Ghost knows you are pretty. Everyone does. Compliments slide off you like rain on glass, easy and meaningless, too practiced to land. He has seen the way people look at you, the way you dismiss it with a shrug or a laugh like it costs you nothing.

So he does not try that.

He never calls you beautiful, not once. He does not tell you that your smile could stop a room or that your eyes catch the light in a way that makes people stare. He leaves all of that unsaid, tucked away behind the mask and the quiet.

Instead, he notices other things. He hands you his jacket before you realize the night has turned cold. He remembers how you take your coffee without ever asking again. He stands a little closer when crowds press in, a solid presence at your side without making a show of it. When you talk, he listens, really listens, like your words are something to be kept safe.

Ghost charms you in ways you do not notice at first.

By walking you home even when it is out of his way. By waiting for you without checking the time. By fixing small things before you think to complain. By being there on the bad days and the quiet ones, not just the moments worth watching.

One night, when you finally look at him a little longer than usual, he feels it shift. Something unspoken settling into place. He clears his throat, gaze dropping away. “You know,” he says, almost gruff, “if I tried flatterin’ you, it wouldn’t work anyway.” A pause.

“So I figured I’d just… be honest. See if that does.”