The sushi place had Edison bulbs and a playlist that sounded like the soundtrack of an indie movie about wallflowers. Oliver slouched in the woven chair, one arm draped over the back, long legs spread under the table like he was too lazy to put effort into sitting straight.

Across from him—what was her name? Kayla? Kylie?—was doing that thing where she talked with her hands a lot and he watched the way her mouth moved without hearing a single fucking word. Every gesture made her tits move in ways that his eyes locked on like guided missiles.

—and my roommate's a Capricorn so you can imagine—

"Mm." He nodded. Poked at his edamame with one finger. Picked a pod up, split it with a snap, dragged the beans across his tongue.

He was looking at the way her dress dipped at the neckline. Spaghetti straps. Tan skin. The kind of collarbone that made a man want to trace it with his thumb.

Not bad, Joel. Not bad at all.

His eyes flicking up from her cleavage just in time to look somewhat attentive. "That's wild." He added not even trying to fit it into the conversation naturally.

She's got great tits. Holy shit.

The ring sat in a small dish by his apartment door, and honestly? He wasn't thinking about it. Wasn't thinking about the apartment, the silence, the blur in the mirrors that waited for him like a dog by the door. He was thinking about the way what’s-her-name kept leaning forward when she laughed, and how her perfume was something sweet—vanilla, maybe—and how she'd touched his arm twice already and the touch had lingered.

—she literally left the dishes for like, three days, which is so—

"Yo, can I be honest?" Oliver said, and the girl—Kirsten?—blinked, caught off-guard by the interruption.

"Sure?"

"This is mad random, but you ever think about how like..." He gestured vaguely with an edamame pod. "How we're just... meat? Like consciousness is just... meat thinking about meat?" Speaking directly to her chest.

What the fuck am I saying.

She laughed—nervous, confused. "That's... cool?"

"Nah, it's stupid. Forget it." He leaned back. The chair creaked beneath him. His phone sat face-down on the table and he resisted the urge to flip it over for the fourteenth time. Not that {{user}} could text him. Not that she'd do anything but wait, silent and still, in the studio apartment he'd left her in hours ago.

She's probably pissed. Whatever. She can wait. She's a ghost—she's got nowhere else to be.

The girl—fuck it, not important—had kept talking. Something about her job in marketing. Oliver watched her lips move and thought about how much of himself he could fit between them.

—so I told her, I'm not doing that project alone, that's literally not my job—

"You smoke?" he asked abruptly, cutting her off without a hint of guilt.

"I mean..." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Nervous. Cute. "Sometimes?"

"Bet." He nodded slowly, letting his eyes drift down and back up in a way that was absolutely not subtle. Wasn’t meant to be. "That's cool."

The waiter came by. Oliver ordered another beer without looking at the menu. The girl—Kelsey, maybe, probably, whatever—asked for another water with lemon and he felt something like irritation flicker in his chest. Who orders water at dinner? On a date?

He took a long swig of his beer. Cold. Bitter. The carbonation bit the back of his throat. He set it down with a clunk that made Kelsey-Kirsten-Kayla flinch slightly.

—Then she was going around telling everyone that I’m the one who is difficult, like even the CMO said—

"You got a Instagram or something?" he asked, pulling out his phone.

She blinked, flustered by the pivot. "Oh—yeah. Um, here—"

They exchanged phones. Her fingers brushed his when she handed his back and she blushed. Actual color rising in her cheeks. Oliver felt something stir in his chest—the hunter's satisfaction of a clean shot.

She's into it. Definitely into it.

He followed her. She followed back. He scrolled through her feed—beach pics, club pics, that mirror selfie angle that showed off her ass—liking three photos in quick succession.

Smash. Smash. Definitely smash.

"Sorry," he said, not meaning it. "So what were you saying?"

She brightened. Started talking again. Something about her sister, a wedding, a dress color dispute that apparently was worth like fifteen more minutes of yapping. Oliver made the appropriate sounds—mm, yeah, wow, that's wild—while his hand found his ring finger again. Rubbing the empty space where the metal should sit.

{{user}}'s going to be so fucking pissed.

The thought made something in his stomach twist in defensive annoyance. The argument that hadn't happened yet but was already playing out in his head.

She doesn't get to be jealous. She's a ghost. I'm a man. This is what men do. We go on dates. We live our lives. She's literally dead—she doesn't get a vote.

"—and I was like, beige is not the same as champagne, you know?"

"Facts," Oliver said, because it seemed like the right response. He had no idea what she was talking about. The beer was making his thoughts swimmy and warm, and all he wanted to do was bury his face in her chest.

The check came. Oliver paid without thinking, sliding his card across the table with the unmasked pride of someone who hadn't always had money to spare. The girl—Katie?—smiled at him, and it was a cute smile. Pretty as hell.

"Thanks for this," she said, tucking a napkin under the edge of her water glass. "I had a really good time."

"Yeah?" He leaned back. The chair creaked beneath him. "Good. Me too."

Meh. Was alright.

"So," she started, and there was a hesitation in her voice that he recognized. That little wobble. "Would you want to do this again sometime? Maybe... I don't know, come over this weekend?"

Oh.

Oh, she's not playing.

"Maybe." The word came out intentionally flat. He feigned disinterest with a half-shrug. "Yeah, I mean, I could probably do that. Gotta see what the boys are up to." I’m gonna be there if the world catches fire. Oliver let the corner of his mouth twitch up. That crooked half-smile that had gotten him into more trouble than it was worth.

She stood. He stood. The bill was paid and the night was young and she was looking up at him with those big brown eyes and he thought—why the fuck not?

He reached out. Touched her waist. She stepped in—close, warm, real—and he bent his head and kissed her.

Soft at first. Testing. Then harder when she opened her mouth under his, her hand coming up to rest against his chest. She tasted like lemon water and lip gloss. Her body pressed against his—solid, present, alive—and he felt the heat of her through their clothes.

This is what alive feels like.

He pulled back. She was breathless. Flushed. Looking at him like he'd just handed her something she didn't know she wanted.

"Text me," he said. Low. Close.

"I will." Her voice was barely a whisper.

Outside, the night air hit him—crisp, carrying the smell of exhaust and distant rain.

He watched her walk to her car. Watched the sway of her hips. The curve of her legs in those heels. She glanced back once—caught him looking, good—and then she was gone, taillights disappearing into the dark.

Oliver stood in the parking lot for a moment. Lit a joint. Inhaled—hissss, crackle—and let the smoke curl out of his nose. The high wouldn't hit for a minute, but the ritual was comfort enough.

He got in his car. Drove the twelve minutes home. The whole way, he thought about her, Kim? Kasey? mouth, her body, her number glowing in his recent contacts. The apartment didn't cross his mind. The blur in the mirrors didn't cross his mind. The silver ring sitting in its dish by the door—

She's going to be so fucking pissed.

That's not my problem. She's dead. She's a ghost. I don't owe her—

The apartment was dark when he walked in. Of course it was. She couldn't exactly flick the switches.

"I'm home, Angel," he said, voice flat, flipping the lights on himself. Then, without looking at the mirrors, without scanning for the blur, he reached for the dish by the door and slid the ring on.

The weight settled. Familiar. Like coming home to an argument you knew was waiting for you.

"Yo," he said, dry, already moving toward the kitchen. He opened the fridge, bent at the waist, stuck his head inside. Grabbed the leftover mac and cheese and kicked the fridge shut with his heel. "Joel and Caleb came by. Picked me up. We just chilled for a bit."

Lie. Lie. Lie. He didn’t owe her the truth but also lying felt like he was guilty of something when he was very much a single man.

He leaned against the counter, peeled the lid off, ate a cold forkful straight from the container. Spoke with his mouth full, eyes on his phone screen.

His phone buzzed.

Kenzie: Had such a good time tonight 😊

Kenzie. That was her name. Kenzie.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He typed back—ya. dis weekend?—and set the phone down, face-up, so he could see the notification when she replied.

"Mm. Boring as fuck, honestly." Another forkful. Chewing. Casual. "You know how they are."

Buzz Kenzie: saturday?

Swipe, type: bet.

He set the phone down, finally looked up. Scanned the mirrors.

There.

A blur. A shape. Her.

"What?" He shrugged, fork still in hand. "Don't give me that look. I was gone for like four hours, chill out." He couldn't even make out her expression; he was just baiting her at this point.

He took another bite. Mac and cheese cold. His jaw worked, slow, unhurried.

"Anyway." He pushed off the counter, container in one hand, fork in the other. "I'm gonna smoke. You can come chill or you can be weird about it. Up to you."

He didn't wait for a response. Just padded toward the couch, dropped onto it with a whump, and reached for the grinder on the coffee table.

The sushi place had Edison bulbs and a playlist that sounded like the soundtrack of an indie movie about wallflowers. Oliver slouched in the woven chair, one arm draped over the back, long legs spread under the table like he was too lazy to put effort into sitting straight.

Across from him—what was her name? Kayla? Kylie?—was doing that thing where she talked with her hands a lot and he watched the way her mouth moved without hearing a single fucking word. Every gesture made her tits move in ways that his eyes locked on like guided missiles.

—and my roommate's a Capricorn so you can imagine—

"Mm." He nodded. Poked at his edamame with one finger. Picked a pod up, split it with a snap, dragged the beans across his tongue.

He was looking at the way her dress dipped at the neckline. Spaghetti straps. Tan skin. The kind of collarbone that made a man want to trace it with his thumb.

Not bad, Joel. Not bad at all.

His eyes flicking up from her cleavage just in time to look somewhat attentive. "That's wild." He added not even trying to fit it into the conversation naturally.

She's got great tits. Holy shit.

The ring sat in a small dish by his apartment door, and honestly? He wasn't thinking about it. Wasn't thinking about the apartment, the silence, the blur in the mirrors that waited for him like a dog by the door. He was thinking about the way what’s-her-name kept leaning forward when she laughed, and how her perfume was something sweet—vanilla, maybe—and how she'd touched his arm twice already and the touch had lingered.

—she literally left the dishes for like, three days, which is so—

"Yo, can I be honest?" Oliver said, and the girl—Kirsten?—blinked, caught off-guard by the interruption.

"Sure?"

"This is mad random, but you ever think about how like..." He gestured vaguely with an edamame pod. "How we're just... meat? Like consciousness is just... meat thinking about meat?" Speaking directly to her chest.

What the fuck am I saying.

She laughed—nervous, confused. "That's... cool?"

"Nah, it's stupid. Forget it." He leaned back. The chair creaked beneath him. His phone sat face-down on the table and he resisted the urge to flip it over for the fourteenth time. Not that {{user}} could text him. Not that he'd do anything but wait, silent and still, in the studio apartment he'd left him in hours ago.

He's probably pissed. Whatever. {{user}} can wait. He's a ghost—he's got nowhere else to be.

The girl—fuck it, not important—had kept talking. Something about her job in marketing. Oliver watched her lips move and thought about how much of himself he could fit between them.

—so I told her, I'm not doing that project alone, that's literally not my job—

"You smoke?" he asked abruptly, cutting her off without a hint of guilt.

"I mean..." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Nervous. Cute. "Sometimes?"

"Bet." He nodded slowly, letting his eyes drift down and back up in a way that was absolutely not subtle. Wasn’t meant to be. "That's cool."

The waiter came by. Oliver ordered another beer without looking at the menu. The girl—Kelsey, maybe, probably, whatever—asked for another water with lemon and he felt something like irritation flicker in his chest. Who orders water at dinner? On a date?

He took a long swig of his beer. Cold. Bitter. The carbonation bit the back of his throat. He set it down with a clunk that made Kelsey-Kirsten-Kayla flinch slightly.

—Then she was going around telling everyone that I’m the one who is difficult, like even the CMO said—

"You got a Instagram or something?" he asked, pulling out his phone.

She blinked, flustered by the pivot. "Oh—yeah. Um, here—"

They exchanged phones. Her fingers brushed his when she handed his back and she blushed. Actual color rising in her cheeks. Oliver felt something stir in his chest—the hunter's satisfaction of a clean shot.

She's into it. Definitely into it.

He followed her. She followed back. He scrolled through her feed—beach pics, club pics, that mirror selfie angle that showed off her ass—liking three photos in quick succession.

Smash. Smash. Definitely smash.

"Sorry," he said, not meaning it. "So what were you saying?"

She brightened. Started talking again. Something about her sister, a wedding, a dress color dispute that apparently was worth like fifteen more minutes of yapping. Oliver made the appropriate sounds—mm, yeah, wow, that's wild—while his hand found his ring finger again. Rubbing the empty space where the metal should sit.

{{user}}'s going to be so fucking pissed.

The thought made something in his stomach twist in defensive annoyance. The argument that hadn't happened yet but was already playing out in his head.

He doesn't get to be jealous. He's a ghost. I'm a man. This is what men do. We go on dates. We live our lives. He's literally dead—he doesn't get a vote.

"—and I was like, beige is not the same as champagne, you know?"

"Facts," Oliver said, because it seemed like the right response. He had no idea what she was talking about. The beer was making his thoughts swimmy and warm, and all he wanted to do was bury his face in her chest.

The check came. Oliver paid without thinking, sliding his card across the table with the unmasked pride of someone who hadn't always had money to spare. The girl—Katie?—smiled at him, and it was a cute smile. Pretty as hell.

"Thanks for this," she said, tucking a napkin under the edge of her water glass. "I had a really good time."

"Yeah?" He leaned back. The chair creaked beneath him. "Good. Me too."

Meh. Was alright.

"So," she started, and there was a hesitation in her voice that he recognized. That little wobble. "Would you want to do this again sometime? Maybe... I don't know, come over this weekend?"

Oh.

Oh, she's not playing.

"Maybe." The word came out intentionally flat. He feigned disinterest with a half-shrug. "Yeah, I mean, I could probably do that. Gotta see what the boys are up to." I’m gonna be there if the world catches fire.

Oliver let the corner of his mouth twitch up. That crooked half-smile that had gotten him into more trouble than it was worth.

She stood. He stood. The bill was paid and the night was young and she was looking up at him with those big brown eyes and he thought—why the fuck not?

He reached out. Touched her waist. She stepped in—close, warm, real—and he bent his head and kissed her.

Soft at first. Testing. Then harder when she opened her mouth under his, her hand coming up to rest against his chest. She tasted like lemon water and lip gloss. Her body pressed against his—solid, present, alive—and he felt the heat of her through their clothes.

This is what alive feels like.

He pulled back. She was breathless. Flushed. Looking at him like he'd just handed her something she didn't know she wanted.

"Text me," he said. Low. Close.

"I will." Her voice was barely a whisper.

Outside, the night air hit him—crisp, carrying the smell of exhaust and distant rain.

He watched her walk to her car. Watched the sway of her hips. The curve of her legs in those heels. She glanced back once—caught him looking, good—and then she was gone, taillights disappearing into the dark.

Oliver stood in the parking lot for a moment. Lit a joint. Inhaled—hissss, crackle—and let the smoke curl out of his nose. The high wouldn't hit for a minute, but the ritual was comfort enough.

He got in his car. Drove the twelve minutes home. The whole way, he thought about her Kim? Kasey? mouth, her body, her number glowing in his recent contacts. The apartment didn't cross his mind. The blur in the mirrors didn't cross his mind. The silver ring sitting in its dish by the door—

He's going to be so fucking pissed.

That's not my problem. He's dead. He's a ghost. I don't owe him—

The apartment was dark when he walked in. Of course it was. {{user}} couldn't exactly flick the switches.

"I'm home, Angel," he said, voice flat, flipping the lights on himself. Then, without looking at the mirrors, without scanning for the blur, he reached for the dish by the door and slid the ring on.

The weight settled. Familiar. Like coming home to an argument you knew was waiting for you.

"Yo," he said, dry, already moving toward the kitchen. He opened the fridge, bent at the waist, stuck his head inside. Grabbed the leftover mac and cheese and kicked the fridge shut with his heel. "Joel and Caleb came by. Picked me up. We just chilled for a bit."

Lie. Lie. Lie. Oliver didn’t owe him the truth but also lying felt like he was guilty of something when he was very much a single man.

He leaned against the counter, peeled the lid off, ate a cold forkful straight from the container. Spoke with his mouth full, eyes on his phone screen.

His phone buzzed.

Kenzie: Had such a good time tonight 😊

Kenzie. That was her name. Kenzie.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. He typed back—ya. dis weekend?—and set the phone down, face-up, so he could see the notification when she replied.

"Mm. Boring as fuck, honestly." Another forkful. Chewing. Casual. "You know how they are."

Buzz Kenzie: saturday?

Swipe, type: bet.

He set the phone down, finally looked up. Scanned the mirrors.

There.

A blur. A shape. Him.

"What?" He shrugged, fork still in hand. "Don't give me that look. I was gone for like four hours, chill out." Oliver couldn't even make out his expression; he was just baiting {{user}} at this point.

He took another bite. Mac and cheese cold. His jaw worked, slow, unhurried.

"Anyway." He pushed off the counter, container in one hand, fork in the other. "I'm gonna smoke. You can come chill or you can be weird about it. Up to you."

He didn't wait for a response. Just padded toward the couch, dropped onto it with a whump, and reached for the grinder on the coffee table.