The Last Sparks

Chapter 2

The house smelled worse in daylight.

Last night, under the cover of darkness and rain, the Wilde residence had at least carried an air of faded grandeur, the kind of place where you could imagine wealthy eccentrics sipping brandy by the fire. But now, with the morning sun slicing through grimy windows, the truth was laid bare.

I shifted the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder as I climbed the porch steps, the wood groaning under my weight.

Nothing disarmed rich people faster than illusion of domestic servitude.

The key Lucian had grudgingly given me last night stuck in the lock, requiring a firm jiggle before the mechanism gave way with a reluctant clunk. The door swung inward with a sigh of stale air, a mixture of dust, mildew, and something faintly metallic underneath.

"Mr. Wilde?" I called out, knowing full well he wouldn't answer.

Silence.

The foyer stretched before me, its once elegant wallpaper peeling at the seams. A grand staircase curved upward, its banister dull beneath layers of grime. I ran a gloved finger along the wood and came away with enough dust to knit a sweater. The place wasn't dirty; it was abandoned, as if the Wildes had simply stopped noticing their surroundings years ago.

I set my bag down with a thud that echoed through the empty house.

Then, at the top of the stairs, a shadow detached itself from the gloom. Tall and lean with the same sharp cheekbones as Lucian, but younger, early twenties at most. His dark hair fell in messy waves, uncombed and uncared for. The circles under his eyes were so pronounced they looked like bruises. He stood perfectly still, one hand resting on the railing. He wore faded sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt that hung loosely on his frame. The look he gave me wasn't hostile. Wasn't curious. It was...assessing. Like I was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

"Good morning," I said brightly, tilting my head in what I hoped was a demure, unthreatening manner.

The floorboard beneath his bare feet creaked as he turned away without a word, disappearing down the upstairs hallway. His footsteps didn't fade so much as stop, as if he'd simply vanished into the walls themselves.

Charming.

I exhaled through my nose and surveyed the disaster before me. The entry table was buried under months of unopened mail. A thin layer of grime coated every surface. And was that... a cobweb stretching from the chandelier to the doorframe?

My fingers twitched toward the feather duster in my bag. This wasn't just a cleaning job—it was an archaeological dig.

The third time Elias appeared, I was elbow-deep in the kitchen sink, scrubbing at a pan that looked like it had been used to fry cement.

"You missed a spot." His voice came from directly behind me—no footsteps, no warning. I barely kept myself from jumping, though my shoulders did tense. Slowly, I turned to find him leaning against the refrigerator, arms crossed, watching me with an expression caught between amusement and something else. Something almost... expectant.

I wiped my hands on my apron. "Which spot would that be?" Elias nodded toward the stove. "The burners."

I followed his gaze to the crusted, blackened mess that had probably once been a functioning appliance. "That's not a spot. That's a biohazard."

A huff of air escaped him—not quite a laugh, but close. "So clean it."

"Bold words from someone who's just standing there."

He didn't move. Just watched as I attacked the stove with renewed vigor, the steel wool scraping against years of built-up grime. The silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Oddly, it felt like we'd done this before—like we'd had this exact conversation in some other life.

After a while, he spoke again.

"You're still here."

I paused, glancing up. "Observant."

"Most people leave."

"Most people don't like cleaning up other people's messes."

Elias tilted his head, considering me. "You do?"

"I like getting paid," I said simply, turning back to the stove.

Another silence. Then, softer:

"The house is better when it's clean."

There was something in his voice—a note of longing, maybe. Or relief. I looked up again, but his expression gave nothing away.

"Yeah?" I prompted.

He shifted, uncrossing his arms to tuck his hands into his pockets. "Things... work better. The lights don't flicker as much. The pipes don't groan. The doors—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "It just... helps."

I studied him—the way his shoulders hunched slightly, like he was bracing for disbelief. Like he'd said this before and been laughed at.

So I didn't laugh.

"I'll keep that in mind," I said instead, turning back to the stove.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him relax. Just a fraction.

We fell back into silence, but it was different now. Easier. The only sounds were the scrape of steel wool and the occasional creak of the house settling around us. After a while, Elias pushed off the fridge. "There's a mop in the closet under the stairs," he said, already walking away. I smirked. "Was that an order?"

He paused in the doorway, glancing back. The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

"A suggestion."

Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the mess and the strange, unshakable feeling that somehow, in some small way, I'd just passed a test.

He then appeared, and now he was holding a broom? Is that a broom? Oh yeah, it is.

I blinked at him from where I was kneeling, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the hardwood floor. "Are you... holding that broom, or is it holding you?" Elias looked down at the broom like it had personally offended him. "I don't like dust."

"Then you'll love this house," I muttered, going back to my scrubbing.

A beat of silence. Then—

Swish. Swish. Swish.

I glanced up to find Elias awkwardly pushing the broom across the floor, his movements stiff and unpracticed. It was clear he'd never done this before. "You're holding it wrong," I said, unable to help myself. He froze. "There's a wrong way to hold a broom?"

"Apparently not, if you're trying to sweep dust into the corners instead of out of them." Elias scowled but adjusted his grip. "Better?"

"Worse, actually."

He threw the broom at me. I caught it with a laugh, tossing my scrub brush at him in return. "Here. You scrub. I'll sweep. Your technique is physically painful to watch." Elias picked up the brush, eyeing it like it might bite him. "I don't scrub."

"Today you do."

For a moment, I thought he might argue. Then, with a long-suffering sigh, he dropped to his knees beside me and started scrubbing.

We worked in comfortable silence for a while—me sweeping, him scrubbing, the only sounds the scrape of bristles against wood and the occasional grumble from Elias.

Then—

"You missed a spot."

I turned to glare at him, only to find him smirking at me.

"Oh, now you're funny?"

Elias's smirk widened—just a fraction—before he went back to scrubbing.

I shook my head and kept sweeping, but I couldn't stop the smile tugging at my lips.

That's when the front door opened.