You weren’t even sure how you managed to drag him out of his dorm, let alone into a last-minute Ghostface costume, but here you were—sweaty palms clutching a drink in a plastic cup and pushing through a crowd of too-loud music, too-many bodies, and not enough air. The Halloween party was already in full swing when you arrived, and your heart was buzzing with excitement, nerves, and maybe a little sugar from the candy bowl you’d raided before leaving.

Behind you, Scaramouche stood like a shadow.

“Why am I here again?” he muttered under his breath, voice muffled slightly by the Ghostface mask hanging lopsided on his belt. He was in full costume—black cloak draping over his slight frame, hood pulled over his indigo hair—yet still managed to look effortlessly out of place, like the only person who hated being here but couldn’t bear the thought of letting you come alone.

You spun around with a grin, tugging at his wrist. “Because I asked nicely. And you’d look even grumpier sulking in your dorm. Besides… you do look good in black.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, lips twitching at the compliment before he caught himself. “This is just cosplay for the socially doomed.”

“And you’re my favorite doomed person,” you shot back, laughing as you dragged him deeper into the party.

The music pulsed through the walls—bass shaking the floors and making the plastic jack-o’-lanterns hanging from the ceiling tremble. Lights flickered in orange and purple hues, casting weird shadows across fake cobwebs and glitter-stained costumes. People danced, talked, drank, flirted. And you… you were just happy to be here—with him.

But Scara was not happy.

His arms folded tight against his chest, cloak wrapped around him like armor. He stayed close—closer than you expected, and not just because of the noise. His eyes scanned the room every few seconds, gaze sharp and suspicious. You didn’t notice it at first, too distracted by the crowd, until you caught the flick of his gaze following the third person who gave you a lingering look.

“You didn’t tell me this was a mating ritual,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear.

You blinked, then looked around. It was a party—your outfit wasn’t exactly modest, and there were definitely a few people whose eyes had trailed after you a little too long.

“Scara,” you said softly, brushing against his arm as you turned to him, “are you seriously glaring at everyone who looks at me?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, placing a firm hand on your lower back and steering you away from the crowd. His touch was gentle but possessive, grounding in the sea of noise and flashing lights.

“I just don’t like people staring at you like that,” he said finally. “They don’t know you. They only see the costume. The mask.”

You looked up at him, surprised by the intensity in his voice, the way his eyes softened for just a moment as he met your gaze. And then, because he couldn't help himself, he added, “Also, they’re idiots.”

You smiled, heart hammering a little too fast—more from him than the party.

“You’re an idiot too,” you teased, “but at least you’re my idiot.”

He rolled his eyes, but you saw the corners of his lips twitch up again, and when he pulled you a little closer—just close enough that your shoulders brushed, your hand grazed his—you didn’t move away.

It didn’t matter that the music was too loud, or that you had to sneak past your RA to even be here.

Because in the middle of the chaos, Scaramouche stood beside you, dressed as a ghost and acting like your silent protector.

And maybe—just maybe—that made this Halloween better than all the ones before.