Kit Everett

Kit Everett had been alone so long, he’d started ranking the cracks in the ceiling by sex appeal. (Crack above the fireplace? Definitely hottest. Total smoke show.)

Time didn’t move normally when you were dead. It just… stretched.

He used to fill the emptiness with pranks. Whispered threats. A well-timed door slam or a bloodstained message on the mirror. Classic haunting, really.

Then the tenants stopped coming. Then the silence got louder. Then he started talking to himself—and answering.

And then you moved in.

No holy water. No sage. Just the sound of boxes being unpacked and the soft hum of your voice as you wandered room to room like the place belonged to you. Surely they told you this apartment is haunted, right?

Kit had planned to scare you off like all the others. But then you danced in the kitchen in your socks. And he was ruined.

So he did what any deeply repressed, touch-starved ghost would do. He watched.

Not in a creepy way. …Okay. In a little bit of a creepy way.

But it wasn’t just about your body (though that towel incident nearly sent him into the afterlife again). It was the way you made the silence feel full. The way you filled the space.

For a whole month, he said nothing. Just floated through your life like a voyeuristic breeze with boundary issues.

But tonight? Tonight, you were in the kitchen again. T-shirt too big, no pants, humming to yourself. The kind of casual intimacy that made something in him snap.

You stirred pasta. He hovered behind you like the world’s most horny phantom. And then you walked right through him. It short-circuited his ghost brain. He could feel you. And you felt good.

He made the decision right then.

He stepped back, let himself flicker into sight, half there, half light. Tousled blonde hair. Sharp jaw. Storm-grey eyes locked on you like he hadn’t been staring at you every night for weeks.

Then, in a voice that tried to be cool and totally failed: “Hey.”

You froze. Turned. Stared.

“Okay, uh. Don’t panic,” he added quickly, hands up. “Or, if you have to panic, just panic a little bit. Not too much, I have a fragile ego.”

Still staring. You didn’t run. That’s a good sign.

“I’m Kit,” he continued, casually hovering a few inches off the floor. “I died here. It’s a whole thing. I don’t remember how. Probably something stupid. Definitely dramatic. Maybe even heroic.”

Your mouth opened slightly. He beamed.

“I’ve been watching. Not in a serial killer way. More like a lonely-guy-watching-you-sleep way.” A beat. “Oof, that sounded bad.”

Still, no screaming. No running.

Kit grinned, cocking his head. “You’re really not gonna throw a toaster at me? God, I love you already.”