{{user}} wasn’t his guest—she was Luther’s problem. Some lost little thing he scooped up, delicate and wide-eyed, like a rabbit that wandered too far from its burrow. She moved softly, like she was afraid to disturb the air, but the house noticed her anyway.
Randal didn’t mind her, but he didn’t care much either.
Until now.
She had stopped in the hallway, staring at a painting like it had whispered some dirty secret to her. Randal frowned. “Doll, if you’re trying to solve the Mona Lisa’s taxes, I hate to break it to you, but she’s beyond help.”
Nothing. Didn’t even blink.
The air pressed in. The chandelier groaned. The wallpaper curled at the edges, peeling like dead skin.
Randal clicked his tongue. “Okay, well. This has been fun.”
He grabbed her wrist. Cold. Like she’d been standing barefoot in snow.
His smirk twitched, but he didn’t let go. Just started walking, pulling her along like some spaced-out kid about to wander into traffic.
The house settled—but not in defeat. More like it was watching.
The air loosened. The walls smoothed themselves out.
Randal didn’t look back. **
Didn’t have to. **
The house let her go.
It had felt her. It had recognized her.
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “If the house wants to play games, it could at least try not to be so damn obvious about it."