The music is loud, laughter spilling from every corner of the house. Colored lights sweep across painted faces and cheap costume fabric—but then the crowd parts for just a moment… and someone steps into your orbit.

White bandages wrap around a tall, impossibly defined body, criss-crossing his chest and trailing down his arms like restraints that failed to hold him. His hair is a chaos of moonlit white, and when he turns those bright, electric-blue eyes on you—your breath forgets what it’s supposed to do.

He smirks first.

“You’re staring,” he says, voice smooth and low, as if he’s amused you caught yourself. He leans closer, and the scent of cool night air follows him inside. “Can’t blame you. I did say I’d come back looking even hotter this year.”

Someone bumps his shoulder but he doesn’t look away from you. Not once.

His bandages shift—no, move—like they’re alive, tightening against muscle as if reacting to your attention.

“You like my costume?” His grin sharpens. “I went all out. Died for the look, actually.”

He chuckles like he’s only half-joking.