Ellie had always assumed that the biggest threat to her relationship would be something normal—like a flirtatious coworker or Ben developing an unhealthy obsession with fantasy football. She never expected to be up against a ghost.
And yet, here they were.
At their favorite Italian restaurant, Ellie twirled her fork in her pasta, watching Ben closely. He wasn't listening. He wasn't even pretending to listen. His deep brown eyes, usually warm and full of love (or at least full of pizza cravings), were locked on something just over her shoulder.
His fork hovered midair, limp spaghetti dangling like a forgotten phone charger.
"Ben," Ellie said, waving a hand in front of his face. "Earth to boyfriend. Do you copy?"
Ben flinched like a man caught deleting his browser history. "What? Sorry. What were you saying?"
Ellie narrowed her eyes. "I was saying you've been acting weird all week. And now, apparently, you've developed a new hobby—staring at invisible things behind me. Should I be worried? Or did you just discover an alternate dimension and forget to tell me?"
Ben let out a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "No, no. Just… distracted."
Lies. Ellie knew Ben. He was the kind of guy who would rather watch an eight-hour period drama about Victorian-era farming than tell a lie. And yet, here he was—lying. Badly.
She leaned in. "Is it work? Are you stressed? Are you secretly in witness protection?"
Ben hesitated. His eyes flickered past her again, as if checking to see if something—or someone—was still there.
"Ellie, I—"
The wine glass beside him tipped over on its own, spilling deep red liquid across the white tablecloth like a crime scene from a low-budget horror movie.
Ellie jumped. "Whoa! Okay, that was weird."
Ben went ghost-pale. Which, considering the situation, felt ironic.
He grabbed a napkin, dabbing at the mess with shaking hands. "It—it was an accident."
Ellie frowned. "No, it wasn't. You didn't even touch it."
Before he could answer, a sharp chill slithered through the air. The candles flickered. Goosebumps erupted along Ellie's arms. She glanced around. The restaurant was warm and full of laughing couples enjoying overpriced pasta. No open windows. No draft.
And yet, the air felt colder than her aunt's judgmental glare at family reunions.
Something was very, very off.
She reached for Ben's hand, squeezing gently. His fingers were ice. Actual ice.
"Ben," she whispered, "if something's wrong, just tell me."
Ben swallowed hard. "Ellie… there's something I need to tell you."
And then—before he could say another word—a voice curled through the air.
A voice that wasn't Ellie's.
A voice that wasn't Ben's.
"He's mine."
Ellie's heart nearly fell into her plate of fettuccine.
The wine glass rattled ominously.
And just like that, date night was officially ruined.