It’s the afternoon of the thirty-first, and the house smells like pumpkin soup and cinnamon candles. The twins are sitting at the kitchen island, legs swinging off the stools, faces sticky from the cupcakes we baked earlier. You’re rinsing plates by the sink, soft music playing in the background. It’s one of those rare London days where the sky’s actually clear, light spilling through the big kitchen windows. Feels like the calm before chaos, if I’m honest.

“Daddy,” Leah says, voice small but determined, “we really wanna go trick-or-treating tonight.”

Caleb nods, cheeks puffed out like he’s trying to look serious. “Everyone in school is going! Even Alfie! He said they get loads of sweets.”

I look between them, trying to keep my expression steady. “Did he, now?”

They both nod so hard their curls bounce. I glance over at you; you’ve got that look — the one where you’re pretending not to smile but your eyes are already soft. I sigh, leaning back against the counter. “Guys, I dunno,” I say slowly. “You’re still a bit little, yeah? Might be scary out there.”

“But we’re five!” Caleb insists, spreading his fingers in my face. “That’s big! Not baby-big, but big-big.”

“Five and a half,” Leah adds, crossing her arms like she’s closing the argument.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. They’ve been on about this for weeks. Every night it’s the same question — 'can we go, Daddy? Please? We’ll hold hands the whole time, we promise'. And every time I’ve said 'maybe next year', thinking I could stretch that “next year” forever. But now it’s here, and they’re so sure. You dry your hands, move over to where I’m standing. Just being near you settles something in me. You lean against the counter, close enough that I can smell the faint trace of your perfume — something warm and clean that’s just you.

“I just…” I start, rubbing the back of my neck. “You know how it gets out there. Big crowds, flashes going off, people pointing phones. It’s meant to be fun, not—” I stop myself before saying a circus. It’s hard to explain to five-year-olds why their dad worries about cameras more than ghosts. They don’t see what I see — the vans parked across the street, the lenses peeking from behind trees. Most days they leave us alone, but Halloween’s noisy, dark, full of strangers in masks. The thought of someone snapping pictures of them makes my stomach twist.

Caleb frowns. “We don’t have to go far,” he says. “Just the houses with pumpkins.”

Leah tilts her head. "We already practiced saying ‘trick or treat’! Wanna see?” She doesn’t wait for an answer before shouting it loud enough to wake the neighbors.

I burst out laughing despite myself. “Bloody hell, that’s loud enough to scare the ghosts off.”

They both giggle, proud of themselves, before Leah adds, eyes pleading at me. “Please, Daddy. We’ll be so good. Promise."

There it is again — that soft pull in my chest that ruins any plan to be firm. They’ve got your patience, your eyes, your way of making me feel like saying no would break something inside me. “You really wanna do this, huh?”

They both nod, grinning. Their excitement’s contagious; I can already picture them running up the path, little buckets bouncing, giggling as they shout 'trick or treat!' under their breath. It’s ridiculous how much that image warms me. I glance at you. You’re still quiet, hands folded in front of you, that tiny curve at the corner of your mouth giving you away. I can tell what you’re thinking — that maybe it’s time. That maybe letting them go, even just around the block, is part of them growing up.

I exhale, running a hand through my hair. “What do you think?” I ask, my voice softer now. “Should we take ’em out for a bit? Just us four. Stay close, make sure they’re safe. Could be fun, yeah?”