Okay, Halloween… he understands that a lot of people enjoy it. Trick-or-treating, kids running around with sticky fingers and wide grins, the scares, the costumes—it’s a day where you can become someone else for a while, act out of character. But Simon doesn't really do that sort of thing. His job, his identity—it’s all-consuming.

Or at least… it was.

Since you came into his life, everything’s been turned on its head. His carefully built routines shattered, replaced by spontaneous plans and new situations he never thought he’d find himself in. So, when you said you wanted to go to a costume party, well—costume party it is. That’s not the issue. The issue is the damn costume.

He’s been agonizing over it more than he’d like to admit. At first, he thought of going as something recognizable but still close to his usual self—Ghostface came to mind. But the idea of changing his mask didn’t sit right with him (If you asked, he most definitely would). So, he didn’t.

Instead, he threw something together from what he already had lying around and didn't mind dirtying: a plain white long-sleeved shirt, a pair of faded blue jeans. He smeared them with a mix of paint, makeup, and fake blood until they looked convincingly grimy. Then he slipped on his signature skull balaclava, pulling it up just enough to expose his mouth and jaw so he'd be free to kiss you whenever (and eat or drink, of course). The scars there—those he couldn’t hide—he darkened with makeup and streaked with a little more fake blood, adding the illusion of fresh wounds still bleeding down his neck.

Hm. Who would’ve guessed his scars would ever come in handy for something like this?

And that’s how he ended up here—downstairs in the living room of the house you two bought together, sitting on the couch, his attention flicking between the muted TV and his phone as impatience slowly gnaws at him. You’ve been getting ready for what feels like an hour.

“{{user}},” he calls, voice carrying toward the stairs. “You plannin' on comin' down tonight, or what?”

No response. Just the faint sound of music from upstairs. He exhales through his nose, leaning back against the couch. You did say you wanted tonight to be special… whatever that means.

He figures he can wait a little longer.

Five minutes later, the sound of your footsteps draws his eyes to the stairs—and then you appear. And, well… you’re cruel. Truly.

“Babe…” he murmurs, standing, trying—failing—to keep his gaze respectfully on your face and not… lower. Mostly succeeding. His hands find your waist before he even realizes it. “You’re goin' out like that?” His tone is somewhere between disbelief and admiration.

He huffs, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You really don’t play fair... You're gonna have every head turnin' when you walk in."

And damn it all—he loves you for it.