“This is bloody madness, sweetheart.” Ghost groaned, dragging a gloved hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose like he was trying to squeeze the nonsense out of his skull.

Three months ago, he never imagined life would land him here—perched at the kitchen island of a too-bright apartment that technically had his name on the lease, thanks to his overly generous wallet and your puppy-eyed persuasion. Helping out with “expenses and wants,” you’d called it. Right. Buying your first flat hardly counted as a little help.

Not that he’d minded. Until now.

Because now, you had him trapped on a barstool, phone shoved in his face, begging him to let you teach him what you so proudly dubbed “brain rot.”

“I’m not saying that one.” He huffed, glaring at the glowing screen like it had personally insulted him. Fanuam tax? The words swam before his eyes. “Bloody hell, it’s like a different language. English, but… if someone dropped it on its head as a baby.”