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A second too late, I remember Lena.

Maybe he does know some things about ghosts.

His voice is quiet when he answers. “You’re right. I don’t know yours.”

I hold his gaze, and for a strange second, the fight goes out of both of us.

Then he ruins it.

“But you ain’t leaving alone.”

I close my eyes. “There he is.”

“You can be mad.”

“Thank you for the permission I didn’t ask for.”

“Be mad in my truck.”

“I have a car.”

“Your car has a Reaper claim scratched into the door.”

“It still has wheels.”

“And until CSI checks it, it ain’t moving with you inside.”

My stomach dips. I did not think about that, and I hate that I did not think about that.

Bitter sees the moment the argument leaves my face, and to his credit, he does not gloat. He looks past me and whistles sharp.

Skibidi stops chasing the runaway coffin racer so fast he almost trips over his own boots. “Yeah?”

“South lot. Sweet’s blue hatchback. Nobody touches it. Nobody gets near it. You see somebody breathing too close to it, you get me, Ghoul, or Nevermore.”

Skibidi straightens like Bitter just handed him a sword and a kingdom. “Yes, sir.”

“And don’t say a damn word about what’s on it.”

Skibidi’s eyes widen. “There’s something on it?”

Bitter stares.

Skibidi swallows. “Which I will not know because I did not ask.”

“Good boy.”

Skibidi runs off, then slows, clearly trying to look like a man on duty and not a puppy with a task.

I stare at Bitter.

“What?”

“That was…”

“Bossy?”

“Boyfriend-ish.”