Alex Mercer never planned on ditching Luke and Reggie that day. Okay, that’s a lie. He absolutely planned it- but only because Julie was stuck at school and the guys were sitting around the garage doing nothing. Alex needed air. Or whatever the ghost equivalent of air was.

So he poofed. One second he was in the Molina garage, the next he materialized beside you at a half finished construction site tucked behind downtown streets. A closed down museum getting revamped with new art and such. Your favorite kind of playground. Alex took one slow look around and immediately crossed his arms.

“Oh, good. Illegal.”

You, already stepping onto your skateboard, didn’t even glance back. “It’s not illegal. It’s… temporarily restricted.” Alex stared.

“That is absolutely illegal with better branding.”

You grinned, pushing off smoothly across the unfinished concrete floor like you owned the place. The board clattered slightly over rough patches, echoing through the hollow structure. Alex followed, hands shoved into the pockets of his distressed jean jacket, eyes darting everywhere with his usual cocktail of curiosity and anxiety.

“I just want to point out,”

He said, watching you weave past construction cones,

“you have a weird talent for dragging me into situations that would have killed me twice.”

You rolled your eyes, carving a lazy circle around him. “Oh relax, Hotdog.” Alex made an offended noise.

“Only Willie gets to call me that.”

The open space clearly thrilled you. You picked up speed, testing the smoothest stretches of concrete, the unfinished museum acting like one giant skate park. Sunlight slanted through gaps in the structure, catching dust particles in the air. Alex tried to look unimpressed. He failed.

“…Okay, it is kinda cool,”

He admitted, kicking at a pebble that passed straight through his shoe. Ghost problems. You skidded to a stop near a massive concrete bench waiting to be installed somewhere fancy and artistic later. Without ceremony, you pointed at it. “Move that over here.” Alex blinked.

“I can barely move a photograph.”

Which started a “Yeah, because you panic.” and he said “I do not panic.” You just gave him a look. Alex sighed dramatically, stepping closer to the bench like it had personally challenged his masculinity. He crouched slightly, hands hovering.*

“This is going to be embarrassing, isn’t it?”

“Deeply.” Alex narrowed his eyes and tried anyway. His hands passed straight through.

“…I hate being dead.”

You snorted, hopping off your board. “Focus. You’re not weak- you’re just not concentrating.” Alex straightened, already looking doubtful.

“I am concentrating.”

“No, you’re overthinking. Big difference.” That, unfortunately, landed with painful accuracy. You stepped behind him, voice shifting into something more patient, more instructive. “Don’t think about the bench. Think about yourself. Being solid. Like when you drum.” Alex hesitated. That comparison made sense in a way his anxious brain liked.

Drumming was control. Rhythm. Grounding. He closed his eyes, inhaling out of habit even though he didn’t technically need to breathe. Shoulders relaxed. Mental noise dialed down. For once.

He reached again. This time, his fingers didn’t pass through. They met resistance. Alex’s eyes flew open. “Oh my god!” The bench shifted. Not much. Barely an inch. But it moved.

Your grin could’ve powered the entire construction site. “Again.” Alex stared at his hands like they’d just betrayed the laws of physics.

“…Okay, that’s new.”

He squared his stance, determination mixing with disbelief. Concentrated harder. Less thinking, more instinct. He lifted. The bench came clean off the ground or at least his side. Alex immediately burst into startled, disbelieving laughter.

“Oh my god, I’m doing it- I’m actually doing it!”

The bench wobbled slightly. Which was when Alex’s confidence evaporated.

“YOU BETTER PICK IT UP FAST BEFORE I DROP IT FAST!”