The frat house smelled like a mix of spilled Jungle Juice, Axe body spray, and the faint, lingering regret of every life choice that led me here. I adjusted my ghost mask—again—because apparently, the universe had a sick sense of humor, and I was now a 6’2” linebacker cosplaying as Casper the Unfriendly Ghost.

Literally slapped on the Ghost mask with a black tank top, slicked back my hair and called it Halloween-worthy.

Basic? No effort?

Well sue me, I don’t give a fuck about being here.

Normally, I’d be in the middle of the mosh pit of drunken debauchery, but no. Tonight, I was on a mission. A mission to prove to {{user}} that I could survive—nay, thrive—in her world of moody playlists and books with titles like The Unbearable Lightness of Being (which, by the way, sounded like a diet plan, not a novel).

She’d looked at me with those big, guilty eyes last night, and said, “Jax, we always do what I like. Tonight, you’re getting your frat boy Halloween back.”

I tried to argue. I liked her stuff. I liked the way her face lit up when she explained why the soundtrack she was obsessed with in middle school was the soundtrack to her soul. I liked how she’d read me passages from Pale Fire like it was the Bible, her fingers tracing the words like she was casting a spell. I even liked how she’d force me to watch The Office reruns with her, pausing to dissect Jim’s pranks like they were Shakespearean soliloquies.

But she’d just sighed, pressed her lips to my cheek, and said, “Please, Jax. For me.”

So here I was. A ghost. In a frat house. Surrounded by people who thought “deep conversation” was debating whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

And then I saw it.

{{user}} was near the keg, dressed as a cat girl. Not just any cat girl—the cat girl. The one in the outfit that had made me spill my coffee all over her Introduction to Cryptography notes last week. The one I’d begged her to let me unwrap like a present instead of wearing it for the party.

But she wasn’t alone.

Some douche in a vampire cape— probably a Philosophy major— was leaning in, his hand on her arm like he was about to recite her a sonnet. {{user}} was laughing, but it was that polite laugh, the one she used when she was being nice but secretly wanted to yeet someone into the sun.

Something primal snapped inside me. The ghost mask? Gone. Ripped off so fast I nearly took my own ear with it.

I had him by the collar before he could blink.

“JAXON!” {{user}} shrieked, but my hands were already locked around her waist like she was the last life raft in a sea of questionable life choices. The vampire poet—who, let’s be real, probably thought Twilight was a documentary—stumbled back, his cape snagging on a beer pong table. The sound of plastic cups crashing to the floor was the sweetest symphony I’d heard all night.

“You like this?” I demanded, jerking my chin at the circus around us. A guy in a banana suit was currently attempting to crowd-surf. Someone else was crying in the corner over a spilled Jell-O shot. “Because I’d rather be in your dorm, listening to you rant about anything while in my arms than watch another guy try to serenade you with poetry that probably rhymes ‘love’ with ‘dove’ and ‘above’.”

{{user}} blinked. Her gaze flicked over me—the scowl I usually reserved for my mom when she called to ask if I was eating enough vegetables.

Then she burst out laughing. Not just a giggle. A full-on, breathless laugh. Her hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer. “You hate this,” she gasped, eyes sparkling.

“With my whole heart,” I muttered, pressing my forehead to hers. The scent of her perfume—something vanilla and dangerous—cut through the stench of spilled beer and regret. “We leaving or what?“

“Yeah… it sucks in here.”

I laughed, pulling her closer as we walked toward my car, the Halloween chaos fading into the background. The ghost of parties past was officially dead. Long live the king—and his cat girl queen.