Dead To Me(But Hot As Hell)

Nova Quinn's POV “Coffee is sacred. Spells are optional. Ghosts? Unfortunately, permanent.” There are three things I believe in: 1. The holy power of caffeine. 2. Never trust a man with perfect cheekbones. 3. And if your apartment isn’t haunted, are you even really living? I was elbow-deep in glitter nail polish when Jules, my dearly departed, eternally dramatic ghost roommate, floated through the wall like he paid rent around here. “Babe,” he sighed, in his usual echoey drawl, “your aura is chaotic today. Did you eat dairy again?” I didn’t look up. “It was cheese or starvation. You want me dead or just bloated?” “Dead, preferably. Then we could be roomies forever.” Jules had died five years ago. I moved into this apartment three years ago. He hasn’t left since. He’s sarcastic, nosy, obsessed with reality TV, and completely immune to boundaries. Basically, the worst ex I never dated. I wasn’t always like this blessed and cursed in the same breath. Once upon a time, I was just Nova Quinn, local nail tech, cursed with a strong arm, a smart mouth, and a rent bill that made me consider selling a kidney every 28th of the month. But then came The Night. The night I tried to hex my landlord for tripling my rent harmless DIY candle spell, no big deal. Except I may have misread a few lines. And I may have accidentally resurrected a cursed warlock from the 16th century. And I definitely bonded my soul to his in the process. Enter: Michael Vale. Or, as I like to call him, Broody McHotface the Unkillable. He showed up in my living room shirtless, covered in ancient tattoos and smoking magic like a vape ad for demons. And instead of saying “thank you for reviving me,” he immediately tried to strangle me. How’s that for a meet-cute? Since then, Mike’s been sulking around my apartment, flipping through spellbooks and judging my snack choices. We’re bound, soul-to-soul. That means we share pain, dreams, and kill me now emotions. Imagine having to relive someone else’s guilt and heartbreak like it’s your own, while also trying not to stare at their jawline when they’re reading Latin by candlelight. It’s torture. Beautiful, ancient, cursed torture. “Novaaaa,” Jules groaned, floating upside down above my couch, “he’s brooding again. And his aura is giving me seasonal depression.” I glanced into the kitchen. Sure enough, Mike was leaning against the fridge like a gothic statue, arms crossed, glowing runes on his wrist pulsing with quiet menace. “Did you sleep at all?” I asked him, knowing full well he doesn’t. Mike didn’t even glance up. “I don’t sleep, I prepare.” “For what?” I snapped. “The next time you scowl me into a coma?” His eyes flicked to me. Quiet, Cold. A glacier in the shape of a man. “I feel… something’s coming.” “Cool,” I muttered, dragging a new spellbook onto the table. “Let me know if it knocks first.” Jules floated down beside me. “I know I’m dead and everything, but this guy? He’s giving ‘murdered his entire village’ energy.” Mike didn’t argue. Because he probably did. Here’s the truth I won’t say out loud: Mike scares me. Not just because he can melt things with his hands or talk to the shadows. But because sometimes, when I’m around him, I feel everything too clearly like the pain he hides is ancient and heavy. Like it wants to crawl into me. And sometimes, I think I want to let it,which is messed up. Deeply. But maybe that’s what happens when you’ve been haunted for too long by ghosts, by grief, by the versions of yourself you were supposed to be. “Hey!” Jules snapped his fingers in my face. “You’re spiraling again. Stop romanticizing the cursed undead. That’s my job.” I flicked a spoon through him. “Do something useful and haunt my landlord.” “I already made his TV play Cocomelon on loop last night. You're welcome.” That’s my life now: A ghost who won’t leave. A warlock who won’t smile. And me, a nail tech with a semi-functioning espresso machine and a soul tied to an ancient magical disaster. But hey… at least I’m not bored. JULE'S POV “I didn’t die for this. But I’m here anyway.” The thing about death? It’s boring. Like, aggressively boring. People think the afterlife is all clouds and harp music. Lies. Most of it is just waiting. Waiting to be remembered. To fade. Or worse… to be reborn as a pigeon. That’s why I stayed. I died five years ago bagel-related tragedy. Not important. What is important is: this apartment is mine. I picked it. I haunt it. And I have standards, thank you very much. So when Nova moved in? I almost booted her out on the spot. She brought sage, bad breakup energy, and a weird box labeled "Spells for Spite." But then she poured whiskey in her tea and cursed her ex using only an avocado, and I knew we were going to get along great. We became friends. I give her fashion advice, she pretends not to hear me. I ghost-proofed her mirrors, she lets me watch her Netflix. Balance. And then. Then, She went and summoned him. Michael Freaking Vale. Ancient, brooding, tall-drink-of-death. Walked out of her ritual circle like a demonic Victoria’s Secret model and hasn’t smiled since. Now he’s here. Breathing my air (figuratively). Judging my haunting style. Growling in Latin. And worst of all? Nova’s catching feelings. Which is wild. Because he looks like he strangles people for fun. But then again… he did save her. Twice. He also made her laugh once. By accident. And when she cried on the fire escape, thinking no one saw, he looked wrecked. I’ve seen a lot as a ghost. But watching two disaster souls start to orbit each other like that? Yeah. Even in death… I’m invested. (Also I think I’m in love with Iris. But that’s another mess.) MIKE'S POV “I was fine being dead. Until her.” The moment I woke, I knew something was wrong. The air was too warm. The room stank of cinnamon and cheap wax. And someone—some i***t had used glitter in a summoning circle. Glitter. Then I saw her, the girl who broke the seal. Nova. Eyes too bright. Mouth too quick. Magic unstable. And me… bound to her. Soul to soul. It should’ve been rage. It should’ve been wrath. But it was silence. Because for the first time in three centuries, I felt something pulling me back. She talks too much. She trusts too easily. She fights ghosts in her bathrobe and makes coffee like it’s a ritual. And worst of all… she feels everything. Out loud,Unfiltered and Honest. I don’t understand her, But I want to. And that terrifies me. Because I’ve been a weapon, a prisoner, a curse. And she,she’s sunlight with cracked knuckles and fire in her veins. If I stay near her, she’ll burn. And if I leave? She might break. So I stay. Because even cursed souls crave warmth. 🌸 IRIS’ POV “Best friend by day. Chaos magnet by choice.” People say I talk too much. I say people don’t talk enough. Nova is my girl. Ride-or-die. We’ve been through everything: exorcisms, bar fights, that one time she got hexed into speaking fluent squirrel. So when she told me she summoned a demon man with cursed tattoos and knife eyes? I brought snacks. Now there’s this whole soul-bond prophecy thing, ghosts, portals, ghost roommate (who I think flirts with me??), and Nova might be falling for the apocalypse in a trench coat. Honestly? I'm into it. But here’s the thing I laugh a lot. I wear pink and talk fast and overshare. People think that means I’m not paying attention. But I see Nova. I see how tired she is. How scared. How brave. And I see him too Mike. He’s not just brooding. He’s haunted. And I’m not letting either of them go down without a fight. So yeah, I’ll protect her. I’ll fight demons. I’ll flirt with ghosts. And if this ends in fire and heartbreak? Well... at least I’ll look hot doing it.