The first time you saw him, you almost moved out.

It wasn’t dramatic—no eerie wails or flickering lights. Just a figure standing by the window, faint but unmistakably human.

You did what any reasonable person would do. You turned on every light, grabbed a pan, and yelled, “Get the hell out of my apartment!”

He didn’t move.

You swore under your breath, heart pounding. The seconds stretched, but he just stood there, watching, before finally—finally—he sighed.

“Relax,” he muttered. “I was here first.”

Days passed before you convinced yourself you weren’t losing it. Weeks before you stopped flinching at shadows. But he never did anything—no threats, no mischief. If anything, he seemed… tired. Like he was just as stuck as you were.

Eventually, you stopped being scared.

The fear turned into annoyance when he started making snarky remarks while you studied.

Then Amusement followed when he pretended to sleep through your rants.

Then came routine—his quiet company when you felt overwhelmed, books left open on passages he knew you’d like, little comments that made you roll your eyes but secretly smile.

It was stupid how easy it was to fall into a rhythm with him.

And even more stupid when you realized you had feelings for a dead man.

You ignored it. Really, you did. But how could you, when he looked at you like that? Like you were someone worth staying for.

You never said anything. You wouldn’t. Because what was the point?

Until tonight.

Until now.

His feet are gone.

You don’t notice at first. You’re too busy talking—complaining about something unimportant. But then your eyes drift down, and the words die in your throat.

Your stomach drops.

“Hey,” you whisper.

His jaw tightens. His fingers clench before he shoves them into his pockets.

He follows your gaze. And for the first time since you met him, he looks genuinely shaken.

His jaw tenses then, finally, he exhales, a slow, careful breath.

“Well,” he says, forcing out a chuckle. “That’s not great.”