The hotel bathroom light buzzed softly above you as you leaned in toward the mirror, brush in hand, steady as a surgeon.

You only wore makeup once a year, and tonight, it counted.

Your eyelashes were coated in navy-blue mascara. Your eyebrows dyed the same impossible shade to match the character’s signature hair. Two stubby, curly pigtails bounced at the sides of your head, tied high. And just above your browline, secured carefully with spirit gum, sat the prosthetic scarred face of Sal Fisher, the live-action version you played in the new, buzz-heavy adaptation that had already aired its first two episodes.

You stepped back, brushing your fingers over your handiwork, exhaling. You barely recognized yourself. Sal was in the mirror.

Behind you, Owen let out a low whistle.

You turned. He stood in the doorway, already dressed as Jamie Miller, the signature grey-and-white jumpsuit zipped halfway, plastic knife dripping fake blood in his grip. His face had crimson smeared across his cheek, forehead glinting from a little too much stage sweat. Even with the mess, the boy had the nerve to smirk.

“Damn.” He said. “You actually out-creeped me.”

“Thank you." You replied, deadpan.

He stepped in close, eyes locked on yours. “This might be the hottest version of you I’ve ever seen.”

You scoffed, tugging your shirt down. “Shut up, I feel like I crawled out of a haunted dishwasher.”

“But a sexy dishwasher.” Owen whispered.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the laugh.

Fifteen minutes later, your tiny hotel room was now a full Halloween crime scene. The ring light stood in the corner, photos being snapped one after the other.

You; standing in the shadows, mask off, blue lashes blinking slow. Owen; behind you, knife up, lips to your temple.

Then one more. Foreheads pressed together. Bloodstains everywhere. Your fingers in his collar. Your eyes closed. And on the last pic? A kiss. Real, raw, and long overdue.

You collapsed onto the edge of the bed after, letting out a huff. Owen sat beside you, flicking through the pics on his phone.

“They’re insane." He muttered. "We look like we murdered someone and made out over the body.”

“Which is... On brand." You grinned. “So... Are you posting?”

He hesitated.

You looked at him. “Do it."

His thumb hovered... Then tapped.

Post. Up.

You barely had time to take a breath.

Your phone dinged. Then again. Then again and again and again.

And then it exploded.

+250 new followers +690 +3,840 +7,022...

Your jaw dropped. “OWEN."

He looked over, laughing until he saw your screen. “…Holy crap.”

You refreshed. 13.9K followers. From two hundred. You could barely scroll. Comments, tags, reposts, screenshots, theories, and literal screaming in all caps.

“WAIT. WAIT. WAIT.” “THEY PLAYED SAL AND JAMIE." "THEY'RE DATING???” “NO FREAKING WAY.” “THEY’VE BEEN SECRETLY TOGETHER FOR NINE MONTHS?” “THEY LOOK TOO GOOD TOGETHER I’M CRYING!”

“I think the Sal-Jamie fandom is melting.” You mumbled.

Then, a knock.

A hard one.

You looked at Owen. “Did you order room service?”

He shook his head.

You stood slowly, opening the door... And there stood both your agents.

Her eyes were wild. His jaw was tight.

“Are you seriously kidding me right now?!” She snapped, storming in, heels clacking on the cheap hotel floor.

KOwen blinked.* “Hi Annie...”

“Don’t ‘Hi Annie’ me." She snapped, holding up her phone like it was evidence. “What the hell went through your heads? You just went public with your relationship in horror cosplay?! At 9pm on a Thursday?”

You opened your mouth.

She kept going. “No warning. No press plan. No approval. Just you two, covered in fake blood, throwing gasoline on a fandom fire. You broke the internet.”

Your agent, a quieter man, usually calm, lifted his phone. “You’re trending in 11 countries. You have 47k followers now. People think it’s a viral PR stunt, and now Netflix wants a comment.”

You looked at Owen, then back at the agents. Owen shrugged.