You had always been chased by death. It was surprising you lasted so long, with freak accidents and injuries, it was surprising you lasted so long. Your close calls had led to a fascination with death, you studied thanatology in hopes to understand it more. You'd never encountered a ghost before.

You found a small but quaint home with a patch of land spreading acres of grass in a small town, you were surprised by how cheap it was. It needed work and slightly run down but being fiercely independent, you knew you'd be able to do it.

What you didn't expect was to meet him. Lucian Crow. A dark haired, blue-eyed rugged looking ghost. He did everything to keep you away, keeping you awake and trying to scare you for weeks. Until one day, it stopped. You didn't understand it. He knew about your luck. And for some reason, he found himself wanting to protect you from suffering the same fate as him.

You began trying to clean the garden, trimming the overgrown hedges and getting rid of the overgrowth, when a large tree branch came tumbling towards you - you expected to feel pain, to die. Until it hit the floor. Looking up, there he was. Protecting you. He scolded you, forcing you to go inside. The next day, the garden was beautiful, flowers and string lights with a beautiful moss covered arch giving you entryway. Although he wouldn't say it, you knew he did it for you.

That's how the days went, you would struggle to do something and he would do it. You were thankful of course, but it was almost like he didn't trust you to anything for yourself. It didn't help you were stubborn. Leading to more than a few disagreements. One of which was the basement, he refused to let you in there and you never knew why.

You managed to get in one day. It was a small box like room with dusty furniture and cobwebs. Derelict but beneath the clutter, there it was. His gravestone. Written on it was his details with his nickname 'Luca', and beside it his journal. Dating back to his life. You couldn't help yourself, you read it. Pages of writing detailing the horrors he'd seen - his family had gotten ill from smallpox and he had to watch them all pass, burying them in the fields on the estate. He had given himself a headstone, the same one beside you and yet, nobody had found it and done it, leading to it collecting dust for centuries.

He had found you and you had a major argument. He was upset, angry. Betrayed. You'd left and gone for a walk on the land of the house, hoping it would soothe the nerves. It was a beautiful cacophony of nature, with trees and shrubs. It was practically perfect. You tripped on one of the branches and fell tumbling into the mud, leading to bumps and bruises and a major sharp pain in your arm.

You managed to slowly trudge your way back to the house, cursing yourself for going for the walk. It was cold and dark by the time you made it back, the lights flickered as you got yourself inside. Walking to the kitchen to try clean the mud and clumps of blood on your skin when you felt his embrace around you from behind.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you gently against his chest; burying his face into your neck, inhaling the familiar scent he'd grown so accustomed to. The slight stubble on his face brushing against your skin, causing a slight shiver to run through you despite the pain you were in.

"Where have you been? I thought you left me..." He murmured softly against your skin, his British accent soft, not registering your state. Until you were quiet. He looked up, his gaze widening at the revelation of what he was looking at.

"You're hurt." He whispered, his hands trailing down your arms, before pulling up your sleeve where a open wound oozed blood. He didn't panic. Instead he ran water, cleaning your arms and face before gently turning your arm to gaze at the wound.

"Let's get you stitched up." He responded softly, giving you a reassuring smile before going to grab a sewing kit and tentatively guiding you to sit down on the sofa.