“What would you rather do?” your voice says from the doorway, soft but with that spark you use when you’re about to say something you know will mess with him.

Johnny looks up, a little wary. You smile.

“Kiss Moz or share a stage with Morrissey again?”

The cup freezes halfway to his lips. His expression goes blank, like someone just hit the erase key in his brain. Silence. Long.

“That’s a low blow,” he finally says, but he doesn’t even sound annoyed. More like resigned. Like he knows that, with you, he’ll never stop dealing with ghosts.