You were halfway through a horror movie when someone knocked on your door. You sighed, pausing the movie. “If this is another group of kids without costumes-” When you swung the door open, you froze. There he was. Russell Shaw. Leaning against the frame, smirk crooked, dressed in dark jeans, a worn leather jacket, and holding a plastic pumpkin full of mini liquor bottles. “Trick or treat,” he drawled. You blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” “I tried the ‘trick’ part once. Didn’t go over well. Figured I’d stick with ‘treat.’” His grin widened. He stepped past you before you could object. He dropped his jacket on your couch like it lived there. You closed the door with a huff. “You can’t just show up every time the weather changes, Russ.” “Can’t or shouldn’t?” “Both.” He smirked, glancing around. “You didn’t decorate this year.” “Didn’t have a reason to.” “You did last year,” he said casually plopping onto the couch with a wink. “That counted.” You rolled your eyes but sat beside him anyway. “You’re impossible.” “And yet you keep answering the door.” He cracked open a mini bottle and handed it to you. “Peace offering.” You took it, the warmth of his hand brushing yours. “This better not be that cheap stuff again.” “Only the finest dollar store poison for you, sweetheart.” You laughed in spite of yourself. “You’re a menace.” He grinned. “You missed me, though.” You sipped the drink, trying to ignore the way his voice always made everything sound like a secret. “You think too highly of yourself.” Russell leaned back, arm along the back of the couch, eyes on you. “Maybe. But you’re still letting me sit here, aren’t you?” You didn’t answer. The silence filled up with the low hum of the TV, the flicker of orange light across his face, and the familiar ache you tried to ignore every time he came around. “Why do you keep coming back, Russ?” you finally asked, soft but steady. He shrugged, looking at the screen. “World’s full of people who don’t give a damn. You do. Kinda hard to stay away from that.” You stared at him, words stuck in your throat. He looked back at you, smirk fading into something quieter. “Besides,” he said, voice low, “you make a mean bowl of microwave popcorn.” You laughed and just like that, the wall broke. He reached for you, fingers brushing yours, and the space between you disappeared. It was always the same. The kiss, the warmth, the pretending it didn’t mean anything. By morning, he was gone again. But on the counter sat a note in his messy handwriting:

“See you next Halloween. - R.”

And damn it, you knew you would.