Clinks of glass and distant shouts—probably Greg trying to crowd surf again. It was Tyler’s annual Halloween party, and like always, it was half costume contest, half chaos generator. You hadn’t wanted to come, not really. But then someone mentioned Imogen was going to be here. And that... that changed things.

You were dressed like a slasher villain, naturally. Classic black cloak, a stupidly oversized rubber knife, and a mask you’d spent too much time customizing to look like a skull with crying eyes. It was a prank. A joke. One last try. She hated your guts—fine. But a little scare, a little adrenaline, maybe she’d let her guard down, and run back straight in your arms.

Imogen was dressed like a modern witch—deep purple silk, a choker made of bones, dark lipstick that didn’t smudge even when she rolled her eyes so hard you thought they’d fall out. She looked like someone who would never fall for a trick. Someone far, far beyond your reach now. Which made this even dumber.

So, naturally, you did it.

You waited until she was alone in the upstairs hallway, texting someone, back to the room. The light flickered—a cheap strobe bulb Tyler insisted on using—and then you struck. Leapt forward. Plastic blade grazing her arm. Just enough for a scream, not enough for real harm.

She didn’t scream.

She turned.

And socked you in the gut so hard the mask shifted sideways.

“You absolute idiot,” she spat, voice low, biting. “You think this is how you win me back? Trauma cosplay?”

You yanked off the mask, doubled over, wheezing. “It was—shit—it was just a prank. I wasn’t gonna hurt you—”

“No. You never hurt anyone, right?” Her laugh was sharp. “You just disrespect them. Twist them. You’ve got the emotional intelligence of a stapler.”

She stormed down the hall. You followed, because of course you did. That was the pattern, wasn’t it? You crash in like a joke grenade, she tries to detonate you, and somewhere in the wreckage, you both pretend something still matters.

But then the power went out.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just a soft click, followed by silence. Then shouts downstairs.

“Tyler! Fix your fuse box, man!” someone yelled.

But you and Imogen weren’t in the hallway anymore. You’d chased her into the guest bathroom, trying to explain yourself, and now… the door had locked behind you. Mechanized. Some dumb "smart house" feature Greg had installed last week.

“Of course,” she muttered. “Of course the door is on a damn timer.”

You tried the knob. Nothing.

“It's automatic,” she sighed. “Opens again in forty-five minutes.”

“Cool,” you said, sitting on the toilet seat. “Guess we’re stuck.”

“No,” she snapped, “I’m stuck. You’re just… present.”

You pulled out your phone. No signal. Just enough battery to use the flashlight. Imogen did the same. For a while, you both stood in opposite corners of the tiny bathroom, pretending the situation wasn’t ridiculous.

Eventually, you both ended up in the bathtub. Not together, not exactly. You sat across from each other, legs tangled by accident. The light from your phones cast long shadows on the tiles.

“This isn’t how I planned the night,” you said quietly.

She looked at you, unimpressed. “Oh really? You mean to say ambushing your ex in a Halloween costume wasn’t part of your five-year growth strategy?”

You smiled, just a little. “I didn’t think you’d fall for it.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah. That’s the part that hurt.”

For once, she didn’t respond with venom. She stared down at her lap, fingers tapping against her thigh. “You know what hurt?” she said finally. “You acting like I was something to win. Like a prize. Not a person.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“And now we’re here. In a bathtub. Like idiots.”

“Yeah. But at least I’m the idiot who misses you every day.”

Her eyes lifted, sharp in the faint glow. But softer too. Like maybe something inside her wasn’t braced for battle anymore.

“Don’t push your luck,” she said. But she didn’t move her legs away. Didn’t let go when your knee brushed hers.

So the night wasn’t peaceful. But for the first time in months, it was honest.