Ruse

by Griffinkhan

It didn't count, she told herself.

The park incident had been an artifice for escape, the time in the lab the same. Heck, he didn't even remember the first encounter during the second. It was simply a ruse, another thread in the never-ending tapestry of half-truths the half-ghost had woven out of his life and hers.

This time, she told herself, this time didn't count either. There was a smudge of dirt on his shimmering nose, remnant of too many abrupt crashes into pavement that night. It was faint, but distinctive, marring the flawless pallor of his complexion. She noticed it as they floated over the rooftops, speeding back to her home after the late ghost-hunting run.

He landed on her windowsill, turning to lift her safely back inside, and reflexively she reached up to rub the mark away. His skin was smooth, silky and cold, as formless as water yet solid and frigid as ice.

He turned, startled by the sudden burst of warmth brought by her questioning fingertips. The movement swept aside her hand, and then—she'd had to cling close during the flight, he'd never let her fall but it was best to be safe—his lips brushed against her own. It was an accident, of course, what else could it be? They'd only held it for so long because her foot slipped on the ledge and she leaned into him for balance. Just a ruse, an accident, nothing more.

Regaining her footing, she reached up and wiped the dirt away. Her fingers lingered longer than necessary but her hands were numb from holding his waist and the rushing wind of the flight. Her cheeks were burning, too, but that was only natural. Cheeks turn rosy in the cold.

He offered her his hand, the gentlemanly thing to do, and helped her step back into her room. Her cheeks were still burning—the night wind was very chilly. She watched as he quietly floated away, spectral form slowly dissolving into distance and moonlight.

It didn't count, she told herself.

Sam left the window open, suddenly feeling very warm.