As she flops down on the bed beside him, he shifts a bit to make space for her on the bed beside him, and slides his fingers into her hair almost absently. It isn't that the fact it's a frizzed mess bothers him, it's that he's craving the contact, chasing it like a high. He can feel the knots in it tangling around his long fingers and fiddles with them, carefully unwinding them between the pads of his thumb and finger.

His head is still tilted back, eyes half-lidded as they lie on the bed in comfortable silence, at least until she asks what it's like to see ghosts. Closing his eyes, he lets out a soft chuckle, humourless and breathy, shaking his head.

"Awful, truly."

His voice is the same as his laugh, a little shaky, a little distant, like his mind is in some far-off place and he's forgotten to put his usual volume into his voice. When he speaks again, it's exhaled with a sigh.

"Extremely self-centered, dead people."