The lights in Yibo's hallway flickered again.

He didn't move at first. Didn't blink. He just stared at the ceiling light like it had personally offended him.

It wasn't the first time this week. The old bulbs in the apartment liked to act possessed, but tonight....tonight felt different. The air had a pressure to it. A weight that pressed against his ribs, cold and quiet.

He sat at his desk, hoodie sleeves pulled over his fingers, dry ramen crumbs on his keyboard, and the distinct feeling that someone-something-was watching him.

Yibo swallowed. Loudly.

Then came the footsteps.

Slow. One at a time. A creak....pause another creak.

Right outside his door.

His spine locked up. His eyes darted toward the hallway. The lights flickered again. Once. Twice. Then-buzz-they snapped off.

Every part of him screamed: Don't check. Don’t look. Don’t be stupid.

Naturally, Yibo stood up. Salt jar in one hand, toothbrush in the other.

The door to his room creaked open an inch, all by itself.

Yibo flinched so hard he nearly dropped both weapons. He took one cautious step back, eyes wide, breath caught. He knew the drill. Ghosts liked to announce themselves like that. Lights. Sounds. That cold pit-of-your-stomach sensation like gravity forgot where down was.

And then he saw it.

A figure. Standing still in the hallway light. Backlit like a movie villain.

It didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, shadowed from the neck up. The light refused to touch his face, like even electricity was too scared.

Yibo wanted to bolt. To run. But his legs weren't cooperating.

The figure took one step forward.

Yibo yelped-loud, undignified-and threw the toothbrush.

It passed through the stranger's head without resistance.

Yibo stared. The figure stared back.

That was new. Ghosts usually didn't look so....intact.

The man had clear, gentle features. Neat hair. Soft eyes. Clothes that were clean and expensive-looking, like he'd just walked out of a business lounge instead of the afterlife.

He even looked apologetic. "I'm sorry if I frightened you," the man said, voice calm and completely at odds with the way Yibo's heart was punching his ribs.

Yibo stumbled back until his knees hit the bed frame. "Who the hell are you?" he managed to choke out.

The man didn't come any closer. "I don't know exactly. I just woke up like this. No one else can see me. Then I saw you."

Of course he did. Yibo always had to be the special one. Thanks, Grandpa. What a fantastic gift.

Yibo dropped to his knees and scrambled for the box under his bed, fingers fumbling through his cleansing supplies like his life depended on it. Sage stick. Incense. Protective charm. Emergency whistle-because hey, ghosts hated loud noises, and it had worked once in high school.

He lit the sage with trembling hands. Started waving it wildly in the stranger's direction. "Back! Get out! Return to the spirit realm or wherever you came from!"

The man just stood there. Eyes kind. A little puzzled. "That smells really nice," he said.

Yibo glared at him through the smoke. "Why aren't you choking? Ghosts are supposed to choke!"

"I don't think I'm....fully dead."

Yibo stopped mid-waft. "Excuse me?"

The man's expression shifted. Something sad flickered across his face. "I think I'm in between. Not alive. But not gone, either. I don't remember what happened to me. I don't remember my name."

Yibo, who definitely hadn't just trembled at that, sat down on the floor with a grunt. "You've got the wrong guy. I don't do ghost therapy."

"You're the only one who can see me," the man replied, voice still maddeningly gentle. "Please. I don't want to be alone."

Yibo groaned into his hands. Of course the ghost was hot. Of course he was polite. Of course he was helpless in that sad, soft-spoken, upper-class way.

This was how horror stories turned into dramas.

And Yibo? Yibo had a bad feeling he was about to star in one.

Yibo woke up to the feeling of being watched.

Which wasn't new. But he was usually being watched by spirits from closets or ceilings, not a handsome, tragically polite dead man sitting cross-legged on his desk chair like he lived here.

"Morning," the ghost said.

Yibo screamed.

Just a little.

Just a very manly scream.

Xiao Zhan-because apparently that was his name-tilted his head with a sheepish smile. "Sorry. I didn't mean to stare. You were talking in your sleep. Something about cursed slippers and boiled eggs."

Yibo threw a pillow at him.

It phased through, of course.

"I thought I told you to leave," Yibo grumbled, flopping back onto the bed and dragging the blanket over his face.

"You did," Xiao Zhan agreed. "But I can't. I tried. The farther I walked, the more everything blurred. It's like I'm tied to you now."

Yibo made a muffled groan into the pillow. "This is why I don't make friends. Even ghosts get clingy."

_______________________________

Yibo had never been haunted in the kitchen before.

He stood by the stove, glaring at a pot of water. The noodles he dumped in looked more like a dare than dinner.

Behind him, Xiao Zhan hovered. Not literally-though that wouldn't have surprised Yibo at this point-but close enough to make his skin prickle. The ghost folded his arms, observing Yibo's culinary crimes with the quiet concern of someone watching a toddler operate heavy machinery.

"You're not even seasoning it," Xiao Zhan said, polite as ever.

"I like it plain."

"You're boiling the egg with the wrapper still on it."

"I'm....experimenting."

"Is this how you normally eat?"

Yibo stirred harder, pretending the noodles weren't sticking together like a horror movie prop. "Look, I didn't ask for your opinion or your ghostly cooking critiques. If you're going to haunt me, at least let me suffer in peace."

"I'm not haunting you."

"You're literally in my kitchen while I'm holding a ladle."

"Point taken."

A beat of silence passed. The water boiled aggressively, and Yibo jumped when a bubble popped too close to the edge. He hated this. All of this. He hated ghosts. He hated being watched. And most of all, he hated how not terrible it felt having someone else in the room.

Even if that someone was....mostly dead.

"You live alone?" Xiao Zhan asked quietly.

Yibo didn't answer right away. He poured the noodles into a bowl, sloshing hot water everywhere. "Yes."

"No parents?"

He hesitated. His jaw worked. "They're gone."

A pause.

"I'm sorry," Xiao Zhan said gently. "Was it recent?"

"Depends on how you define 'recent.'" Yibo picked at the eggshell, avoiding eye contact. "It was when I was ten. Car crash. But Grandpa always said it wasn't an accident. Something about consequences. Our bloodline sees ghosts. That makes us a target sometimes. Bad spirits. Curses. It's not a gift. It's a curse dressed up in ceremonial robes."

He dumped the whole mess into a chipped bowl and handed it to Xiao Zhan out of reflex before snatching it back. "Right. You can't eat. Forgot."

Xiao Zhan smiled faintly. "I can still teach."

He reached out-but stopped just short of touching the ladle. "Can I?"

Yibo blinked. "What, possess me and cook through my hands?"

"No! I meant....I can guide you. Step by step."

Yibo rolled his eyes but shoved the bowl aside. "Fine. Teach me, Ramen Whisperer."

______________________________

Over the next twenty minutes, Xiao Zhan directed gently from over Yibo's shoulder-water temperature, timing, seasoning packets in the right order (who knew?), how to crack an egg properly, and that, no, instant noodles do not require the intensity of a five-course meal.

Yibo burned the first batch. The second one, somehow, looked edible.

He took a cautious bite. Chewed. Blinked.

"This is....not bad."

"You sound shocked."

"I am."

Xiao Zhan smiled, and Yibo hated how that made his ears feel hot.

"So," Xiao Zhan said casually, leaning against the counter like a guy who hadn't died, "what do you do all day? When you're not being haunted or setting off fire alarms?"

Yibo shrugged. "I fix old things. Grandpa left behind boxes of talismans and spirit tools. I clean them. Sell some. Use a few. It pays the bills. Not glamorous."

"It's important," Xiao Zhan said. "Helping the dead find peace."

Yibo looked at him for a long moment. "Yeah. But it doesn't mean I like it."

He picked up the bowl again and took another bite, trying to pretend that something inside him wasn't shifting. That this wasn't the first time in years someone had stood beside him in a kitchen and just....stayed.

After the bowl was clean and the pot was only mildly scorched, Yibo leaned back against the counter with arms crossed. Xiao Zhan stood across from him, very much not eating, very much still glowing faintly in the kitchen light like he was part of a dream Yibo didn't sign up for.

He cleared his throat. "So....if you don't remember anything, what do you do remember?"

Xiao Zhan paused, thoughtful. "Nothing clear. Just....feelings. I know I wasn't ready to die. I think I fought to stay. But there was a fall. I remember falling."

"Do you think you were murdered?"

Xiao Zhan blinked. "That escalated quickly."

"I mean," Yibo shrugged, "you're rich-looking, you smell like expensive laundry, and you showed up in my hallway like a ghost with unfinished business. It's murder vibes."

"I'll take that as a compliment?"

Yibo grunted. His curiosity was getting the better of his nerves. Xiao Zhan wasn't like the usual ghosts. There were no violent auras, no temperature drops, no voices in the walls. Just....this unsettling calm. And a face so handsome it was starting to affect his internal systems.

Xiao Zhan tilted his head slightly, like he just remembered something. "Hey....I still don't know your name."

"Yibo," he said simply.

Xiao Zhan nodded. "That fits. Also, I think you're younger than me."

Yibo blinked. "You don't even remember how old you are."

"I can feel it," Xiao Zhan said, very sure of himself. "So until I figure out who I am, you can call me gege."

Yibo stared at him.

"Absolutely not."

"You thought about it," Xiao Zhan said, smiling.

Yibo pushed that last thought far, far down and opened the old chest Grandpa had left in the corner of the room. Inside: a mess of spiritual tools. Copper mirrors. Jade pendants. Charms with symbols in ink long faded.

"You wanna try something?" Yibo asked, grabbing a polished obsidian disk. "If you're stuck here, maybe we can get a reading. Figure out if you're cursed or just annoyingly persistent."

"I'm choosing to believe that wasn't an insult," Xiao Zhan said as he approached.

They sat on the floor, the tools spread out between them in a messy circle. The room was dim, lit only by a warm desk lamp. Xiao Zhan looked almost human in this light. Almost.

Yibo laid the obsidian disc in the center. "This one's supposed to reveal trapped spirits. If you see your own face in it, you're dead."

"I see your face," Xiao Zhan said.

They tried the copper mirror-nothing. The pendulum didn't swing. The paper talisman refused to burn.

"Maybe I'm just a really boring ghost," Xiao Zhan offered.

"Or too polite to register," Yibo muttered. "Even the spirit realm doesn't know what to do with you."

Then it happened.

Xiao Zhan leaned over the mirror again, a little closer this time. His shoulder brushed Yibo's.

Yibo's heart jolted.

He froze.

He was very aware of how close the ghost was. How warm his breath felt, even if it shouldn't have been warm. How ridiculously unfair it was that even the dead could smell faintly like citrus shampoo.

Xiao Zhan turned his head slightly. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Yibo said too fast. Too high.

His ears betrayed him by burning hot. He immediately pretended to be fascinated by a piece of string on the floor. "You're just-uh-you're really close."

"Oh. Sorry." Xiao Zhan shifted back. His expression softened, a little teasing. "You scare easy, don't you?"

"I see dead people," Yibo deadpanned. "I'm allowed to be twitchy."

Xiao Zhan chuckled. "You're interesting, Yibo."

Yibo didn't answer. Couldn't. His brain was still trying to reboot.

He coughed and stood up too quickly, almost knocking over the pendulum. "That's enough ghost science for one night."

Xiao Zhan stood too, watching him with that quiet, unreadable smile.

Yibo cleared his throat. "You sleep on the couch. Or the chair. Or....float in the ceiling. I don't care. Just don't hover over me while I sleep. I will scream again."

Xiao Zhan nodded. "Understood."

And as Yibo turned away, he could feel it-those eyes still on him. Still kind. Still curious.

He hated this.

He hated how his heart was still racing.

And worst of all-he hated that he was starting to hope this ghost would stay.

Yibo wasn't sure what was worse having a ghost follow him everywhere, or having this ghost follow him everywhere.

He sat in the middle row of his Intro to Kinesiology lecture, one leg bouncing, pretending to pay attention. Next to him, Xiao Zhan sat too comfortably for someone not enrolled.

Actually, "sat" wasn't the right word. Xiao Zhan was leaned in, hovering over Yibo's shoulder, face tilted with quiet curiosity like he was grading Yibo's penmanship.

"You write your 'a' like a 9," he said helpfully.

Yibo ignored him.

"You also doodle when you're distracted."

"I'm not distracted," Yibo muttered.

Xiao Zhan pointed to a series of doodled spirals in the margin. "What are these? A portal? A curse? Oh-do they come alive if I stare long enough?"

"They're stress spirals."

"From me?"

"Yes."

"Aw." Xiao Zhan looked far too pleased.

Yibo didn't say anything. He just kept scribbling in the corner of his notes until Xiao Zhan got bored and straightened up, glancing around the room like a kid on a field trip.

"I missed this," Xiao Zhan said suddenly. "Classrooms. The smell of paper and pens."

The words hung in the space between them, soft and nostalgic.

Yibo kept writing, but the edge of his pen slowed. His spirals in the margin stretched out.

"Do you have a favorite subject?" Xiao Zhan asked, voice low, like he didn't want to disturb the air.

Yibo shrugged. "Not really."

"That's a lie," Xiao Zhan said lightly, amused. "You write more neatly when you're focused. You like body mechanics. You focus when the professor talks about joints and muscles."

Yibo hesitated. "I guess."

"Kinesiology?"

Yibo nodded, not looking at him. "It used to make sense to me. Back when I trained."

Xiao Zhan straightened slightly. "You trained?"

"I was an athlete."

Something flickered across his face the-quick, unreadable. His pen moved again, but the writing was looser now.

Xiao Zhan leaned in just enough to see. "What kind of athlete?"

"Track. Sprinting," Yibo said, keeping his tone casual, like he was naming a random item off a list.

Xiao Zhan studied him quietly for a moment. His smile softened, not teasing this time. "You must've been good."

"I was fast." Yibo's eyes stayed on his notebook.

Xiao Zhan opened his mouth like he might ask more, but stopped. The way Yibo's shoulders had shifted-stiffer, drawn in-told him enough. Whatever made him stop, it wasn't something he wanted to talk about. Not here. Not now.

So he didn't ask.

He sat back, gaze drifting toward the window. "I was in drama club."

That made Yibo glance sideways. ".....Really?"

"I liked pretending to be other people," Xiao Zhan said with a small shrug. "Different lives. Different endings."

Yibo made a small noise that might've been a scoff or a laugh. "Explains a lot."

Xiao Zhan grinned. "Doesn't it?"

Their professor's voice echoed from the front, half-muffled. Yibo's pen stilled, then started again-back to scribbles, back to spirals.

Xiao Zhan didn't say anything more. But he stayed close.

And this time, Yibo didn't shift away.

______________________________

After class, Yibo slipped out without waiting for the crowd to clear. He didn't like the press of bodies or the noise of people pretending to be interesting. He preferred quiet corners, shade, and breathing room.

He found a bench tucked under a tree, halfway cracked and crooked on one side, and settled down with a microwaved sandwich and a can of coffee. The sandwich was barely warm and the bread had that sad bend it always got when you over-zapped it.

Xiao Zhan followed.

Of course he did.

He sat beside Yibo like it was the most natural thing in the world-legs crossed neatly, spine straight, posture too perfect for someone who didn't technically exist.

"You always eat alone?" he asked, glancing around like he was still mapping out the living world.

Yibo shrugged. "Yeah."

"Why?"

"I don't like crowds."

"Well," Xiao Zhan said, gesturing vaguely in the direction of campus, "you sit in class with twenty other people."

"They don't annoy me. I like that."

Xiao Zhan tilted his head, eyes thoughtful. "Do you have friends?"

Yibo raised a brow without answering.

"Okay, okay, dumb question," Xiao Zhan said, holding up both hands. "What about....a girlfriend? Lover?"

Yibo gave him a long, unimpressed look.

"What?" Xiao Zhan asked, grinning like he hadn't just crossed several personal boundaries in one breath. "You're handsome. You walk around and people do glance at you."

Yibo looked away. "Shut up."

"I'm just saying. Someone should've snapped you up already."

"Maybe I repel people."

"Is it the hoodie?" Xiao Zhan teased, nudging his arm.

"It's my sparkling personality."

Xiao Zhan let out a soft laugh. It wasn't loud or exaggerated-just warm and real. It sat between them in the open air like it belonged there.

"I think you're interesting," he said after a pause.

Yibo didn't look at him. "Yeah, well. You're dead. You don't count."

"Debatable." Xiao Zhan murmured, shoulder lightly brushing Yibo's. "I'm still making you blush."

"I'm not-" Yibo stopped, groaned, and bit into his sandwich like it could save him from this conversation.

His ears were warm again. He could feel it. Damned traitor ears.

Why did this ghost talk so much?

______________________________

The rest of the day was worse.

Xiao Zhan, apparently still discovering what ghosthood meant, decided to test his limits. Enthusiastically.

He walked through walls. Through people. Through trees.

The lights flickered every time he passed under one. One poor girl near the vending machines yelped and spun around, clutching her phone like it might protect her from invisible death.

Yibo watched from a distance with a sigh that came from somewhere deep and exhausted.

Xiao Zhan tried touching random object-benches, lockers, classroom doors. A vending machine gave a sad hum and refused to dispense anything. A projector in one lecture hall flickered violently and died on the spot.

"That one shocked me," Xiao Zhan said, pulling his hand back. "Is that normal?"

"No," Yibo replied without looking up. "Stop touching things."

"You never let me have any fun."

"You're not supposed to have fun. You're supposed to float around being tragic and memory-less."

Xiao Zhan beamed and continued pushing on a door handle that clearly wasn't built for incorporeal interaction. "You think I'm tragic?"

"I think you're a lot."

They passed by the track. The sky was shifting now-less blue, more gold, the kind of late afternoon light that made even cracked pavement look soft.

Yibo slowed a little. Just enough to notice the runners on the field. Short bursts of speed. The echo of whistles. Sneakers against rubber.

He didn't stop. But his gaze lingered.

Xiao Zhan turned to look too, then turned back to watch Yibo instead.

Not openly. Just a glance. Quiet. Curious. Like he was standing in front of something delicate and half-forgotten.

Yibo said nothing. His expression didn't change, but his hands had gone still at his sides.

Xiao Zhan didn't ask.

He just fell into step beside him again, walking in silence. Not bothering to phase through anything this time.