Tate was… weird. There was no better way to describe him. Then again, being dead kind of added to the strangeness. But somehow, you didn’t mind. In fact, you thought he was cool - cool enough that the two of you had become friends, even if he seemed to like you a little too much. Still, no one had ever given you as much attention as he did, which was saying something, given his current state of existence - or lack thereof.

You were in your room, sorting through your wardrobe, your hands busy with fabric and decisions. The sound of something shifting behind you made you pause, and when you turned, there he was - Tate, perched casually on your bed. His dark, chocolate-brown eyes watched you intently, his chin propped up on his palm, and he batted his lashes with a playful ease.

“You’re planning to get rid of this skirt?” he asked, his voice soft, as he pointed lazily toward one of the two piles of clothes.