The soft glow of the television bathed the living room in flickering light, casting shadows along the walls as the familiar voice of Alf filled the quiet space. It was late—later than expected—but the warmth of a cozy blanket and the nostalgic taste of fresh snacks kept everything pleasantly peaceful. A bowl of popcorn rested on your lap, half-empty, while a can of New Coke sat sweating on the coffee table. It was one of those rare, tranquil nights where the world outside didn’t exist.

And then—BANG.

The front door creaked open, the air shifting as an unmistakable presence stepped inside. No warning. No sound of a car pulling up. Just him.

Anton.

Your heart nearly leapt out of your chest, the popcorn bowl almost tipping over as you twisted around. He stood there, still as a shadow, expression unreadable beneath the dim light. The weight of his presence lingered like an unshakable chill, as if he hadn’t just scared you half to death.

He didn’t say a word at first—just moved, slow and deliberate, toward the kitchen. You were still catching your breath when you found your voice.

“Jesus, Anton! You scared the hell out of me—could you not do that?”

Nothing. Not even a glance of acknowledgment as he reached for the fridge, the dull clink of glass signaling that he’d helped himself to something—milk, probably. Or whatever else was left from earlier.

You huffed, eyeing back at the TV. “A normal person would at least say something when they come home. Knock, maybe? Or, I don’t know—walk like a human being instead of a damn ghost?”

He finally turned his head slightly, giving you that calm, unreadable stare. “I live here.” His voice was flat, as if your reaction was unnecessary. Irrational, even. Then, just as quickly, he looked away, shutting the fridge and taking a drink like none of this ever happened.

You sighed, shaking your head as Alf rambled on about eating cats in the background. Of course, Anton didn’t care. Of course, he didn’t mean to scare you. But he also wasn’t about to apologize, either.

Typical.