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“Do you like eggs?” he asks, so fast it comes out like one long word. He’s back in the fridge again by the time I finish blinking.
“Yes, sir,” I say. “I can just have a peach, though. I don’t want to make any mess.”
He ignores me, but grabs two peaches and tosses them on the counter. “You should change your outfit.”
I look down at myself, raising a brow. “You said I could use…”
“Yes, you can,” he says, holding a pan up for a moment too long. It’s not reflective. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was considering hitting himself with it. “Just… There are clothes. In the bags. By the door. You should be wearing…clothes.”
He smacks the pan on the stove instead, and I poke the aforementioned bag with my foot. There are a few of them, white with silver trim, the paper so thick it could be used as a shipping box. Shoeboxes, too. Inside are a plethora of clothes, from socks and underwear and bras, to leggings and pants and skirts and shirts. There’s a whole bag of dresses, each one fancier than the last.
“This is a ton of stuff…” I peel one skirt out of the bag and hold it up to my hips, bending my knees to make the fabric swish. I can’t wait to spin in this one. “How much did this all cost?”
Ghost shrugs, smacking an egg too aggressively on the counter. “I have no idea, actually,” he says, tossing the shell in the sink and swiping the egg into his hand with a grumble.
“Well, you must have some idea,” I mumble. “The lady at the counter kinda has to tell you before you swipe your card. I think it’s a law.”
He snorts, but covers it with a cough, hiding his mouth behind the cleaning wipes. “I’m positive that’s not a law.”
Manic fireworks burst in my chest. He laughed! Not outright, not yet, but he actually laughed at something I said again.
“It is,” I say, pushing my luck, hoping to keep the momentum going. I set the skirt down and pick up a dress instead. “Don’t inhale that stuff, your brain will rot. What are you making?”
“Breakfast,” he says, flat, not blessing me with another smile. “You’re going to eat.”
My chest tightens as I scramble for something else to say, something to bring that chuckle back to his voice. “With you?”
“No.”
I bite my lip, trying not to panic. He’s all stoic now. “Please?”
“No,” he says again.
“Why not? Did you eat?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Do you…not want to spend time with me?” I ask.
It feels more childish than I meant it to, same as when I asked if he thinks I’m ugly. Which he already answered, and here I am again, begging for attention.
“I mean, I g-get it if you don’t, I don’t blame you. I just like being around you, and it’s your house, so of course I want you to stay. But if I’m being annoying, I…”
“Stop it,” he growls.
“I’m just saying,” I say, “I can be better.”
“You’re not—” He turns, and his words catch in his throat as he takes in the dress.
I hold his eyes and turn to face him, holding the waist down and giving a little spin. The dress flares out even without me in it, and I giggle in excitement. “It’s really pretty, thank you.”
“…annoying me,” he finishes, finally, sounding like he’s got a mouthful of gravel. “You’re not annoying me.”
I smile. Okay, maybe he does like me, and my virgin guess was closer to the truth than what the demons in my mind would like me to believe. “You like this one?”
“No,” he says quickly, then clenches his eyes shut and turns around. “I mean, yes, that’s fine. It’s just fine.”
“I see,” I say. “You could let me pretend you think I’m pretty, you know.”
