She flops on the grass on his grave.

"Happy death-birthday."

"...deathday. Deathiversary."

He squirms over to the side so he can lay his head on her stomach.

(It has a little bit of weight, a little warmth.)

She makes petting gestures at his head.

"Merry deathmas."

He starts giggling.

On the third or fourth pet, his hair tickles her palm.

"...oh, hi. You need to show up and practice that more often."

"...did you just pet me?"

"Mmhm. I figured you were trying to be solid again."

He scrambles up to his knees.

"Push me."

"Now there's something I've never heard from you before. ...say please."

He clasps his hands in his lap.

"...please?"

"Oh, okay."

She puts her hand a quarter-inch away from his chest, and then gives it a solid shove.

It thumps solidly on his breastbone, for a moment, has him struggling to stay upright before it clips into him and passes through.

(The inside of his body is a little...gooey. And tingly.)

"...ha!"

He scrambles to his feet.

"Again!"

"Ew. Ew!"

She's rubbing her hand on the grass.

"Give me a second -- ew!"

"—oh my god did you feel it in there?"

"You got ghost guts on my hand! I'm all ectoplasmy!"

"...dude there's nothing there."

"Okay but like metaphorically."

"That is one hundred percent not what a metaphor is."

"Well maybe I'm hallucinating ectoplasm on my hand. I am psychotic. Don't judge."

"...wanna try again?"

She kicks him by way of answer.

When her foot connects with his shin, there's an impact, and then a sort of...crackle, as it passes through.

He stumbles, takes a second to regain his footing.

Yeah she's hugging him now.

She gets a good two seconds of warmth,