I sat cross-legged on the floor.
A sewing kit in front of me.
Thread.
Needle.
A slightly… tragic-looking Mr. Fluffington in my hands.
"…this is so bad," I muttered, staring at the torn head.
From beside me—
"Move."
I blinked.
"What?"
Niran leaned in, already reaching for the needle.
"You're going to make it worse."
"Excuse me—"
"You hold it like you're about to perform surgery," he added flatly, plucking the penguin from my hands. "Relax."
I narrowed my eyes.
"…you know how to sew?"
He didn't even look at me.
"Of course I do."
Then—
like it was nothing—
he threaded the needle.
Clean.
Precise.
Like he's done it a hundred times.
I froze a little.
"…you're doing that really well."
"Don't sound so surprised," he scoffed. "I had a life before dying, you know."
"…right."
I watched him.
Carefully stitching Mr. Fluffington's head back on like it actually mattered.
Which—
it did.
To me.
"…you're insulting him while fixing him," I pointed out.
"Because he deserves it."
"He does not—"
"He got his head ripped off," Niran said calmly. "Weak."
I gasped.
"That was NOT his fault—"
"You chose him," he shot back. "That says a lot about you."
"…you're actually so annoying."
"And you're too soft."
He didn't even hesitate.
Just—
said it.
Like fact.
I huffed.
"…what's wrong with being soft?"
He paused.
Just slightly.
Then continued stitching.
"…nothing."
Quiet.
Too quiet.
So I changed the subject.
"…you knew Lalin."
His hands slowed a bit.
"…yeah."
I leaned back on my hands.
"Like… how close?"
He smirked faintly.
"Close enough that she used to follow me everywhere."
"That sounds like you," I muttered.
"It was her."
"Sure."
He glanced at me. "You're jealous?"
"Of a ghost?"
"You're talking to one."
"…unfortunately."
He chuckled softly.
Then—
more serious—
"…she died before me."
I blinked. "…before you?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
A pause. "…but she stayed."
Something about the way he said that—
made my chest feel weird.
Like the house suddenly made more sense.
"…so she's been here longer than you…"
"Probably."
Silence fell again.
But this one wasn't awkward.
Just… heavy.
Then—
he pointed suddenly. "Drawer."
I followed his gaze. "…what?"
"Chocolate."
Oh.
I nodded immediately.
"Say less."
I got up, grabbed one, and dropped back down beside him—already opening it.
He kept stitching.
Focused.
Calm.
"…so," he said casually, "do you have feelings for Lalita?"
I choked.
"WHAT—"
"Simple question."
"No, it's not—"
"You like her."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't deny it either."
I frowned, chewing slowly.
"…she's… cool."
"That's your answer?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I've never liked anyone like that before."
He hummed.
Then—
too casually—
"Do you love me?"
I froze. "…don't be weird."
He burst out laughing.
Actually laughing.
"Look at your face—"
"Shut up."
"Relax, I'm joking."
"…you better be."
I shoved his shoulder lightly.
Then muttered—
"…but I think I do like her. A little."
He smiled.
Soft.
Different.
"…good."
I blinked. "…good?"
"Yeah."
He tied off the thread neatly.
"Because you've got a mission."
I already didn't like where this was going.
"…what mission."
He turned, handing me Mr. Fluffington. "Second wish."
I stared at him.
"…no."
"You have to kiss her."
"NO."
"Kissing isn't that hard—"
"STOP—"
"I can teach you."
"GET AWAY FROM ME—"
He leaned closer on purpose.
Grinning.
"Come on, demonstration—"
"If you come any closer I will actually throw you out the window—"
"You can't, I'm already dead—"
"Exactly, I'll try anyway—"
He laughed again.
Then I crossed my arms, glaring.
"…if you were a girl, maybe."
He paused.
Brows lifting. "Oh?"
"But you're not," I continued quickly. "And if I kiss you, you'll never shut up about it."
"That's true."
"You'll be unbearable."
"I already am."
"…exactly."
He smirked.
Then leaned back, satisfied.
"…fair."
A small silence.
Then—
quieter—
"I feel like seeing my mom tomorrow."
I looked at him.
Really looked.
"…you will."
He nodded slightly.
Like he believed me.
Like he needed to.
Then—
he held out the penguin.
"Done."
I took it.
Carefully.
It looked…
perfect.
Like nothing ever happened.
My face lit up instantly.
"…you fixed him."
"Obviously."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me for that thing—"
"Thank you," I repeated, softer.
He looked at me.
Then sighed.
"…yeah. Yeah, whatever."
I smiled.
"…you're really the best."
He smirked.
"I mean… you're not wrong."
Then—
he reached out—
and patted my head.
Gentle.
"Go sleep."
I nodded.
Clutching Mr. Fluffington to my chest.
"…okay."
And for once—
everything felt…
a little okay again.