“Yes, I figured as much, Cyrus,” I say, squinting harder at the note as if it’s my vision that’s the problem here. “I didn’t think it was a love poem you’d composed for me.”

“I would never compose a love poem this bad,” Cyrus says with a scoff. “There isn’t even any rhythm to it.”

“Okay, but there has to be some—” My words are drowned out by the incoherent shrieking of the ghosts as they charge forward again, waving their pale fingers right in our faces, their eyes rolling back dramatically, blood dripping down their chins. I try again, louder: “There has to be some—”

One of the ghosts breaks from the ranks and starts circling me like a shark in water, his features contorting with so much effort I worry they’re going to end up permanently altered. He lets out another pitch-perfect horror-movie scream as he claws at the air.

I raise my hand like I’m hailing a taxi. “Can you please just let us talk for a second?” I say, first in English, then in Chinese: “Deng yi xia.” Wait. The only words I can remember on the spot.

But they’re the right ones, because the ghost clamps his mouth shut mid-scream.

“Xie xie,” I say, smiling at the ghost.

He smiles widely back at me before his ghost colleague elbows him.

“What do the words say?” I ask Cyrus, relieved to be able to hear my own voice again. Then, because he’s taking too long to respond and it seems like I’m kind of on a roll with the Chinese, I add, “Wo wen ni ne.”

His complexion changes color, as if directly absorbing the light of the scarlet lanterns above us. “Do you realize what you just said?”

“Yeah? I said that I’m asking you a question.”

“No.” He raises his brows. “You said that you were kissing me.”

This is very much news to me. But rather than letting any of my embarrassment show on my face, I decide to lean into it. “It’s an innocent mistake. And I mean, isn’t that what happens in your secret little fantasies about me?”

It works even better than I thought. He goes rigid for a second, his eyes widening as if someone’s started reading his actual fantasies out loud through a speaker, and then he quickly busies himself studying the piece of paper again. “So the words here are: lipstick, strawberry, wedding dress, and wine.”

“Those are all things you’d get at a wedding, right?” I say. “Maybe not necessarily the strawberries, but the bride could have … strawberry wedding cake? Or chocolate-covered strawberries? Sidenote: Now I’m really craving chocolate-covered strawberries.”

Cyrus makes a face. “I used to enjoy chocolate-covered strawberries until I witnessed a couple sharing one.”

“One? A single strawberry? For two people?” I say, echoing his disgust.