Alexander watched Rick inhale the last microwavable chimichanga like an unhinged snake.
"You know chewing exists, right?" Alexander asked. "I'd really rather you not choke in my apartment. I already have one ghost here."
Rick leaned in, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Think he ever watches us?"
"Huh?"
"You know what I mean. You think he ever watches us do the deed?"
Alexander blinked. "I really hope not."
"It's like Onlyfans for the afterlife," Rick snorted. "Bet he watches you in the shower too."
"Stop." Alexander slapped his hands over his ears. "I don't need another thing to freak me out. But if he were watching, would you be jealous?"
"Why would I be jealous?" Rick said, speaking around a mouthful of food. Charming as ever.
Alexander's shoulders sagged. Brilliant. Nothing like a man who could strangle your ego without even trying.
"Anyway," Rick continued, wiping his face with the back of his hand, "you in a mood?"
Alexander hesitated, then stood. "Not tonight. I'm gonna chill by myself."
"What?" Rick blinked. "You begged me to come over the other day and now you're kicking me out?"
"I'm sorry. My mom was just here. You know how she is."
Rick rolled his eyes. "Fine. Hit me up if you change your mind."
"Yeah. Sure."
When the door finally shut, Alexander collapsed onto the couch with a groan. He knew he was a mess. He dragged himself up and headed for the bathroom, but halfway through undressing he froze. Rick's stupid comment replayed in his mind like a taunting echo. With an irritated sigh, he just washed his hair in the sink instead, fully clothed to protect from potential prying spirit eyes.
Maybe he needed therapy.
In his room, he threw himself into bed with determination coursing through him. No more mindless scrolling. No more doom loops. He was going to get himself together. His gaze drifted automatically to the closet.
That ring was still in there.
Sleep never came easily, and without his phone it was impossible. Within minutes, his resolve cracked. He was back on his screen, devouring every scrap about the Roscoe Pierce case. Pictures. News clippings. Grainy home videos. He was obsessed, and he knew it.
It was the voice that hooked him. English accent, deep and warm. Exactly like the one he'd heard in his closet that day.
One clip showed Roscoe wrestling with a friend on a lawn. Blue jersey, sweat darkening his collar, hair shoved back by exertion. He grinned at the camera as he walked past the person filming, eyes bright and dangerously charming.
He trotted toward the camera, hair sticking up from the scuffle, grin bright. He planted his hands on his hips with playful indignation.
Then he pointed at the lens and said:
"Oi, if you show this to anyone, tell them Cody only got me on the ground because I was distracted by how tragic his footwork is."
Cody shouted something unintelligible off-screen.
Roscoe rolled his eyes, smirked, and added:
"And don't you dare replay the bit where I slip. Grass was wet. I maintain my dignity."
Alexander couldn't help smiling. Heat prickled up his neck. Why did the man have to look like that? Why did he have to sound like that?
Another clip showed him sprinting across a football field with a pack of friends, then collapsing onto his back with a carefree laugh. In the third, he stood at the center of a party, the pull of his presence unmistakable. Confident. Bright. Alive.
And there on his finger, catching the light, was the class ring. The one that was now sitting in Alexander's closet all these years later.
A hollow ache bloomed in his chest. This man with all his promise, all that joy, had been stolen from the world long before his time.
Suddenly he was on his feet, crossing the room. He needed to do something with that ring. Maybe he should return it. Roscoe's family deserved to have it back.
He opened the closet and flicked on the light. The ring gleamed on the floor, exactly where he'd left it. He bent down, lifting it. It felt heavier than he remembered. He turned it over in his fingers, a wistful smile tugging at his mouth.
"Whatever you do, do NOT put that ring down."
Alexander jerked around, heart thundering. Slowly, he turned back toward the room.
A tall, broad figure stood there, blond hair mussed, blue eyes striking, red jersey stretched across his chest.
Roscoe Pierce.