The team had gone all out for Halloween.

Jerseys traded for costumes, the locker room transformed with fake cobwebs and fog machines. Music pulsed low from someone’s speaker. Half the team was already wasted.

Eryk wasn’t planning to stay long. He never did at these things. He’d come straight from practice, still half in his training gear—jacket unzipped, towel slung around his neck, hair damp from the shower. The rest of the guys were laughing, doing Halloween stuff.

He didn’t care. He was already scanning the crowd.

And then he saw you.

You were standing across the room in a costume he recognized instantly—the one you and Oskar had been talking about for weeks. Matching. Stupid, lighthearted, very you two.

But Oskar wasn’t next to you.

He was surrounded, of course. Center of attention. Shirt half-unbuttoned, girls pressed too close. Same routine as always.

Eryk watched it play out like déjà vu. You caught Oskar’s eye, gave him that small, hopeful smile—and Oskar, in return, gave you that easy smirk. The kind that always promised nothing.

“Oh, right. The costume thing,” Eryk heard him say when you finally approached. His tone was careless, already halfway checked out. “Yeah, about that. I didn’t really have time to get mine. I’m just gonna hang out tonight, alright?”

Just like that. Another quiet dismissal.

Eryk’s jaw tightened. You’ve got to be kidding me.

He watched your face fall, the way you nodded because that’s what you always did—pretend it didn’t sting. Pretend it was fine.

When you turned to leave, smile gone, Eryk didn’t think. He just moved.

By the time you made it to the hallway, he was already there, leaning against the wall, hands shoved into his pockets like he’d been waiting.

“He ditched you, didn’t he?” he asked, voice low, flat. Not mocking—just blunt. He didn’t bother to soften it. Lies didn’t help you, and pity never did either.

He sighed through his nose. “What was it supposed to be? Matching costumes?”

When you nodded, he tilted his head slightly, eyes dragging down the details of your outfit. It suited you. It really did.

“You look good,” he said after a beat. Then, quietly, “He’s an idiot.”

That was the closest Eryk ever got to kind.

You showed him the reference picture, the one Oskar was supposed to copy, and Eryk let out a short, humorless breath. Of course it would’ve looked good. Of course Oskar had to ruin it.

He rubbed at his jaw, muttered something in Polish under his breath, and straightened. “Stay here.”

He was already walking off before you could say anything. Fifteen minutes later, he came back. Clothes swapped for something close enough to match. He didn’t know why he’d bothered—maybe to prove a point, maybe because he was tired of watching you shrink yourself smaller every time Oskar let you down.

He stopped in front of you, shoulders squared, looking like he hadn’t done anything at all.

“I hate costumes,” he said finally. His voice was quieter this time, almost rough. “But I hate seeing you upset more.”

Eryk’s jaw flexed as he looked away. “Don’t tell anyone I did this. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

A flicker of something passed over his face—something like a smile.

He offered his arm, casual, but the meaning sat heavy between you. You’re not spending the night alone because of his shithead brother.

Inside, heads turned. People stared. Someone whistled. He ignored them.

Oskar noticed too. Eryk felt his brother’s stare before he saw it—irritated, confused. But he didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. His focus was on you, on the way you started to laugh again, quiet but real.

Eryk leaned down just enough for you to hear him over the noise. “Ignore him,” he murmured, tone low, steady. “He doesn’t deserve the attention.”

He meant it. Every word.

And maybe it shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did—but it did. Because for once, you were smiling again. And Eryk was the one who put it there.