Coasting

Alex Mulner was a simple man. He had simple needs, and simple desires, like his granny’s roast beef, warm coffee, and the inevitable wealth and fame sure to come with his professional sports career.

(And, that was sure to come. Sure, the Tunnelers hadn’t signed him yet, but he was a blue chip recruit to Zuzu City. No injury is going to stop him from making it in the big leagues. For fuck’s sake, if DRose can play professional basketball with 70-year-old knees, Alex Mulner can play gridball after an ACL tear.)

And life in Stardew Valley is as simple as it gets. A perfect match for a simple man— at least on paper. In practice, Alex is exhausted by the simplest fact of his decade-long stint in Pelican town: nothing fucking changes. Every day is the same routine, varied only by weather and whether his grandma is baking flower-shaped cookies or little pumpkin-shaped ones.

This morning, like every morning, he snoozed three times before trading his sweatpants in for some basketball shorts and his morning breath for breakfast. A brisk run around town— cardio conditioning is important— and he’ll follow that up with the ever-vital second breakfast. Later today he’ll hang around outside, play with Dusty a little, maybe see what Haley’s up to. Lunch, strength training, dinner, bed.

Summer was so close to being here, though, and thank god. The day’s activities may never change, but at least the sun will be centered in a everblue sky. It’s the gridball preseason, with perfect weather for outdoor conditioning and hanging around down at the beach. And for hopefully making a little coin, too.

There aren’t many boutiques in Pelican Town, or really, many shops at all. Pierre’s, the Saloon, and Joja. That’s it. And none of them had a hunk scooping out ice cream for quarters. His ice cream stand was his and Haley's brilliant brainchild, an answer to the prayers of every fan of Cold Stone currently stuck in town.

The past couple of summers have been pretty on-again-off-again with the ice cream stand, though. It doesn’t help that the same people have been buying for twenty years. It's less effective when he’s not a bright eyed and bushy haired and braced-up 12 year old. Apparently that’s cute, or something.

Regardless of his interest in running the damn thing, Alex is grateful for no competition in the artisanal stand game. He’s grateful for no competition in gridball— as if he’d have any anywhere else— and he’s even grateful for the limits on a social life. But still. The town is boring. Nothing changes. And even when new people move in, things stay the same.

Like he does on every run he takes, Alex rounded the path winding past Leah’s cottage and Marnie’s animal multiplex, and peered up the weed-covered branch and looked for— thought of the farmer. The farmer he had never actually met. Apparently during his first weeks here, he had made introductory rounds, but Alex had missed him. According to Pierre, he comes to town twice a week to check the ask board and buy some seeds. Otherwise, he’s more cryptid than Sebastian. At least Seb heads to the saloon on Fridays.

I guess no one becomes a farmer for the social life , Alex thinks, and then scoffs at his judgement. As if his own is even that much of one to have. His sneakers, worn in the soles, skid a little as Alex’s stride takes him from dirt path to cobblestone road. One more lap around town, and he can get on with his scheduled day.

The closest thing Stardew Valley has to a coffee shop is Gus’s dark brew, drips staining the saloon’s wood floor and the teeth of anyone who braves a cup. So it’s definitely unusual when Alex’s reentry into town smacks him with the fragrance of roasted beans. His entire being is inundated by the the enticing smell of coffee, and what’s even more weird is the heady scent leading him to right outside the Historical Society— to his ice cream stand. Someone was rummaging behind the low counter, and a keg chugged away next to him, tar-streaked wood shimmering in the morning sunlight.

“Hey, hey, what are you doing, man?” Alex started speaking before even taking his headphones out of his ears, short breath clipping his words. A hand, broad and tan, slammed down on the wooden counter possessively. “This is my ice cream stand.”

The umbrella pole squeaked its offense when the stranger smacked against it, standing with sonic speed. His hands were clutching several different bottles of cream and an oversized box of sugar, and Alex could see mug after mug lined up under the back countertop.

“I’m sorry— I asked the-the Mayor,” The man started speaking suddenly, jolting Alex’s attention to his eyes, brown and starry and wide. His hair, dyed a bright teal, tumbled into them and shook with his words. “He said th-that you only didn’t— didn’t use it last summer? And I meant to come over and ask and introduce myself first, but—”

Without Alex even asking, his brain supplied commentary: Stuttering. Cute— Cute? Why cute? Alex cut the man and his own mind off with a shake of his head and of his hand, just as the man set all his bottles onto the counter before them. “I mean, I was planning on using it this year, but,” Alex trailed off, punctuating with a quiet “whatever.”

“Jesus, I’m so— so sorry, I should have ask-asked first.” The man waved his hands frantically, brow low and furrowed, and a nervous smile plastered on his face. “I j-just, you know, had the beans and my grandpa, he-he-he-he had kegs and I—” The man stopped the runaway train of his words to take a deep breath, as though to steady himself. His words now were measured, slower: “I thought it would be a nice spot to sell coffee.”

“Oh. Your grandpa.” Was all Alex could think to respond with. The blue-haired farmer sighed, seemingly in relief, and his eyes drifted from Alex’s face, down his ratty shirt— some old thing from high school that he and a pair of scissors turned into the comfiest sleeveless thing Alex owns. The farmer’s shirt, brown and button down, almost made him feel underdressed. I wonder if he farms in that thing.

“Yeah.” He said, smile becoming more genuine, and more lopsided. He ran a hand through his hair, showing off a dark undercut underneath the unruly blue. “He owned the farm ages ago?”

“Right, right. I dig it.” Alex nodded. His breath was finally slowing, no longer in heavy exhales and dramatic puffs. He peered around, trying to catch a glimpse of any clock from here— this must have been a long run. “My grandparents knew him.”

“I’m Tucker!” He extended his hand and Alex met it automatically, with a clap and a shake. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off sunburnt and bruised skin. His callouses felt new. “I don’t know if we met, actually—”

“Farm boy, right?” An exhaled laugh and a nod from the blue-haired man as he dropped Alex’s heavy palm. Tucker’s hand immediately went to grab his other, fingers nervously fidgeting. It was almost funny seeing a man, taller than Alex and almost as broad, have so many skittish habits.

“I’m Alex. Mulner. Alex Mulner,” he finally remembered to say. Alex combed his own fingers through his hair, combing it up from his tan brow. Fuck— it must look stupid without any gel in it. “I don’t know if you’ve met my grandparents? Granny, uh, Evelyn and George.”

“Oh!” Tucker started nodding excitedly, smile almost completely overtaking his face. It was almost disconcerting how much joy this one person could fit into an expression. “Yes, I’ve met Evelyn. She’s wonderful.”

Alex couldn’t help but return the smile, though, this one dripping with pride. “Yeah, she’s pretty great.”

“She invited me for dinner sometime.” Tucker responded with a shrug. He stuck his hands in his pockets, thumbs rubbing against the stitching now. His jeans were sunstained and dirty, splotches of coffee coloring dark lines of dust. “So, uh, I’m sure we’ll meet again then.”

“Well, I like coffee too, so.” Alex belatedly realized he was matching all of Tucker’s actions as his shoulders brushed his ears. Instead of reaching for any pockets, though, Alex just started fanning himself with his shirt, billowing the fabric to blow air up to his face.

“I really am sorry.” Tucker started stammering again. His stutter seemed to have abated, but the nerves in his voice hadn’t yet. “I can wait until fall if you—”

“It’s fine.” Alex interrupted more genuinely this time. This would be his good deed for the month. As he spoke, Tucker’s face relaxed and his eyes smiled. “Lewis is right, I didn’t use it last summer, so…”

“Right! Right! Uh, tell-tell your friends! I’ll be officially open tomorrow.” His grin was wide and genuine, again, and ever-blinding. Alex wasn’t sure he could look at it for long, even if he wanted to. “Thanks, Alex.”

Alex responded with a firm nod and a quirk of his own lips, before turning tail and running back the way he had came. Based on the sun, it was around 11— Haley would be home right now, probably. He might as well stop by. And Alex has a long stride (it’s part of what makes him so valuable on the gridiron) so it’s only a couple of minutes before he’s entering Haley’s house without so much as a knock, and she’s nodding her own hello back from the comfort of her blue-knit couch.

“So.” Alex took a moment to try to catch his breath again, to little avail. “That new farmer.”

“What about him?” Haley straightened up a little from her phone-perusing pose, adjusting her skirt as she moved. Alex closed the door behind him, and without any fanfare plopped down next to his best friend.

“Have you met him?” He asked. His eyes traced the wall across from him, over familiar works of art and photographs, before following up the crown moulding and to the ceiling. His exchange with Tucker was like a bur on his pant leg, sticking to him, even distracting him from Haley’s blithe answers.

“Once or twice.” Haley was twisting a long piece of her blonde hair around her finger now, watching the ends curl up and away from her pale finger. “He’s not around much.”

“He took my ice cream stand.” Alex said quickly, without thinking. Was this the problem? He doesn’t feel bitter about the whole situation. If anything, there’s almost a quivering anticipation within him, a desire for tomorrow to come. A craving for coffee.

Haley, though, quickly took up the cause of indignation, sitting up fully and flouncing. “What?”

Alex’s shoulders pulled up again, fabric resisting against the shrug. His tongue ran against his teeth, smacked against the roof of his mouth. Damn, he was thirsty. “Apparently Lewis said I didn’t use it anymore.”

“Not untrue, but.” She threw her hands up, a parallel match to his shoulder’s movement. “Still.”

“Still.” Alex repeated.

“Still. Seems rude of him.” Haley stood now, moving out of Alex’s peripheral vision. Her bare feet padded pleasantly against the floor. “He dresses bad, too.”

Alex barked a laugh, nose crinkling. “What, you think he’s ugly?”

“No, he’s not ugly.” Haley replied with a thoughtfulness. Her voice was a little muffled— she had moved into the kitchen, Alex realized, and the crinkle of plastic bags confirmed the observation. “That brown shirt he always wears is though.”

“Whatever.” Alex’s front teeth bit the inner line of his bottom lip, worrying it as he thought— perhaps a little too long— about Tucker’s blue hair, and freckled skin and brown eyes spelling out every emotion, even for slow readers like him. He’d like to say he doesn’t think about his next words, but he does, and he isn’t sure he likes how they feel so true. “ He’s not ugly”

“Got a crush already, huh.” Haley reappeared, leaning against the doorjamb of her kitchen with a handful of almonds in her palm.

Haley’s teasing was light, thoughtless as always, but this time Alex felt something fall within him, a weight that he couldn’t identify even if he wanted to. He at least brushed off his flush as from his run, and chucked a soft “fuck off” back Haley’s way.

“Whatever.” Her laugh was light, breezy, like the wind pushing apart the curtains her sister had embroidered four winters ago. “Anyway, I’m going with Emily to Zuzu City tomorrow. She’s going to some craft fair so I’d figured I’d get my hair done.” She crunched down on a couple almonds as Alex stood. ”Want to come?”

“Uh, maybe.” He stretched his feet within his sneakers, watched the perforated fabric move as his toes pushed up against it. “The farmer’s opening his coffee shop tomorrow, though.”

Haley’s lips pulled thin, a mockery of a smile in its curiosity. “So?”

“I dunno.” The man rocked back for only a millisecond and then he was propelling himself onto his feet. He brushed his shorts off, as if he cared how wrinkled they had become by this point. “I kinda wanna check it out”

“You’re so weird.” Haley scoffed as she stepped more into the living room. She finished off her almonds, brushing her crumb-covered hands against her sweatshirt, and she stared challengingly up at Alex.

“At least my hair is naturally this good looking.” Alex shot back, smile ruining any effect the insult might have had. He ran his hands through his brown locks, standing straighter under his ministrations.

“Whatever, gel boy.” Alex feigned an offended gasp even as Haley’s tiny palms pressed against his back. She tried to force him towards the door, but his sneakers hardly moved on the Oriental rug.

“Get out of my house.” Haley tried again but Alex started collapsing back on her. Struggling under his weight, she tried to straighten his spine but her laughter undercut any movement. “Go shower you disgusting man.”

“All right, all right.” Alex pulled himself up, finally, and let himself out of the house with a smile and a nonchalant wave. “See you later”

He hissed as he stepped out of the Carter house, the sun’s light so close to blinding. A quick stretch of his quads, a quick peel of his sweat-soaked tank top off his body, and Alex starts jogging back home. He expertly weaves his way between houses, feet a simple rhythm against cobblestone. It’s distracting how much the whole town smells like coffee.

Maybe tomorrow he’d find time to grab a cup.

Buoyancy

The grand opening of Tucker’s Coffee Stand saw actual success, much to the whole town’s pleasant surprise. The night before he opened, Mayor Lewis had even sent out an email to everyone in town, encouraging the “support of local businesses.” Granny was overjoyed at the prospect, and even more thrilled when Alex told her about it being at his ice cream stand.

“I know you’re disappointed, dear, I know it is summer.” She had told him over dinner and his grandfather’s grumbling. “But look on the bright side. Think of it as a way to make a new friend!”

So armed with $10 from his pocket and his grandmother’s optimism, Alex was there at exactly 8:15 AM to see the first coffee of the day being sold to Mayor Lewis. Tucker’s smile— desperately grateful, intensely proud— was pretty worth being there for, at least.

And Alex became customer number two, buying a small brew with 2% and two sugar packets for a dollar seventy-five. It was with little fanfare, just his changed handed back with that smile , that stayed behind his eyes, confusing him to the point of a headache. So the next day he stayed a little longer, because the smile confused him, and the day after he stayed longer still, because the smile was nice.

Oh— That’s all it is , Alex finally broke through during his morning jog. It’s a nice smile.

Of course, it helps that Tucker is just a cool guy, too. Cool to be around, cool to talk to. Just cool.

Well— not really, in the traditional sense. Not like Alex is, with his high cheekbones and bright green eyes, and his firm body practically built for the world’s most beloved sport, and his trademark, perfectly coiffed and flowing hair— but Tucker was still cool. In that undefinable way. In the way that people can’t describe but still talk about with a smile, distant, and hands waving all over the place.

And so, it was nice to have this new addition to his simple routine. It’s been two weeks, now, since Tucker has opened up. The heat of summer doesn’t deter anyone from stopping by and Alex watches them filter over the bridge and up to the sun-bleached wood of the coffee stand.

Half his day, now, was taken up with spending time at Tucker’s little place, watching the keg chug along, refreshing the cooler with new ice, and mostly just perched on one of the stools Tucker had made, whittled crudely with bandaged hands.

Alex's high-tops, covered in scuffs and faded paint from a neon party at ZCU, kick up against a new addition to the stand as he settled onto the stool. The sign had “Tucker’s Coffee” painted crudely in blue on a piece of cracked plywood, taken from Robin’s trash pile in exchange for sitting down with her for dinner.

Tucker turned out to be a pretty nice guy, all things considered. And a surprisingly confident one, too. All the stuttering and stammering had been shunted aside in favor of snark, and inside jokes with people Alex least expected— himself included.

Alex watched Tucker hand Elliot a mug of coffee— his third of the day and his first hot one— and listened to their chat without really hearing anything. Something about watering flowers with salt water has Tucker snorting out a laugh, and then laughing harder at the snort. Alex can’t help but smile along.

Elliot straightened his cravat— not a scarf, as Tucker had corrected him, teasingly— and waved a goodbye to Tucker. He tossed a less generous nod to Alex, but Alex didn’t exactly blame him.

Alex takes the moment of silence to lift his legs, thighs straining against jeans that were probably a size too small. His sneakers find the stand’s edge, and Alex leans forward against his knees. An empty mug sits in front of him and the scent of coffee is intoxicated in the summer heat.

“Get your dirty shoes off my counter.” Tucker chides only a second after Alex found comfort in the position. The edges of his mouth quirking up as he whipped Alex’s shins with the towel he usually keeps tied at his waist. “This is a dining establishment.”

“Whatever, mom.” Alex quipped back. Tucker just laughed as Alex threw his legs down under him. The momentum took him to standing, and his arms above his heads in a pleasant stretch. He felt his back pop and let out a contented sigh.

Tucker was still staring at him, Alex noticed, and he followed the man’s gaze down to where his shirt was riding up, revealing a strip of skin riding right to his plaid boxers. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of embarrassment in Tucker’s eyes, warm and brown, and a flush blooming from his cheeks to the tip of his nose. Alex dropped his arms, and Tucker quickly started wiping a mug down with his towel. He already cleaned that one.

Wait—oh, wait. That was Tucker. Checking him out. Tucker, checking him out. Tucker. Checking him out .

Well, it’s to be expected. Alex smiled a little bit to himself. He hasn’t lost his touch. Too bad it wasn't a pretty lady-farmer that had moved in, after all.

“Great weather, right?” Tucker was worrying at his lip in a way that Alex was now able to recognize as “nervous, but not in the bad way.” So Alex reached under the stool to pull out his ball, leather brown and worn and always carried— in a ways some have called obnoxiously— under his arm. He held it up with a grin: “Wanna play?”

Tucker scoffed but a smile pulled his chapped lips from his teeth. He tossed his head back, teal hair flinging from where it had fallen in his eyes. “I’m working right now.”

“And the rest of your customers are… where?” Alex teased right back, leaning up against the stand. Tucker had sanded the whole thing down from splinters and stained it a beautiful deep brown. It was sturdy, now. An admirable job, really.

“Harsh,” Tucker replied with a roll of his eyes, but he still held out his hands, fingers spread wide and ready to catch whatever Alex tossed at him. He backed up a little bit, rattling mugs behind him as he did, and Alex matched his movements. Some soft steps behind him and he was off the path into some grass.

The ball pulled behind his head, he breathed out and the tension released it in a perfect, gentle arc. He was a master at the craft, really. The throw is perfect. Tucker should have no problem catching it, he thinks, as he watches Tucker have trouble catching it.

Tucker’s arms, strong as they seemed, fumbled with the ball until it just smacked against his chest. He clutched it for dear life, then, and grimaced at Alex. The jock laughed, less mean-spirited than he even would have expected. "That was a... try!"

“Don’t make too much fun. I was a hell of a soccer player. At least back in the eighth grade.” And as if to prove it, Tucker stepped out from behind the stand and dropped the ball between waiting feet. He tapped it side to side the onto the side of his foot, expertly hoofing it even with the awkward shape.

Still, Tucker’s smile was bashful even as his voice tried to play cocky, and after a moment of showing off, he gingerly tossed the ball back to Alex. Kind of pathetic— he’d have to teach him how to properly toss a ball.

“It’s fine, I get it.” Alex grabbed the ball out of the air, one hand balancing it against the other, as he tried to not to seem too impressed at just simple soccer footwork. His were never much good for anything beyond running. His arm arced back again and he watched it this time: how his muscles, refined and strong, tensed under his jacket, how his hand found all the perfect grooves, and he sighed. “Throwing a football is, like, an art.”

Tucker scoffed again. There was a softness behind his eyes that Alex wasn’t sure he was really supposed to see. “Whatever you say.”

"Hey, come on— oh, sorry—” Alex threw the ball back towards Tucker, a little harder than he meant to. Tucker’s sweatshirt, baggy and tan, seemed to deflate when it hit him in the stomach. “Anyway. When I turn pro you can say you were my first fan. Not bad, huh?"

“Are you going pro?” Tucker cocked his head, ball in white-knuckle hands. His nails were short from weeks now of being broken, stained from all the coffee and painting and work he did. Alex didn’t really get the question, though, and responded with a twist of his own head. Tucker chuckled. “I mean, like, how do you do that? Tryouts? Or are you going to college?”

“Oh, I’ve already been to college. ZCU.” Alex proudly shifted to show off his varsity letters, ironed with great care onto his faded jacket. The wool was worn and soft under his hands as he displayed the block-letter Z. “Recruited, redshirted, and went to the National Championships three years in a row. Bowl games every year, too.”

Tucker tossed the ball back to Alex with an “Oh!” It was a little better this time. And his compliments seemed as genuine as his confusion. “Wow, that’s really spectacular. I just… I thought—”

“Most guys do go straight from college ball to the pros.” Alex answered before he could even finish the question, bitterness tinging every word. He threw the ball back to Tucker, more of a habit than anything else. Tucker actually caught it this time. “I tore my ACL my senior year.”

“Oh my god.” Tucker tried to imitate the spin that Alex put on it. Not very well, but it was a solid try.

He tossed the ball thoughtlessly back, following muscle memory, not even really looking where he was throwing. Tucker received it, a confident catch.

“New Year’s bowl game, senior year. Blake Henderson tackles me, my knee blows out. Now he’s playing for the Castle City Knights and I’m—” Alex’s eyes focused on Tucker, annoyed by what he assumed was pity in the depths of his brown eyes. He gestured to the town around them. “Here.”

“Have you tried out since?” Maybe not pity, Alex realized, trying to parse out exactly what he was even reading in them. He didn’t care for the nuance of most people's language— he knew what they thought of him, anyway. But Tucker’s was like a math problem he just couldn’t solve. And it was annoying, because Alex was always decent at math.

“Yeah.” Alex finally remembered to answer, his shoulders falling. He didn’t even realize how tense he was holding them, or that his hands had been splayed and ready to receive the ball whenever Tucker felt like giving it up again. “I don’t blame them for not even thinking about me. I was just a couple months out of surgery, I couldn’t even run.”

Tucker hummed thoughtfully, but Alex kept speaking, louder now and smile confident. “This year, though. I’m gonna fucking make it.”

It's a moment of silence, Alex blinded by a sudden bright sun and his own ideals, and then the ball was sailing back perfectly into Alex's arms along with Tucker's words: “I believe in you.”

“What?” Alex was expecting snark or even an explanation of why it was a pipe dream— no one else was afraid to tell him that it was hopeless, that he should go back to school, get a real degree, get a real job, stop dreaming and start existing , already—

“I think you can do it.” Tucker interrupted Alex's thoughts and he realized he was holding his football with an iron grip. The blue-haired man stepped back behind the counter of the ice cream coffee stand, and started rubbing a mug with a towel. A nervous habit. He smiled. “Good luck, Alex.”

“Thanks, Tucker. I’ll— I’ll remember that.” Alex mumbled, ball clutched to his stomach that suddenly had a feeling in it that Alex couldn’t put the right— or any— words on. Maybe humbled. Maybe grateful. All he knew was that he was flushing bright red all over his face and up his ears. That, and the sun touching the western edge of the sky, told him it was probably time to head home and hide.

Leaving had as much fanfare as there was with him arriving, just Tucker waving his calloused hands and calling a “see you tomorrow” with that haunting smile. (Haunting in the good way, mind you. And not that Alex even believes in ghosts. It just was the best word that came up when he googled “why can’t I stop thinking about this guy’s smile, not gay.”)

And so Alex jogged home to find a still-warm dinner waiting for him, and a grandmother smiling proudly at his making friends, finally, and a grandfather falling asleep in front of the O’Reilly Factor— because really, who doesn’t love to sleep to the sound of an angry white man screaming?

And Alex scarfed down his food, and wished his grandmother good night, and wished his grandfather would turn down that godforsaken TV, and it feels like seconds before Alex is staring up at his popcorn ceiling in his pajamas. He thinks about what Tucker said earlier, his smile so genuine and words matching. I believe in you .

His next breath is in through his nose, and deep, pulling him out of his reverie enough for Alex to pull his phone out of his sweatpants pocket. A swipe and a few quick taps and he’s punching out a message, focusing on the sound of the blue bubble sending rather than any of his other swirling thoughts.

To: Haley

(7:51 PM) We should hang out with tucker more. He’s nice.

He usually doesn’t even have this many thoughts. Everyone was right. Ignorance really is bliss.

A ping. He looks down to see “From: Haley,” swipes through to the messages. His finger’s muscle memory is almost as ingrained as his throwing arm’s.

(7:58 PM) Ok lol (7:59 PM) Invite him to the saloon or something idc

To: Haley

(8:01 PM) The saloon? (8:01 PM) Eh

From: Haley

(8:04 PM) I know you don't like it but (8:05 PM) Friday nights everyone goes (8:06 PM) If he’s so cool at least help him make friends lol wtv

To: Haley

(8:09 PM) He is cool.

From: Haley

(8:09 PM) Why?

And that is the question, isn’t it? Why? Why is he so cool? Why does he entrance everyone in town— and why is Alex so susceptible to his spell? Today revealed part of why, maybe, but Alex didn’t want to think about what the repercussions of relying on Tucker’s support would mean. And really, he would rather ignore the question, and just keep up the simple habits of hanging out and drinking coffee and tossing around the gridball.

Ignorance is bliss, he thinks, as he tosses his phone under his pillow and tosses his arm onto the nightstand. Lights are off, his alarm is set, and it’s only a few seconds before Alex’s breathing slows. As he falls asleep, his mind wanders again, thinking of wearing that Tunnelers uniform and having the entire valley be cheering for— having the entire valley be proud of— him.

And still, in the forefront of his mind, is a man with blue hair, cheering the loudest.

Why? His mind asks again, taking advantage of his sleep-soaked state. With his last slow exhale before slipping into sleep, Alex’s finally admits: He believes in me.