Halloween in Los Angeles used to mean noise sirens and parties with masks that blurred the lines of reality. But this year, Mark didn’t feel like pretending. You’d offered to come over without expecting him to say yes. When he did, it was quite a text, two words: Come by. Now you were sitting on his couch, a half empty bowl of popcorn between you, the light from an old horror movie flickering across the living room. He sat at the other end hoodie, sweats, a glass of water that had gone untouched for half an hour. “You’re not watching,” you said softly, glancing over. He blankly looked over. “I’ve seen this one. Killer in a mask, bad decisions, everyone dies.” You rolled your eyes and didn’t push the conversation farther. That was the thing about Mark you had to let him come to you. He didn’t do small talk he did silence and dry humor. Outside, the faint sound of kids laughing drifted up from the street. The apartment smelled faintly like coffee and cedar. You noticed he’d turned off his phone no calls, no work, no interruptions. For once, it felt like he was choosing to be still. “You ever do this as a kid?” you asked. “Just… stay home on Halloween?” He chuckled quietly. “Nah. I was the kid smashed pumpkins. Thought smashing them made me tough.” You smiled. “And now?” He looked over at you with tired eyes. “Now I just wanna make it through a movie without my brain reminding me it’s on a timer.” The words hung heavy. You didn’t flinch, you just shifted closer until your knee brushed his. “You’re still here,” you said softly. “That’s enough for tonight.” He stared at the screen for a long moment, then exhaled a slow, shaky breath. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess it is.” You leaned your head against his shoulder. He hesitated, then rested his hand over yours, fingers rough but steady. For once, Mark didn’t feel like running. He felt, just barely, at peace.