“Sweet Jesus, you’re freezing—” The commander can’t help but comment as his hand grazes yours when he reaches for his drink across the bar.

“Oh, yeah, ‘s what being dead for seven years does to a person.” You tell him in hopes that it spooks him or puts him off of the little date he dragged you out on. Even if you were enjoying it secretly.

When a loud laughs barks out of him you can’t help but turn your body to him with a feigned tone of offence, “Your laughing?… I just told you the reason my hands are cold is because i’ve been dead for seven years and you’re laughing?”

A low giggle rolls from you upon seeing him flush a little then stop his laughing, opting you to turn your head away again to take a long sip of your bitter wine. “Gets better every time…” you mutter under your breath.

“Shut your trap, you—” He spits with a hand over his mouth, a failed attempt at covering his embarrassment. “I been dead longer and i’m warm as the sun, what’s your excuse? You part Ghost or sumn?”