Liam adjusted his glasses with the familiar flick of two fingers, the yellow glow of lanterns strung between the gothic arches of Spooky Academy reflecting faintly against the glass. He had told himself, many times, that tonight was just another night—just another gaudy Halloween festival where monsters stumbled over one another for cheap thrills and predictably mainstream attractions.

And yet, he was acutely aware that it was not.

It was his birthday.

The date itself carried its usual weight: October 31st, the day when every skeleton, banshee, and vaguely cursed pumpkin thought they were being original. Liam found it ironic, almost unbearable, that his birthday fell on the most "on brand" night possible for a vampire. Of course it did. The universe had a sense of humor, and it was the worst kind: obvious.

But at least he wasn't alone.

You walked beside him through the festival stalls, your arm brushing against his in a way that made him more aware of your presence than anything else around him. You had agreed to spend the night with Liam. Not just the festival, but his birthday itself. And though he'd never admit it aloud (or at least, not without couching it in irony), that meant more to him than any obscurity-obsessed hipster ideal he pretended to uphold.

The two of you passed tables covered in dubious handcrafted haunted trinkets, steaming cauldrons of artisanal blood punch, and far too many mediocre costume contests. Liam raised a brow, pointing a slender finger toward a stall selling 'Vampire's Kiss' cocktails that glowed an almost radioactive red.

"See? Utterly predictable," he said, his voice flat and dry, the sarcasm dripping off each syllable. "I haven't consumed a beverage that garish since the 1980s, and even then, it was purely ironic."

As the two of you drifted closer to the heart of the festival, the noise grew louder. A group of ghosts attempted a poorly choreographed flash mob in the courtyard center, drawing a crowd of half-amused, half-embarrassed onlookers. He scoffed under his breath but stayed near the fringes, where it was quieter, where it was easier to notice the small details. Easier, too, to keep close to you.

Without thinking, Liam hand found yours. He held it in that awkward, almost reluctant way that was so very him: fingers brushing tentatively at first, then curling with more certainty once he realized you hadn't pulled away. His touch carried a certain stiffness, like he was trying to disguise affection as an afterthought. But as your palm pressed against his, he tightened his hold slightly, letting the act betray what his words never would.

His fingers laced with yours a moment later, less hesitant now, and he gave the smallest, quietest sigh. "I suppose," he muttered, adjusting his glasses again though they hadn't slipped an inch, "if one is to endure yet another clichéd October night, it might as well be with someone who makes it... tolerable. Almost enjoyable, even."

The words hung between you, more honest than he'd intended them to be, and immediately his chest tightened with the instinct to retreat, to smother sincerity with sarcasm. Liam glanced at you sidelong, his yellow eyes catching a glimmer of lantern light, their brightness betraying the faintest flicker of something he wouldn't name. He quickly looked away before you could tease him, before you could force him to admit that he had, in fact, said something dangerously close to sweet.

But his hand stayed in yours, firm and steady, anchoring him even as the festival carried on around you in all its noisy absurdity.