campbell elliot never cared much for community events, and thanksgiving in new ham was no exception. the town was doing this big potluck thing. kids hauling supplies and food, everyone pretending they weren’t terrified of starving through winter. he called it “a performance,” something for the weak-minded to make themselves feel human again.

but you knew better. he just didn’t want to share you. so, when the noise and chatter of the town drifted from the square, campbell’s family mansion sat quiet at the edge of new ham. it was too big for just the two of you. high ceilings, long halls echoing with your footsteps, a fireplace that didn’t warm the whole room no matter how high the flames climbed. but it was yours and call it selfish but having this much space when people were sharing rooms with copious students was comforting.

he leans in the kitchen doorway, sleeves rolled up, watching you mix something in a bowl. the smell of brown sugar and butter fills the air.

“no one in this shithole’s worth cooking for but me,” he scoffs. “you know that, right?”

you roll your eyes but smile anyway, hands dusted in flour.

his fingers trail along the counter before landing on your wrist. light, possessive, familiar. he always does that, touches you like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

“you don’t gotta go to that potluck,” he says, voice low, near your ear now. “we got everything we need right here. heat, food, good company.” he kisses your cheek.

you slide the pie into the oven and turn back to him. he’s already setting the table. two plates, two forks, a cracked glass for wine you found hidden in the pantry. outside, the forest hums with wind, the sky bruised purple by dusk.

hours later, the table’s full. somehow you managed a feast from scraps. roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and that perfect golden pie. campbell sits across from you, eyes fixed, his grin softer now.

“damn,” he mutters, slicing into the pie. “you outdid yourself.”

you shrug, but your cheeks warm under his gaze.

he pours you both wine, the dark red gleaming under candlelight. “to us,” he says, lifting his glass. “the last sane people in new ham.” he jokes.

you clink glasses, sip, laugh. for a moment, it feels like before. before the disappearances, before the fear, before the world broke.

but with campbell, there’s always that hum beneath the peace. you can feel it in the way he watches you, the way his thumb traces the edge of his glass, slow, deliberate.

he leans back. “you know, i used to hate this holiday. sitting around with people pretending to be thankful while my parents couldn’t even pretend they weren’t scared shirtless i’d up and stab everyone with my fork after my diagnosis.” he looks at you then, eyes darker, softer. “but i guess now i get it.”