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I slide the door closed behind me and move closer. Too close, probably. I lean down to see the screen and catch the warm, clean scent of him. His shoulder still holds the day’s heat.

The old video shakes slightly as stage lights sweep over dancers in elaborate costumes. Fire flashes. Music swells. A shirtless man swings across the stage in a harness, body shining under theatrical lights.

Then Renny’s voice comes through the tiny speaker.

“That bulge!”

The camera zooms straight in on the performer’s crotch.

Clint giggles.

“Oh my God,” he says. “You can’t even see what the dude’s doing.”

I smile, then laugh.

“Yeah,” I say, sinking into the chair across from him. “Ren was quite the bulge watcher.”

“Respect.”

“We have whole vacation albums that look more like anatomy texts.”

The video keeps playing. Renny’s voice comes in again, half-whispering, “Paul, look at that one.”

My own voice answers from years ago, amused and exasperated: “I’m watching the show.”

“Not the right one.”

Clint laughs again, softer this time.

I look at the phone and see only blurred lights, bodies, the edge of Renny’s thumb slipping briefly over the lens. But I hear the old rhythm. His delight. My pretend annoyance. The ease of being known so well by someone that even irritation became part of the love language.

It should hurt more than it does. Maybe it will later.

Right now, Clint is watching the video with bright eyes, and Renny’s voice is not a ghost in the room. It’s just a man full of filthy observations.

Clint glances over at me. “He was funny.”

“Yes,” I say. “He was.”

He lets the phone slump in his hand.

“I’m sorry we missed it.”

I look up.

“The show,” he adds. “I mean, I know it was your thing.”

I shrug. “I’ve seen it.”

“That’s not really the point, though.”

“Maybe not.”

Clint watches me. I reach for the pizza box because the silence has gotten too direct.

“How is this?”

“Alright. A little one-note, honestly.”