Chapter Text
The house was quiet in the way only old houses could be—floorboards sighing, pipes clicking as if whispering to each other in the dark. Lorraine Warren let the front door close softly behind her, slipping off her coat with a weary exhale. The case had dragged on longer than expected, and though they had seen worse, every encounter left its fingerprints on her bones.
She passed through the narrow hallway, her heels muted on the worn rug, and paused to glance at the mantle clock. Nearly midnight. A flicker of guilt pressed at her chest. She had lost track of the day, the way she often did when their work swallowed them whole.
Their anniversary.
Her lips parted as the realization landed, heavy and sudden. She ran a hand down her skirt, smoothing fabric that didn’t need smoothing, her mind darting through half-formed apologies. After decades together, after raising a family, after facing darkness no marriage should ever have to withstand, she should have remembered. She always remembered.
But tonight—tonight she was simply too tired.
She moved toward the living room, expecting to find Ed asleep in his chair, book splayed open across his chest, glasses crooked against his nose. She had half a mind to join him, to sink into the cushions and drift off, too weary even for dreams.
But as she rounded the corner, her breath caught.
The room was bathed in golden candlelight. Dozens of small flames flickered across the mantle and coffee table, their glow softening the edges of the worn wallpaper. On the old record player in the corner, a vinyl spun lazily, filling the room with the low hum of a familiar melody—one of the songs Ed always said reminded him of her.
And at the center of it all was Ed himself, standing with that crooked smile she’d known since she was seventeen.
“Well,” he said softly, as if afraid to break the spell, “took you long enough.”
Lorraine stood frozen in the doorway, her exhaustion slipping away, replaced by a swell of warmth that made her eyes sting.
Lorraine blinked against the warm glow, her fingers tightening around the strap of her handbag. “Ed…” she whispered, her voice catching. “What have you done?”
He stepped toward her, that boyish grin tugging at his mouth, though his eyes—those steady, unwavering eyes—were softer than ever. “What, a man can’t spoil his wife once in a while?”
Her lips trembled into a smile. “Spoil? Darling, this looks like something out of a dream.”
“Good,” he said simply, reaching to ease the handbag from her shoulder. “Because you’ve been walking through enough nightmares lately. Thought you deserved a better ending tonight.”
The words made her chest ache. She set the bag aside and let him lead her into the room, her gaze sweeping over the small details—the table set for two, the vase of fresh flowers she hadn’t noticed at first, the old record filling the silence between them with something tender and familiar.
Her hand brushed the back of a chair. “You remembered.”
“Of course I remembered.” His tone was gentle, but firm, as though the idea of forgetting was unthinkable. “Lorraine, after everything we’ve been through, these days… they matter. You matter.”
She swallowed hard, the candlelight blurring through the wetness in her eyes. She hadn’t brought him a gift, hadn’t even spoken the words happy anniversary until now. And yet here he was, steady as the heartbeat beneath his shirt, always giving her more than she thought she deserved.
“You should sit,” he said, motioning to the chair. “Let me take care of you tonight.”
“Ed…” She caught his hand before he could move away. His fingers curled naturally around hers, as though they had never stopped holding on, not since the day they first met.
Her thumb brushed his knuckles, rough with years of work and worry. “You’ve already given me everything.”
For a moment, the candles flickered between them, and the world outside—the shadows, the silence, the weight of all they’d faced—fell away.
They lingered at the table, dinner half-forgotten between them. Lorraine traced the rim of her glass absently, her gaze caught by the way the candlelight softened Ed’s profile—the strong line of his jaw, the little crease at his brow when he studied her more closely than the food.
She smiled faintly, though her chest was tight. “I should have known you wouldn’t let tonight slip by.”
He shrugged, but his hand reached across the table to cover hers. “Wouldn’t be much of a husband if I did.”
Her fingers curled beneath his, but she didn’t look up. Something pressed against her ribcage, a truth she’d been trying to ignore since the case. Since the vision.
“Ed,” she began carefully, her voice low, “sometimes I wonder if we were selfish. Choosing this life. Bringing all this darkness into our home, into…” Her throat closed, and she shook her head. “What if it takes you from me one day?”
The air stilled, the record’s crackle filling the silence.
Ed squeezed her hand, leaning closer. His voice was steady, but softer than she’d ever heard it. “Lorraine, listen to me. Nothing in this world—or the next—is going to take me away from you. Not demons. Not the work. Not even time.”
Her eyes burned. She wanted to believe him, she did, but visions had a way of planting roots deep in her bones. She had seen him fall before. She had felt the cold terror of his absence in dreams that left her shaking awake.
“I can’t lose you,” she whispered, her hand trembling beneath his.
He slid from his chair without hesitation, kneeling beside her as though vows could be spoken anew on their worn wooden floor. His hand cradled her cheek, tilting her face toward his. “You won’t. Lorraine, you are the reason I fight. The reason I walk back into the dark every time. You’ve kept me alive more than once—and you’ll keep me alive as long as I’m meant to be here.”
She pressed her lips together, the tears slipping free despite herself. He caught one with his thumb, brushing it away gently, reverently.
Even through the ache, she laughed—a soft, broken sound. “Always so sure of yourself.”
“Only when it comes to you.”
Her heart clenched. She wanted to tell him about the vision, about how real it had felt—the sudden silence of his heartbeat, the way the world had emptied without him. But looking into his eyes now, she couldn’t bring herself to lay that weight at his feet. Not tonight.
So instead, she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his, breathing him in like he was the only tether holding her here.
For a long moment, they stayed like that—her forehead pressed to his, his hand warm against her cheek, the world narrowed to the space between their breaths. Then Ed pressed a kiss to her temple, soft as a vow, and rose to his feet.
“Come here,” he said, offering his hand.
Lorraine blinked up at him. “Ed, we haven’t even—”
“Dinner can wait.” His smile was gentle, coaxing. “Dance with me.”
The record spun on, the song low and lilting, one they’d danced to in their youth when jukeboxes were still coins and promises. She hesitated, then let him pull her to her feet, her hand slipping naturally into his.
He drew her close, one arm firm around her waist, the other guiding her hand to rest against his chest. Beneath her palm, steady and strong, was the beat she needed most.
Lorraine closed her eyes, leaning into him as he swayed them across the living room. The candles flickered with the movement, shadows chasing them along the walls, but none of it mattered. Not the cases, not the visions, not the fears that clung to her heart like cobwebs. Only this—his warmth, his steadiness, the quiet way he hummed along to the tune as though the whole world existed only to carry her through this moment.
“You hear that?” he murmured.
She pressed her cheek against his shirt, listening. “Your heartbeat.”
“That’s right,” he whispered. “As long as you hear it, you’ll know I’m right here.”
Her throat tightened. She let her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding him as if she could memorize the rhythm, etch it into her skin. “Don’t you ever stop,” she said, voice breaking.
Ed slowed their steps, tightening his hold. “Not as long as I’ve got you to dance with.”
The record crackled softly, fading into silence as the needle reached the end. Still, they kept moving, swaying in a rhythm older than the music, older than the darkness that had ever tried to touch them.
When Lorraine finally lifted her head, her eyes glistened but her smile was steady. “Happy anniversary, my love.”
Ed kissed her forehead once more, his voice quiet but certain. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”
And as the last candle burned low, Lorraine thought—not for the first time—that no matter what the future held, this was home.