Ghost Toast?!

And I don’t even mean in a bragging way. I mean in a why is everyone staring way. In a why does my stomach twist every time someone looks at her a second too long way. In a how am I supposed to be normal about this way.

Take today, for example.

We were just walking down the hallway. Just walking. I had my backpack slung over one shoulder, half-phased through it because I forgot to turn my powers off again (rookie mistake, even after all this time), and Sam was beside me like she always is. Combat boots hitting the floor in a steady rhythm. Long black skirt brushing her legs. That choker she wears when she wants to feel a little extra like herself. Dark lipstick. Dark eyes. Confidence like armor.

She wasn’t even trying.

And yet—

Heads turned.

I felt it before I saw it. That subtle shift in the air, like the hallway itself leaned in. Guys pretending not to look and failing miserably. Girls glancing over, then glancing again, then whispering. Even a couple of upperclassmen who’d never given us a second glance before suddenly seemed very invested in our general direction.

Sam didn’t notice. Or maybe she did and just didn’t care. That’s kind of her thing.

I noticed.

I always notice.

There was this one guy—some junior I didn’t recognize—who actually slowed down as we passed. Like his brain short-circuited mid-step. He looked at Sam the way people look at museum exhibits. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be that close.

My jaw tightened.

I’m not proud of it, but I slipped my hand into hers a little more deliberately than usual. Interlaced our fingers. Let my thumb press into the side of her hand, grounding myself.

Sam glanced over at me, eyebrow lifting slightly. Amused. Knowing.

“What?” she asked, low enough that only I could hear.

“Nothing,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

She smirked.

Great. She knew.

That was the thing—Sam always knew. She knew when I was jealous before I did. She knew when my insecurity flared up, even if I tried to bury it under jokes and sarcasm. She’d been reading me since we were kids. Long before I was half-dead and glowing and dealing with ghosts. Long before I was her boyfriend.

We stopped at her locker. She leaned against it casually, like this was her world and we were all just passing through. She spun the dial, opened it, reached inside.

Another guy walked by. This one didn’t even pretend not to look.

I felt it then. That stupid, irrational flicker of panic.

Because here’s the thing no one tells you about dating someone like Sam Manson:

It’s not just that other people want her. It’s that she could have them.

She’s smart. She’s fearless. She’s passionate. She doesn’t fold herself smaller for anyone. She could walk up to almost anyone and they’d fall over themselves to listen.

And then there’s me.

I’m Danny Fenton. Half-ghost. Accident-prone. Still kind of awkward. Still the kid who trips over his own feet and forgets his lunch in his locker. Sure, I save the city on a regular basis, but nobody at school knows that. To them, I’m just… me.

Sometimes that little voice in my head whispers that I’m temporary. That eventually Sam will realize she deserves someone more put-together. Someone who doesn’t disappear at random hours. Someone who isn’t constantly split between two worlds.

That voice is a jerk.

Sam shut her locker and turned to face me fully. She looked at my hand still tightly wrapped around hers, then up at my face. Her expression softened.

“You okay?” she asked.

I shrugged, which was not convincing. “Yeah. Just—crowded hallway.”

She studied me for another second, then stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell her perfume—something dark and herbal and unmistakably Sam. She leaned in, resting her forehead against my shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And just like that, the looks stopped mattering.

Her fingers squeezed mine. Once. Reassuring.

“You know,” she said quietly, “you don’t have to glare at everyone who looks at me.”

“I’m not glaring,” I said defensively.

She snorted. “Danny, you were absolutely glaring.”

I sighed. “Okay, maybe a little.”

She pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes warm and teasing. “Why?”

I hesitated. Then, because she was Sam and lying to her never worked anyway, I admitted, “Because it’s hard having a hot goth girlfriend.”

She blinked.

Then she laughed. Not a mean laugh. Not a mocking one. Just surprised and genuine and so her that my chest loosened immediately.

“Danny,” she said, smiling softly, “is that what this is about?”

I shrugged again, cheeks warm. “People stare. A lot.”

“And?” she prompted.

“And sometimes I just…” I trailed off, then forced myself to finish. “I worry I’m not enough.”

The smile faded—but not into something cold. Something serious. She reached up and cupped my face in her hand, thumb brushing under my eye.

“Hey,” she said firmly. “Look at me.”

I did.

“I choose you,” she said. Simple. Absolute. “Every day. Not because you’re safe or convenient or familiar. Because you’re you.”

My throat tightened.

“And for the record,” she added, eyes gleaming again, “you’re allowed to be a little possessive. It’s kind of cute.”

My heart tripped over itself.

She leaned in and kissed me—quick, soft, perfectly timed. Just enough to make a point.

When she pulled back, she smirked. “Besides. Let them look.”

I blinked. “Really?”

She laced our fingers together again and started walking, tugging me along. “Yeah. They can look all they want.”

She glanced back at me, dark eyes bright.

“You’re the one holding my hand.”

And suddenly—yeah.

Maybe it was hard having a hot goth girlfriend.