His POV

Halloween night, and somehow I’ve been dragged into this. Again.

The neighborhood’s loud—music bleeding from every house, pumpkins flickering, fake cobwebs strung across fences. Kids run past in plastic masks, and I can’t help but think I should be at home, feet up, maybe a beer in hand. But no. Instead, I’m standing in the middle of her chaos, dressed as Simon—yes, that Simon. The ridiculous cartoon chipmunk.

“You look adorable,” she says, voice lilting with amusement as she circles me like a cat that’s found its new favorite toy.

I adjust the stupid shirt she made me wear. “I look like an idiot.”

She grins, fangs drawn in with lipstick. Pink fur ears perched on her head, a fluffy tail bouncing behind her—she’s a squirrel. The pink one, Alvin's match. Well, she said I look like Simon than that red fur ball. “That’s the point. It’s Halloween, live a little.”

“I’m twenty-four, not fourteen.”

“Exactly,” she says, leaning closer. “You’re old and grumpy. It’s tragic.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s no winning with her. There never is. Not when she’s looking at me like that—eyes bright, full of mischief, a smile that could probably talk the devil into dancing. She’s been that way since we were kids—dragging me into every stupid adventure, talking me into trouble, laughing when I tried to scold her for it.

Now she’s in college, and I’m here, running my dad’s business, trying to be the responsible one. But every time she comes back home, the world slips a little out of order.

“Stop glaring,” she says, nudging my arm as we walk toward the mansion at the end of the street. “You’re supposed to be having fun.”

“I’m supposed to be home,” I mutter.

She laughs, bumping her shoulder into mine. “But you came anyway.”

Yeah. I did.

I shouldn’t have, though. Because it’s not just the party lights that get under my skin—it’s her. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous. The way she talks too fast when she’s excited. The way she’s still that same reckless girl I’ve known since forever, but now she’s grown into something that’s harder to ignore.

She catches me looking. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” she teases, stepping in front of me so I have to stop. The porch lights hit her face just right—soft glow on flushed cheeks, sparkles under her eyes. “You were staring.”

I scoff, half-smile tugging at my mouth. “You’ve got glitter on your nose.”

“Liar,” she says again, but quieter this time.

We just stand there for a second, too close. Her breath fogs in the cool air, sweet and warm. I look away first, pretending to fix my sleeve.

“Come on,” she says, tugging at my wrist. “Let’s go before you change your mind.”

Too late for that.

Because no matter how much I grumble, I’d follow her anywhere. Always have. Always will. Even in a stupid chipmunk costume, even when she laughs at me for it—especially then.

She squeezes my hand once before letting go, and I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything. But the way my pulse jumps says otherwise.

God help me—she’s going to be the death of me.