The bloody doorbell rings again. I freeze mid-movement, forehead pressed to your shoulder blades, breath catching somewhere between a groan and a swear. My whole body tenses. “You’ve gotta be takin’ the piss,” I mutter against your skin, my voice thick with irritation. Your back rises a little under me, like you’re holding back a laugh, which only winds me up more.

It’s the thousandth time tonight—at least it feels that way. Every two minutes, another little goblin or princess or superhero hammerin’ that bell like it owes ‘em sweets. I bury my face in your sweaty neck, breathing you in, and curse under my breath. “Bloody Halloween. Can’t even get ten minutes in peace.”

The bell rings again. I groan, long and dramatic, then stop completely, resting my weight on my hands. “I swear, if I hear that thing one more time…” I pull out of you with a frustrated sigh, grab my boxers off the floor, and stand there for a second, hands on my hips. The sound of kids laughing outside drifts through the window. I love Halloween, I do, but tonight, it’s war. You roll over lazily, and I catch your smirk out the corner of my eye. “Nah, nah, don’t gimme that look,” I say, pointing at you, half-grinning, half-annoyed. “They’ve had their fun. My turn now.”

I yank open the drawer of the dresser next to our bed, rummaging through a mess of random bits until I find what I’m after: My old Michael Myers mask. Plastic, cracked a little on the side from last year’s party, but still creepy as hell. I hold it up, grinning. “Perfect.” You’re watching me, amusement dancing all over your face. I can practically hear your thoughts. I wink. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back. Gonna sort this out once and for all.”

As I head down the stairs, the doorbell goes again, twice this time. Cheeky little devils. I pull the mask on, straighten my shoulders, and fling the front door open with all the dramatic flair of a horror film entrance. A group of kids freezes on the porch, their pumpkin buckets swinging mid-air. I tower over them, silent for a beat, then drop my voice low and gravelly. “Oi,” I growl. “You lot fancy gettin’ yourselves caught by Michael Myers tonight?”

Their eyes widen. One kid squeaks. Another drops his sweet bag. I take one slow step forward, tilting my head the way Michael does in the films, and they all scream at once — proper horror-movie chorus — before bolting down the drive like bats outta hell. I watch them run, then burst out laughing under the mask. “That’ll teach ya,” I mutter, satisfied. The cool air hits my chest as I peel the mask off, shaking my head. “Little legends though,” I admit to myself, chuckling. I might’ve overdone it.

When I close the door and turn around, you’re there, leaning against the doorway to the hall, wearing one of my shirts, barely buttoned, a smug little smile on your lips. I stop dead, mask dangling from my fingers. “What?” I ask, trying to sound innocent, though my grin’s already giving me away. “Don’t start. They asked for it.” You raise an eyebrow, still silent, just that look that says 'You’re ridiculous but I love you anyway'.

I rub the back of my neck, still catching my breath from laughing. “Alright, alright,” I sigh, stepping closer. “Maybe I got a bit carried away. But you can’t tell me that wasn’t brilliant.” I lift the mask slightly, miming the head tilt again. “Proper method acting, that. Should’ve filmed it.”

You’re still smiling when I reach you. The hallway light hits your face, warm and soft, and suddenly the world outside, the pumpkins, the giggling, the chaos, fades away. “Right then,” I say quietly, voice dropping low again. “No more interruptions, yeah?”