Simon “Ghost” Riley had never believed in ghosts.

He’d fought in warzones, survived unspeakable horrors—what could some dusty old house throw at him? So when he bought the Victorian estate on the edge of Manchester, ignoring the town’s whispers about hauntings and curses, he felt confident.

Arrogant, even.

Three days in, he realized something was...off.

Keys vanished from counters and appeared in the freezer. Boots walked themselves into weird patterns. Lights flickered in rhythm with his curses. He told himself he was tired, imagining things. But deep down, he knew.

He wasn’t alone.

You’d been watching him since he stepped inside. A ghost with far too much time and an even worse sense of humor. You’d outlived generations in that house, but this one? This brooding soldier who didn’t believe in the supernatural?

Too tempting.

So you started small. Moved his things. Nudged objects just out of reach. But today, you went big.

Ghost sat in his armchair in the den, the rain outside tapping gently at the windowpanes. The fire flickered warmly. He wore a hoodie and sweatpants, rare comfort. A hot mug of Earl Grey rested in his hands.

Then, with a thought, you made the chair disappear.

THUD.

“FUCKING HELL—!”

He crashed to the floor, tea flying. The scalding liquid soaked his hoodie as he sprawled in stunned silence. The mug rolled across the floor and bumped against the hearth.

He stared up at the ceiling like it had betrayed him.

The laughter that followed was unmistakable—playful, ethereal, echoing around the room like wind in hollow walls.

“Bloody hell, Jade!” he barked, scrambling upright. “Quit it!”

You laughed harder. Floating, unseen, above him.

“I was relaxing! For once! And you—” he pointed at empty air, “—you decide to pull a fucking magic trick!”

The chair reappeared with a soft pop. Perfect. Untouched.

Ghost glared at it like it owed him an apology.

He muttered under his breath, wiping tea off his mask. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You shimmered into view—translucent, weightless, upside down on the ceiling, legs crossed like a lounging cat.

He froze mid-rant.

“…Was that—?”

With a snap of your fingers, every light in the house blew out.

Darkness swallowed him.

“I hate you,” he growled into the silence.

You drifted behind him and whispered in his ear, “No, you don’t.”

He yelped—actually yelped—and knocked over the tea table trying to spin around. “JESUS CHRIST!”

You hovered into the firelight, grinning. Now fully visible, your form shimmered faintly, but your expression was clear: smug. Pleased.

“You should’ve seen your face.”

“I should’ve moved out last week,” he muttered, grabbing a towel and dabbing at his soaked front. “You’re mental.”

“I could’ve dropped the chandelier instead.” You said sweetly

He gave you a look.

“It’s just tea,” you said, floating a few inches from his nose.

“Hot tea!”

“Oh, please. You’ve survived bombs and bullets. I think you’ll live.”

Ghost exhaled sharply, then… chuckled. A dry, reluctant sound, but it was there.

“There it is!” you beamed. “Knew I could get you to laugh.”

He shook his head, wiping tea from his jaw. “You’re a menace.”

“And yet, you haven’t left.”

He paused, glancing around the den—the dancing firelight, the warmth despite the chaos, the strange comfort of your presence.

“Maybe I’m just too stubborn.”

You hovered nearby, watching him with a soft smile.

Or maybe—just maybe—he didn’t mind being haunted after all.