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"We don't belong here," Elian whispered, tugging at the collar of his suit.
The suit was a rental. It smelled slightly of mothballs and despair. It was also a size too big, making Elian look like a kid playing dress-up in his father's closet.
"Nonsense," Lyra said, floating beside him. "You look dashing. Very 'James Bond on a budget'."
They were standing outside the Grand Oak Hotel. Inside, a massive wedding reception was in full swing. Crystal chandeliers, a jazz band, and a buffet table that stretched for miles.
"We weren't invited," Elian hissed, hiding behind a potted plant near the entrance.
"It's a bucket list item!" Lyra argued. "Item #8: Crash a Wedding. Besides, look at that shrimp tower. It's calling my name."
"You just want free food you can't eat."
"I want the vibe," she corrected. "Now, shoulders back. Walk in like you own the place. If anyone asks, you're the groom's distant cousin from... let's say, Argentina."
Elian sighed. He smoothed his oversized jacket. "Fine. Cousin from Argentina. Got it."
He walked in. He expected alarms. He expected security to tackle him. But Lyra was right, if you act confident (and have an invisible ghost whispering intel in your ear), people ignore you.
"Left," Lyra whispered. "Auntie in the red dress is staring. Grab a plate. Blend in."
Elian grabbed a plate. He loaded it with shrimp, sliders, and tiny quiches. He found a table in the back corner, safely in the shadows. Lyra sat opposite him on the table, swinging her legs through the tablecloth.
"So," Lyra said, watching the bride and groom laugh at the head table, clinking champagne glasses. "This is the human peak experience, huh? Signing a paper and promising to hang out until one of you dies."
Elian looked at the couple. The groom was looking at the bride like she was the only person in the room. "It's nice," Elian admitted quietly. "Knowing you have a witness. Someone who is going to stay."
He allowed himself a dangerous thought. For the first time in years, he imagined a future past the age of eighteen. He imagined himself in a suit that actually fit, standing at an altar.
Who is walking down the aisle? his brain asked.
The image formed instantly. It wasn't a faceless blurry girl. It was sharp. She wasn't wearing white; she was wearing pitch black. Her messy dark hair was floating slightly. She had a mischievous, sideways grin that said 'Can you believe we pulled this off?'
It was Lyra. He was imagining marrying death itself.
The realization hit him like a physical slap. Heat rushed up his neck, burning his ears and cheeks. He was furious with himself. Stupid. She's a Reaper. You're a temporary job. Stop it.
He quickly buried his face in his plate of shrimp, terrified she could read his mind, trying to hide the sudden, violent blush.
"Are those shrimps spicy?" Lyra asked mischievously, leaning closer to inspect his bright red face. "Or are you thinking impure thoughts, Dead Boy?"
Elian choked on a shrimp. He had a coughing fit, pounding his chest.
"Save it for the dance floor," Lyra grinned. She stood up, or floated up, and drifted toward the center of the room. "Dance with me."
Elian took a gulp of water, still wheezing. "What?"
"Dance with me," she repeated, looking back at him with soft, challenging eyes. "You promised me a date. This counts."
Elian wiped his mouth with a napkin. His heart was still hammering from the daydream, and now she wanted to be close. He put down his fork. He stood up.
He walked onto the dance floor. He found a spot in the shadows, away from the spotlight. He held up his arms in the classic waltz position, feeling ridiculous.
Lyra stepped into the space. She placed her transparent hand on his shoulder. He placed his hand on her waist, his fingers passing through the fabric of her black coat, resting on the freezing cold air where her body should be.
They swayed. It wasn't a perfect dance. Elian stepped on his own feet twice, too aware of how close she was, still reeling from the image of her at the altar. But Lyra moved like smoke, guiding him, turning him.
"You're stiff," Lyra teased softly. "Relax. I'm not going to step on you. I can't."
"I'm dancing with a human-shaped freezer," Elian muttered, shivering from the cold radiating off her. "It's distracting."
"Look at me," she whispered.
Elian looked up. Up close, the Reaper veil dropped. The disco ball spun overhead, casting flecks of light onto her face, making her glow like a galaxy. She just looked like a girl who was tired of floating alone.
For a moment, the noise of the wedding faded. The countdown in Elian's head stopped. The desperate need to bridge the gap between them overwhelmed him.
"Lyra," Elian whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I wish..." He stopped.
"Wish what?"
"I wish I could actually hold you," he said. The honesty of it hurt more than the cold. "Just for one minute. Without falling through."
Lyra's smile faltered. She looked down at his hand, resting uselessly inside her ghostly waist. She saw the raw longing in his eyes.
She made a decision.
"Close your eyes," she commanded softly.
"Why?"
"Just do it."
Elian closed his eyes. He felt the cold air around him. He felt the music vibrating in the floorboards.
And then, he felt it.
A pressure. Faint, like a moth landing on his skin. On his shoulder. On his palm. It wasn't warmth. It was a freezing, heavy density. She was pressing all her energy, all her will, into making herself solid enough to be felt.
"I'm here," Lyra whispered, her voice strained with the effort. "I'm holding you."
Elian tightened his grip on the cold mass. He didn't pull away. He pulled her closer, burying his face in the freezing space near her neck. They danced like that for the whole song, a boy holding a ghost, swaying in the dark corner of a stranger's wedding, pretending they were real.
When the music stopped, Elian opened his eyes. Lyra pulled back.
She looked awful. The usual supernatural crispness of her form was gone. Her hair, which usually floated slightly on unseen currents, hung limp and heavy around her face. Her shoulders slumped. She looked less like a powerful Reaper and more like a girl who hadn't slept in a week.
Using that much energy to become solid had drained her completely.
"Lyra," Elian fretted, reaching out, but his hand passed straight through her again. "Are you okay? You look..."
"Like death warmed up?" Lyra managed a weak, tired smile. "I'm fine. Just... heavy."
"Let's go home," Elian said gently, offering his arm even though she couldn't take it. "I'll carry the shrimp. You just float."
Lyra nodded weakly. She drifted beside him, slower than usual.
"Best date ever," she whispered, her voice thin as paper.