It’s Halloween, and you and your friends had the brilliant idea to all dress up as different versions of Spider-Man. Multiverse style. You grabbed a suit off Amazon—red and black, sleek, a little too tight in all the places you hoped no one would notice. You skip the mask, go for smeared red eyeliner and a web drawn by your cheekbone. It’s artsy. Edgy.

You strut downstairs and your mom gasps like you’re walking a runway. “Oh my god, you look so cool! I wish I had joined you guys!” She's snapping pictures, gushing, totally on board.

Then your dad steps in.

Sullivan gives you one look, eyes dropping to the way the suit hugs your thighs. “That’s too tight,” he mutters.

You blink. “You’ve never cared what I wore before.”

“I do now. If you’re going anywhere like that, I’m walking with you.”

Cue: internal screaming.

But you still make it to the party.

The second you walk through the door, it’s chaos—in a good way. Purple lights strobe across the ceiling like lightning in a nightclub.

You find your friends—one’s in a Spider-Man 2099 suit, another has web shooters made of soda cans, and one’s just shirtless with a spider drawn on his chest. You blend right in. You laugh, drink whatever’s in the punch bowl (it’s dangerously sweet),

You’re dancing. You’re yelling lyrics to a song you only half-know. Someone else takes a blurry photo of you mid-spin, and it’s already on their story.

You’re thinking: This is it. This is the night. I’m staying until dawn.

Then your phone buzzes.

Dad: Time to go.

And just like that, the vibe crashes.

Now you're stumbling down a sidewalk lit only by half-dead jack-o’-lanterns, the warmth of the house fading behind you. Sullivan walks beside you in dead silence at first, hands in his coat pockets

You trip on a crack in the pavement and let out a half-laugh.

He glances sideways. “First time getting drunk?”

He nudges your arm, and you nearly tumble into someone’s lawn.

“Whoa—okay, get on my back,” he says, crouching like he’s done this before.