You okay?”
Not what happened. Not where is it.
Just that.
Buck huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah. I mean. Probably. It’s just—”
Another faint scrape sounds overhead.
Both of them hear it.
Eddie’s gaze shifts upward for half a second, assessing. Then back to Buck.
“You alone?”
The question lands heavier than it sounds.
Buck nods. “Yeah.”
Eddie steps inside.
No hesitation. No request.
The door clicks shut behind him.
The house creaks again.
Eddie stands still in the foyer, listening. Head tilted slightly. Shoulders loose but ready.
Buck watches him do it — watches the way he takes up space without making it feel crowded.
Protective without being overwhelming.
“I didn’t want to overreact,” Buck says.
Eddie looks at him again. That soft flicker returns.
“You didn’t.”
He nods toward the hallway.
“Show me.”
Not a command. An invitation.
They move down the hallway side by side, shoulders brushing as the space narrows. The attic hatch sits in the ceiling near the end — square, ordinary, suddenly too noticeable.
The house has gone quiet.
Eddie reaches it first. He doesn’t rush. Just listens.
A slow scrape sounds above them.
Directly overhead.
He shifts slightly in front of Buck. Automatic.
Buck notices. Says nothing.
Eddie takes hold of the pull cord, pauses long enough to glance back.
“Stay behind me.”
Soft. Certain.
Buck nods.
The ladder unfolds with a muted clatter. Dust drifts down in a thin veil.
Another shift above them. Not pipes. Not wind.
Weight.
Eddie grabs the flashlight from the console table and clicks it on without looking away from the opening. The beam cuts into darkness.
For a second, there’s only insulation and shadow.
Then—
Movement. A shape in the far corner.
Eddie adjusts the angle.
The shape moves.
Not drifting. Not looming.
Flinching.
A man crouches near the far wall, one arm thrown up to shield his face from the light. Mid-forties, maybe older. Beard overgrown. Clothes rumpled like they’ve been slept in.
He blinks hard against the brightness.
“Don’t—” His voice cracks. “Don’t call anyone.”
Buck’s brain takes a second to catch up.
Not a ghost. Not Bobby.
Just a person.
Eddie’s stance shifts instantly — not less guarded, just recalibrated.
“Who are you?”
The man swallows. “Dwight.”
The name hangs in the attic air.
“I used to live here,” he says quickly. “Before. They… they never really checked.”
Buck feels something cold and strange settle in his stomach.
“How long?” he hears himself ask.
Dwight looks away.
“A while.”
Eddie keeps the flashlight trained but lowers it just enough not to blind him.
“You need to come down,” he says.
Not aggressive. Not kind. Firm.
Dwight’s eyes sharpen. “I’m not hurting anyone.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I’ve been quiet,” Dwight snaps. “You didn’t even know I was here.”
Buck’s stomach turns at that.
Dwight pushes himself up, unsteady but not weak. There’s a sharpness to him now — pride bruised, cornered.
“They kicked me out,” he mutters. “Said I was done here. But this place—” He gestures vaguely around the attic. “This place is mine.”
“It’s not,” Buck says before he can stop himself.
Dwight’s gaze flicks to him. Hard.
“You don’t get it.”
Eddie shifts half a step further forward. Not threatening. Just solid.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says evenly. “You can’t stay.”
Dwight laughs once, brittle. “You gonna drag me out?”
The air tightens. Eddie doesn’t rise to it.
“No,” he says calmly. “But you’re coming down.”
The certainty in it leaves no room for argument.
Dwight hesitates.
Then, with a sharp exhale, he moves toward the ladder.
When Dwight reaches the floor, the hallway suddenly feels smaller.
Buck is acutely aware of the last few weeks — the nights he lay awake under this same ceiling. The sounds he dismissed. The quiet he told himself he could handle.
Dwight brushes dust from his hands, avoiding their eyes.
“I wasn’t going to hurt anyone,” he mutters again, defensive to the end.
Eddie nods once. “Okay.”
It’s not agreement. Just acknowledgment.
Buck swallows. “You’ve been up there… every night?”
Dwight hesitates.
“Yeah.”
The word lands heavier than anything else has tonight.
Eddie’s jaw tightens — subtle, controlled — but his voice stays level.
“We’re calling someone.”
Dwight stiffens.
“It’s not optional,” Eddie says gently.
For the first time since the noise started, the house doesn’t feel eerie.
It feels violated. Real. Human.
And somehow that’s worse.
*
The police lights flash blue and red across the living room walls, muted through the curtains.
Dwight doesn’t fight when they lead him out. He keeps talking — about paperwork, about misunderstandings, about how he wasn’t hurting anyone — but the words fade as the door closes behind him.
The house goes quiet.
Really quiet this time.
Buck stands in the middle of the living room, arms folded tight across his chest.
Eddie watches the tension drain out of him in uneven waves.
“Guess I’m not haunted,” Buck says, a little too bright.
Eddie doesn’t smile. He steps closer instead.
“You thought it was him.”
Buck’s laugh falters.
For a second he looks like he might deflect again — make another joke, brush it off, say something about horror movies and bad wiring.
He doesn’t.
His shoulders drop.
“I didn’t want him to be gone.”
There it is.
No tears. No collapse.
Just truth.
Eddie feels something in his chest shift — something that has nothing to do with attic tenants or old houses.
He moved out to prove he could stand alone.
He called me because he didn’t want to.
Eddie closes the distance the rest of the way.
“You don’t have to grieve him by yourself,” he says quietly.
Buck looks up at him then, really looks at him.
“I know,” he says.
But he doesn’t step away.
For a few minutes, neither of them speaks.
Eddie moves through the house with deliberate calm — checking the back door, the windows, the side gate. Not because the police missed anything. Not because Dwight is coming back.
Just because it’s something he can do.
Buck follows him halfway down the hall before stopping.
“You don’t have to—”
Eddie doesn’t look back. “I know.”
He tests the deadbolt, turns it once, twice.
Buck watches the steady set of his shoulders. The way he occupies the space like he belongs there.
Like he always has.
“You good?” Eddie asks.
Buck nods.
“Yeah.”
He means it a little more this time.
They drift back toward the living room.
Buck picks up the blanket from the couch, smoothing it without thinking.
The house feels different now.
Not haunted.
Not violated.
Just… known.
Eddie leans against the kitchen counter, watching him.
“Bedroom?” he asks, casual.
Buck hesitates — just enough to acknowledge what the question carries.
“Yeah.”
They don’t talk much as they get ready for bed.
Buck changes into an old t-shirt, movements slower now that the adrenaline has burned off. Eddie leaves his jeans on the chair and slides in beside him without ceremony.
The mattress dips.
It feels different this time.
Intentional.
Dark settles around them, softer than before.
For a while, there’s only the steady rhythm of breathing. The faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall. A car passing somewhere outside.
Eddie’s hand rests at Buck’s waist. Not gripping. Not claiming. Just there.
Buck stares at the ceiling for a long moment.
“You didn’t have to come,” he says quietly.
“I know.” “I wanted to.”
The house shifts.
A low, familiar creak from somewhere in the rafters.
Buck goes still.
It’s small — barely noticeable — but Eddie feels it.
He moves closer without hesitation, pressing his chest to Buck’s back, hand flattening warm and steady against his stomach.
“Come here, baby.”
Soft. Reverent.
Protective without edge.
Buck turns into him this time, no resistance, no joke to cover it.
Eddie brushes his thumb once along Buck’s side.
“It’s just the house,” he murmurs.
“You’re safe.”
Buck nods against his collarbone.
“I know.”
And he does.
Another faint knock sounds somewhere overhead.
Buck doesn’t flinch.
Eddie’s thumb keeps tracing slow, absent circles.
The house settles.
So does he.