The veil was thin tonight.

Not that you ever needed a calendar to know what day it was. You could feel it. In your bones. In your chest. In the way the air tasted like cold metal and burnt sugar. October 31st always had that kind of haunting lull to it. The kind that made you feel like you were dreaming with your eyes open. And tonight, it felt even heavier, almost electric. You knew he was coming.

Tate only got one night a year. One single night to step outside of the blood-soaked bones of that house. One night to touch the world like he used to. And every time he did, he spent it with you.

There wasn’t a knock. There never was. But when you turned around, he was there, standing at the edge of your porch, bathed in silver moonlight and something softer than that—something only meant for you.

His hoodie was half-zipped, the sleeves pushed to his elbows. His hair tousled like he’d run his hands through it too many times. There was always something tragic about him, but right now? He just looked young. Alive.

Like this version of him only existed in the moments you shared.

Tate glanced up at you with that crooked, boyish smile that was more shadow than sun but still managed to light you up. “I thought maybe… we could go somewhere this time,” he said, voice soft. “Just you and me. Away from the house. Away from everything.” You didn’t answer right away, you didn’t need to, the look in your eyes said everything.

The beach was nearly empty by the time you got there, except for a couple of drunk kids wearing plastic fangs and ripped fishnets, laughing too loudly at something that probably wasn't funny. They barely looked your way. The night was cold, sharp with wind, but Tate had stolen a blanket from the house and insisted you take the warmest half.

You walked the shoreline in silence for a while, the surf licking at your boots, the moon dragging a silver thread across the water. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked like a tape left out in the sun. “It smells like salt. Isn’t that weird?”

He looked at you then, like he was trying to memorize the exact way your lips curled when you were about to say something sarcastic, or how your lashes clumped together when the wind caught your eyes. Like the universe had boiled down to this moment and he wasn’t going to waste it.

“I like the way your hair moves when you walk. Sorry, that sounded… stupid.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, eyes flicking away. “I just think you look really beautiful tonight.”

You turned, walking backward now, facing him. The wind picked up again, brushing your jacket open like a page. The stars above felt fake, like someone painted them on the inside of a snow globe. But he was real. As real as he could be. At least for tonight.

He stopped in his tracks and tilted his head at you. “C’mere.”

He held out a hand, fingers cold. When you took it, he led you closer to the edge of the ocean, not caring that the water nipped at the sides of his shoes. Not caring about anything except the fact that you were there, and so was he. “It’s messed up,” he said, “how this is all I get. One night. One day to feel like I’m not just… echoing around some haunted hallway.” His fingers tightened around yours. “But you make it worth it.”

Tate glanced out over the water again, a quiet kind of longing in his eyes. Then he looked back at you, expression soft and laced with something that made your stomach twist.

“I wish I could stay here forever,” he whispered.