0_0

It was hard to hate Shoko. Despite how much you tried, you couldn’t bring yourself to hate her. Despite her eyebrow raises and murmurs of dislike towards your outfit choices, she was your sister now.

Her mother, however, was a different story. You knew from the first time you met her that she held an unreasonable hatred towards you, afraid to ruin her ‘perfect’ family image. Your dad didn’t care enough to listen to your complains, always brushing them off with promises that she’d warm up to you eventually, ending with a soft hum as he flips his newspaper and leans further into the comforter. Shoko was the only person who actually listened to you.

“I don’t think that blush is your shade,” Shoko bustles into the bathroom, bending down just slightly to reapply her hot pink lipstick in the mirror. She does a double take, her eyes scanning over your face and your heavy eye make-up in disdain. Her lipstick is a hot pink, a true contrast to the black tube resting politely beside your messy, unkempt eyeshadow palette.

“Gee, thanks,” you murmur, patting it out with the pads of your fingers. Ruffling your hair in the mirror, your face turns into a scowl. “I think I’ll probably just stay home.”

Shoko tuts, turning to you with a blank expression as she sets her lipstick down. “It’s compulsory,” she rests her arm against the counter, leaning her body weight against said arm, crossing her legs. “And you know what your doctor said,

You need socialisation.”

That may have been true. After the death of your mother, you developed a tendency to isolate yourself from social situations, isolate yourself from the world around you. As soon as you came home with your first bottle of black lipstick and The Cure vinyl, your father had urged you towards therapy. You didn’t blame him, because his worry for you felt genuine, real. It reminded you of the times when your mother was still around, when everything was still okay.

Shoko had good intentions, even though she was dragging you to a party against your own will. A party full of frat boys and Sandy Olsson from Grease lookalikes, where you would stick out like a sore thumb. Parties were never your thing, at least parties like these. You much preferred the comfort of your own bedroom and Led Zeppelin to soothe your worries, not alcohol and cramped bodies.

“Why don’t you use my tanning bed?” Shoko suggests, quickly earning herself a deathly glare. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t back down.

Shoko was a sweet girl at heart. To the rest of town, she was the image of a perfect daughter. Top grades, she was a medical student in training. Popular in school, crowds gushing over her and her equally perfect best friend Suguru Geto. Though he was more reserved. Suguru Geto was polite and kind unlike her other friends, never failing to offer you a wave or a genuine smile whenever he was in your presence. Whenever you had the privacy of being alone, he’d allow you to gush over your shared music taste, sometimes even giving you new recommendations for you to spend the night researching while he and Shoko skip off to yet another party.

Shoko often teased you for having a crush on him, which you constantly denied. It wasn’t a crush, it was just, you favoured him, perhaps?

Stepping out of the tanning bed, you stumble on your feet. The crackle of electricity is still running through your veins, and if your vision wasn’t so hazy you’d be worried your blood would be glowing a radioactive blue. Thunder crackles in the distance- or was it just the sparks from the plug of the tanning bed?

“I’m really sorry you got electrocuted, y/n.” Scratching the nape of her neck awkwardly, Shoko avoids eye contact with you.

Once fully stable, you focus on taming your frazzled hair. Shoko pretends to check her nails, trying to swallow don’t her guilt, while simultaneously trying to maintain her own pride. Her trusty tanning bed had never let her down this bad before.

Maybe it was the bad luck that seemed to follow you around everywhere. Maybe it was that grave that you always gravitated to. The one in the corner of the graveyard, the one that never had any flowers. The sore thumb. You liked to think you were quite alike. Despite being from completely different eras and centuries, you two had one fatal factor in common- you were forgotten.

Satoru Gojo, the tombstone read.

“This party’s going to be clutch. There’s going to be two kegs, and Namami, the emo one, stole a nitrous tank from his dad’s dental practice. Isn’t it just off Bluff road?”

“Uhuh,” you mused, finally managing to tame the beast of you hair enough to look socially acceptable. “There’s a shortcut through the forest through Bachelors Grove.”

Shoko stilled, turning towards you in disgust. “The haunted cemetery?”

Even when she tried to be understanding, she still came off as a little judgy. You never minded. You knew she was trying.

The cemetery where Satoru Gojo lay. You often wondered about what his life was like. Did he have a hard home life, too? You liked to imagine so, for your own sake. You imagined he was similar to you, almost. An outsider in his own era. Or was he popular like Shoko is, a figure of such beauty and grace that it was hard to ignore? But still, his desolated grave was a sight on sore eyes. You wondered if your own would be like that too, abandoned.

“It’s not haunted,” you intervened, slightly more defensive then a normal person should be. “It’s just abandoned. I’ve never seen anybody there. I think it’s really peaceful and quiet.”

Whenever you had the chance, free from the harsh load of school work and your jarring step-mother, you liked to tend to the abandoned graves. To show love to the ones who didn’t have any love anymore. You hoped that the ghosts of once was knew they weren’t forgotten. There was someone out there who remembered each and every one of their desecrated souls.

“I do wax rubbings of all the tombstones. I have a favourite,” Shoko knew you were a little weird, sure. But atleast you were happy. That was all that matters, she concluded.

“You have a favourite, yeah?” She egged you on, struggling to tie the strap of her uncomfortable heels. You walk over, still limping slightly from the aftershocks of the tanning bed incident, tightening her heels with little struggle.

“A young man,” you muse, the ghost of a smile on your lips. “I tend to his grave and leave him flowers, and…

I talk to him sometimes.

I just don’t think anyone should be forgotten.”

☆

“If you’re looking to fade out, the Ethanols inside.” A gentle voice from behind caused you to drop dead in your tracks.

The party was already on full fledge, empty beer cans and shot glasses scattered all over the yard. His boots are heavy as the crunch the grass below, his steps thought out and calculated. Put together.

Suguru Geto was always so put together. Maybe that’s why you liked him so much, eagerly eating up his presence whenever he was around. Even his cologne was steady, never seeming to fade, the smell of him almost causing you whiplash. You knew it was him before you even saw his face.

“What?” You weren’t fully there, or capable to decipher his previous words. Your focus had been on the over crowded house- and sorry crowded house, but you were really dreaming that it would be over before it started.

“The booze,” you turned to face him, his grin was gentle and composed. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his baggy black jeans, sagging them down just slightly due to the added weight. You adverted your eyes. “It’s in the house.”

Oh. “Yeah, I think that Shoko brought most of it.” Speaking of Shoko, you quickly snapped out of your love-ridden gaze to search for the girl, who was currently whispering into the ears of two girls, ones that you recognised to have gave you dirty looks in passing earlier in the school year. All three of them kept glancing your way, trying (and failing miserably) to not make it obvious. They were obviously already inebriated.

You weren’t uncomfortable under their gaze, this situation having already happening to many times for you to keep count anymore. You loved Shoko, really, but she never knew how to keep her mouth shut. And it was the same thing, everytime. They wanted to know how you ended up the way you did. So shut off, so reserved from the world, so desolate. You didn’t want the sob story. You didn’t need people feeling bad for you.

There was nothing worse than the feeling of being pitied by people far superior to you. People who had everything that you once had, that was now out of your grasp. People who never appreciate what they have.

Suguru wandered off, and you followed aimlessly, like a little puppy with nowhere to go. He didn’t seem to mind- or if he did, he didn’t bother to voice it. He shuffled his way to the keg wordlessly, kneeling down beside it and picking out two separate red cups from the bunch. He looked back to you, a silent offering as he held the cup your way.

The piece of red plastic was still empty. You still had the chance to deny. But when Suguru was looking at you with that purple tinted gaze, how could you not? You don’t think you would ever want to deny him of anything.

You weren’t a drinker, despite all of Shoko’s pestering. You didn’t understand how people your age found joy in it. Where was the joy of being constantly dizzy, out of your mind and not even being able to remember a single thing the next day? You concluded that there was no joy in having your previous events from the night before recounted back to you from a friend anxious over your reaction, your body filled with regret. You’ve seen your share of this plenty from Shoko, so why would you voluntarily copy her actions.

But.

It was Suguru asking. So you reluctantly agreed.

Maybe that was the first mistake. Or maybe the first mistake was allowing Naoya Zenin, one of the snobby rich kids, to chat your ear off. It was all a blur, really. You didn’t see Shoko much for the rest of the night, of Suguru either for that matter.

You don’t remember when it kicked in. All you know was that it did. And quick. Was the sky spinning, or was it just you? Nope, it really was spinning. It had to be. Reaching a hand out, on your eyes it fell contorted. You brought the palm of your hand closing to your face, wiggling your fingers. Your palm was moving, your veins bulging- or what it just imagination?

The panic had already set in. Or had it?

Your third mistake was trying to stand up, all too quickly, in a way that had your body immediately lurching over, your dinner threatening to arise. You stumbled back up to your feet, convincing yourself that you didn’t need to sit down, you were fine- your fourth mistake. Naoya’s expression was unreadable, at first. It soon contorted into one of disgust, though he quickly masked it with a (fake) smile, one that seemed so strained it was more like a grimace.

“Let’s find somewhere more private for you to go sit for a bit, yeah?” He arose, invading your personal space with a rough hand on your back, a hand that was too close for your liking. If you were any less inebriated, the red flags in your brain would’ve gone off immediately, sparking like fireworks, enough to light up the whole town in red flames. But you weren’t sober.

“Here we go,” You hardly realised at first when his hand started to wander, sliding down your back to the globe of your ass, with a touch so feather light you could’ve missed it. And then before it’s even took place in your mind he’s raising it back up, wrapping an arm around your shoulder to steady you.

No, no.

Nothing was right about the way he was touching you. He was rough. So rough, it was unnerving. He led you to a secluded bathroom, grunting whenever you slipped up and tumbled your whole body weight on him.

the click of the door muffling all sounds. You were sure that was Shoko you could hear singing faintly. Your breathing was unsteady, uncollected, uncomposed. It had you thinking back to Suguru- what was he doing right now.

But- oh, oh no. That wasn't Suguru infront of you, and that wasn't Suguru whose hot breath you could feel on your neck. And that certainly wasn't Suguru who was leaning in for a kiss-

Something in your mind finally clicked, and you were pushing him away. You didn't want this. And Naoya Zenin knew that.

He stumbles back into the shower curtain, unimpressed. It seems the alcohol is catching up to himself now, as he rubs his head, his fingers pressing firm into his temples, a groan leaving his lips.

And you run, leaving the bathroom behind, leaving the party behind.

Someone yells from behind you. You can't make out who it is.

You don't bother checking.

☆

Satoru Gojo’s grave is bare, as usual, just as you expected.

You fall to your knees beside his tombstone, the mud, wetted by the previous storm dirtying the petite dress Shoko had shoved you in, matching her own. It wasn’t your style, but for her you didn’t mind it. You don’t know when the weather became so…malicious. It was fitting, really. Maybe Satoru had caused it. He knew how you were feeling, if he was watching over you.

“It’s you,” you heaved for breath, the harsh thumping of your heart beat finally steadying as you took a comfortable reside on his tombstone. His presence was calming, even if he was dead. Almost like Suguru’s.

The thunder crackles again and you let out a pained whine, a nimble hand grazing over the lettering of his name. Satoru Gojo. “It’s you,” you repeat. What would he do in this situation? You wish you could ask him.

You wondered if he was weak like you. Or maybe he was strong. Maybe he was the type of person to always have an answer for everything, a beacon of hope. Maybe he was the type of person that people would rely on, the strongest. You imagined he would be pretty considerate- the misunderstood usually are. You liked to think you were considerate- considerate of those around you, putting others before yourself. You even let Shoko put you in her tanning bed, even if it didn’t turn out quite how she planned it. You let Suguru give you a drink- why?

You often blamed yourself for your mother’s death. You were the only one who witnessed it. You heard all the whispers after her body was taking away in the ambulance. Your father holding your frail young body to his chest, your neighbours watching in concern- whispers of “how could this happen?” Nobody blamed you for what happened. It was a freak accident. It was never your fault. So why did it always feel like it was? Why could you never live up to anyone’s expectations?

The thunder crackled again. Maybe it was Satoru’s own way of comforting you, of letting you know that he was listening.

“Oh, I..” your voice cracked as a choked sob threatened to make its way out and disturb the ambience.

“I wish I was with you.”

☆

How were you meant to explain to the Victorian zombie currently huddled up in your wardrobe that, in fact, that wasn’t what you meant.

He was pretty. Really pretty. He had these overwhelmingly blue orbs, that felt he was staring down into your soul. His hair was soiled with dirt and mud (and whatever else, you didn’t even want to think about) but you could notice slight clean white streaks peaking through. He almost looked like an angel. Oddly pretty for a zombie who should be a decaying pile of bones right now.

He was extremely confused when you dragged him back to your house in the midst of the storm, rain damaging your eyesight into blurry splotches. It wasn’t like you could exactly leave him there- a zombie, with no bearings in the middle of the forest. It wasn’t exactly ideal, but you didn’t want anyone catching him. It was either you leave him for dead (ironic), or take him with you. You chose the latter.

You quickly caught onto the fact that he couldn’t speak. Something about being dead, you weren’t really sure. But he could listen, his dead eyes watching you intently, lovingly almost, whenever you spoke. You quickly caught onto the fact he must’ve been distraught about the loss of his voice, grunting and moaning constantly to get any words out. He must’ve been a speaker, huh.

You shove a coat over his body, and the phone rings jarringly. His head moves as quick as it can for a dead persons, his joints aching after not being used for so long. You quickly run over to the phone, declining the call. But his eyes are still caught on it, a hint of curiosity in his gaze.

You quickly remember there was no technology in his era.

“That’s my dad’s shoe phone,” your own words have you stifling a grin at the positive memory. He smiles slightly. You think. You can’t really tell. “He got it for free with his subscription to Sports Illustrated.”

He makes a noise. You’re not really sure what he’s trying to say, maybe it’s in agreement, maybe his curiosity isn’t yet fullfilled.

You decide to switch your record player on to decrease the awkward tension lingering in your bed room, which should be your safe space. It currently isn’t, not with a Victorian zombie lingering in your wardrobe. Music had always been there to ground you. When your mother hadn’t, Ride The Lighting had. Ironic; as lightning had got you into this predicament in the first place.

“I wish I was with you.”

And then everything happened so quickly, in a flash of lightning. Everything was blue. Just like Satoru’s eyes.

The first strike hit the tree resting idly behind his tombstone. The old oak tree, the only presence ever in the graveyard beside your own. On your first visit to Satoru, the old oak stuck out like a sore thumb. You concluded by its size, that it must be so deeply rooted within the soil. You wondered if it was here when Satoru was alive. Maybe you gazed upon the same tree, wishing for the same fate.

The second strike of lightning hit directly on Satoru Gojo’s grave, and in a panic ridden gaze you stumbled back, your own yelp surprising you. And then the ground started shaking, and you could’ve swore that was a hand coming out of the soil-

The Cure. He’s listening intently. It’s a little dark considering your current situation. Boys don’t cry. Boys do cry, but they certainly don’t crawl out of the soil.

“Do you like this, uh, song?” You’ll switch it if he shows any sign that he doesn’t. You don’t want him to suffer in silence.

He nods- almost. It’s his own version of a nod, the best he can do.

You feel pity for him. You’re not sure what you would do in this situation if you were him. Being awakened from your centuries long slumber, to a girl you’ve never met before crying on your own tombstone. Seeing the proof of your death painted so cruelly on a peice of rock. It must be a lot to take in. And then being dragged to said girls house, and chucked in a wardrobe.

“Do you like any other music?” You question, knowing you won’t get any verbal answer. Small talk.

You get up, wandering over to tne record player when all music has died out, and all that’s left is faint scratching. You switch it to the b-side. The music flows again effortlessly.

“I have The Cure.”

He suddenly perks up, and hums. His fill attention is on you, and you shrink under his blue gaze. And then you realise what he’s wordlessly asking of you.

Oh.

“No,” you try to put him down slowly. “It’s not that kind of cure. It’s like a…it’s a band.”

He rolls his eyes. Well, he’s certainly a character. He’s not exactly what you expected. You thought considering his time, he’d be at least a bit more- gentlemanly. No. He’s sassy. But, he’s still curious. He chucks his head back with as much force as he can, hitting the wall of your wardrobe. A subtle thud.

“They can’t make you better. I mean, they can, but like emotionally.” He…smiles? Satoru shrugs the coat you shucked on him off from his lap.

There’s a comfortable silence for a while. The house is empty, quiet. Your parents are at work, Shoko must’ve stayed round Suguru’s. It’s only you and Satoru right now. He’s still staring at you- unmoving. His expression is soft, his eyes are loving. If he wasn’t covered in dirt, and well, a zombie, you think you could get used to it. Hold on- what are you saying?

You decide to bite the bullet.

It was all a big misunderstanding. If you explained what you really meant, then hopefully, he’d go back to wherever he came from. The ground, preferably.

“When I said I wished to be with you, I didn’t mean that.” You bite your lip, before continuing. He raises his head to stare at you again. He really needs to stop doing that. “I meant I wished I was in the ground, dead.

Because life sucks and people are jerk-offs.”

God, you really do sound like an angsty teen.

He doesn’t look happy. His face is contorted, his big blue eyes suddenly not so big anymore, downturned in the corners. You assume he doesn’t like the thought of you harming yourself. That’s…nice, you guess.

“I didn’t mean that I wanted to be…with you. You know… in person.”

He looks down. You smell it before you see it. It’s putrid. He’s crying.

You do feel a little guilty, before you’re blindsided by the stench. You stifle a gag, and separate yourself from him as much as you can. He looks up. Seeing the distance you have pushed between you two, and his lip quivers. Shakes.

“Oh, oh, I’m sorry.” How are you meant to comfort a Victorian zombie? He’s crying specifically because of you! And, oh god, whatever’s coming out of his eyes cannot be tears. “No, no, no, don’t cry!”

You don’t know if you’re begging for your sake or his.

“Don’t cry,” you try again, softer this time. He listens. “Please.” You add in, for reassurance. You’re not mad at him, even if his tears smell like the centuries he’s been rotting underground. You don’t know why you ever expected different. Well, in your defence, you never expected him to cry.

The dirt tracks staining your bedroom carpet really weren’t ideal. And you had to do something about his - stench. You wondered if he’d look even more beautiful if he was clean. It would be a hard task, but you’d find a way to make it work. Before your parents arrive, at least.

Getting him inside your house last night was hard. His frail body had slammed into Shoko’s mirror and smashed it, sending glass shards flying in every direction. You grimaced. And now you had to find a way to get him into the shower without his rotting corpse succumbing to death again. The poor thing could hardly stand on his own.

“Go,” You cover your mouth and plug your nose, catching Satoru’s attention again. You signal with your hand for him to stand- which he tries. And fails miserably. “Oh..my god.”

It takes some time, but you get there.

“So here’s some soap,” you offer him the pink block, to which he stares at with amazement. Yeah, his soap was probably never pink before. You had a quick fleeting thought about what the facilities in his life must have been like. God knows he’d never used a shower before. “You’re gonna need that.”

He grunts in acceptance. You don’t understand why, but something about him just makes you want to open up and speak. Maybe it’s the factor that he cannot speak back, so you know he can’t judge you. Well he can, but you cannot voice it- but out of sight, out of mind. He hasn’t expressed any disdain for you, yet- no, his eyes are always filled with something else- love.

You know that you’re to blame for the cause of his affections. You know that he must’ve been watching from the afterlife whenever you visited his grave, that he must’ve heard every single word that left your lips. Your declarations of love for a dead man. Affection that he hasn’t experienced for centuries. You conclude that he must have formed a liking for you- whether it was the first time you left him that single red rose, or the first time you cleaned his grave, rid of the moss that was begging to succumb him, to have him forgotten.

“I don’t know why I’m talking so much,” you ramble again. He’s listening with a sparkle in his eye. “I haven’t said this many words in forever. After my mom died, I got diagnosed with traumatic mutism. That’s where you don’t talk at all.”

You don’t know how or why you found yourself trauma dumping to a Victorian Zombie. You had already lost his attention as quick as it came. His eyes closed in on the radio, sitting deftly on the wall of the shower. He examined the buttons and the antenna with a newfound curiosity.

“Would you like me to turn on the shower radio?”

He hums, and your fingers find the switch. “This is Shoko’s station. It’s for beer sluts,” you whisper the last words, like if he heard them any louder he could take offence to it. “I’m gonna turn on the college station. It’s for people like us, with feelings.”

He seems to like it. You reach for the shower knobs.

“Okay,” your fingers trace along the taps, eyes locked on his as if to make sure he was listening. “Hot. Cold,” you start up the water. “This? Water.”

He mimics the sound of the water falling in fascination. “It’s from the future,” you muse.

☆

“What the hell happened here?!” Her voice is distant, muffled, but still as jarring as the first day you heard it. “Get down here now!”

Uh oh.

“Did you smash the mirror in the bathroom?” Damn you Satoru. Your dad’s voice was gentle, a softer contrasts to Shoko’s aggressive mother.

“Last night, I, uh…” last night, Satoru had been the one to smash into Shoko’s mirror with full force when he stumbled into your room, destroying everything that came into his way. Despite being one with the dead, this strength was oddly..alive.

He had been dead for centuries, but yet, he was still stronger than you. That hurt your pride, a little bit. But it also made you wonder about him, just a bit more. Who was Satoru Gojo? Why was he so different from a regular corpse? The twinkle in his blue orbs was so undeniable. It was alive.

“Told you,” Your step- mother scoffed, checking her manicure, her face contorted in disgust. “Your dad wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I knew. I always know.”

Currently, Satoru Gojo was sleeping restlessly in the corner of your wardrobe, covered over with a pile of gothic dressers and vintage coats. You’d shoved him in there hopelessly the second you had heard the door slam.

He was adapting nicely- well, the best he could for a dead man. He seemed enchanted by new technologies, like your telephone, and the radio in the shower. You thought he’d be confused at first, maybe overwhelmed with how much the whole world had change since he inhabited it. He seemed to like it. He had developed a special liking for your record player, too. You decided that when all of this about the mirror was over, you’d walk him through your vinyl collection. You’d also have to find him some new clothes, too, because you were sure he wouldn’t particularly enjoy your choices of attire. Something from the depth of your dad’s wardrobe would have to do. Maybe Shoko could fetch some clothes from Suguru if you explained your situation.

“There was a damn tornado last night! Yard full of debris, now I guess I’ve got to clean up the bathroom, too!”

The commotion of your evil step-mother’s whiny voice was enough to attract the attention of Shoko, who bustles down the stairs and leans on the doorframe, watching her mother belittle you intently. “It was a tornado watch, mom.”

“Well, now, it was quite a storm though, Shoko,” Shoko’s mother turns to your father, who has been silent throughout this whole encounter. “You need to be a father right now. Your daughter has a taste for vandalism. She has been deliberately destroying my property! First it was my precious cake stand..”

“That was an accident!” You but in.

“Y/n, do you know what happens to people who act out? They end up in the loony bin.”

Shoko ruffles her hair. “You’re a psych nurse, mom. Should you really be saying ‘loony bin’?”

You appreciated Shoko’s subtle ways of defending you. It was always like this, whenever her mother would find something to pick on you for. Your father never defended you; but Shoko always did. Despite your differences, you liked her.

“Zip it, Shoko.” Her mother relents.

“All right, y/n.” Ah. Dads input. “You’re gonna go upstairs and you’re gonna clean up that bathroom. And, um..pay for the mirror.”

You’d have to figure out a way to pick up the funds to pay for a new mirror, whilst also simultaneously spending as much time as possible watching over the undead corpse of Satoru Gojo.

“Yeah, I’ll pick up an extra shift at Wayne’s.”

You hadn’t truly thought through about what you would do about Satoru Gojo while you were out. You still had your responsibilities, after all- school, work hobbies. You couldn’t do any of that while Satoru was around. He was undeniably cocky, for a corpse. However, he was missing some… parts.

You had found him some clothes from the depth of your father’s wardrobe. And that’s when you noticed his defects. Satoru was missing a hand. A clean slate, a missing limb. Satoru Gojo also had a hefty scar, running clean through the circumference of his waist. He held a certain distaste for his missing hand- he hated it. Satoru hated feeling weak. At his whines and groans, you’d expressed that there was no way you could magic up his hand. He didn’t like it one bit.

“Let me see,” you expressed with a gasp the second he make the reason for his upset clear. It was ghastly, disgusting. Putrid. “It looks cool.”

“I can’t do anything about that. I’m not a doctor,” he slumped over in defeat. If you had any way of helping this dismembered corpse, you would in a heartbeat. “But it’s okay, they’re just things that make you different.”

What happened to you, Satoru Gojo…?

Satoru slept in the wardrobe again that night.

“I, uh, have to get dressed,” Satoru didn’t budge, his nimble hand rummaging to grab a dress from the top of the pile of the clothing he was using as a makeshift blanket. He holds it out towards you in his working hand. It’s black, long and lacy, and certainly not appropriate for college. “Mm. That’s Shoko’s. She gave it to me because she said she got too many compliments in it.”

He grunts, but he doesn’t relent.

“Uhuh. It’s not really my style. I’m not a skeezer.”

He groans. Fine.

“Can I at least get a jacket?”