Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In hindsight, this probably wasn’t your brightest idea. Okay—definitely not your brightest idea.

The sirens behind you were still wailing, though they were fading now, swallowed by the night and the ever-growing distance between you and the hell you had just left. You could feel the aftermath in every inch of your body. Dirt crusted under your fingernails, your hair a tangled disaster, and your skin marked with bruises and thin, stinging cuts. You looked like you’d lost a fight to a weed whacker and then been politely escorted through a ditch for good measure. And honestly? That’s not far off from what actually happened.

You were slouched in the passenger seat of a rusted-out pickup that had no business hitting 90, yet somehow was holding its own like a beast refusing to die. The whole cab rattled like it might give up at any second, and the heater had two settings: Arctic Tomb and Mouth of Hell. The man behind the wheel didn’t seem to mind either. Shoulders tight, jaw ticking, wild eyes fixed on the road—well, mostly the road. One hand was gripping the steering wheel, and the other held a gun just loosely enough that it swayed slightly with each jolt of the truck. The muzzle pointed vaguely rightward, which unfortunately meant vaguely toward you.

This was like an action movie. A messy, bloody, poorly scripted action movie. One where you weren’t totally sure who the good guy was—or if there even was one. And just to make the whole thing extra surreal, Hotel California was blasting through the truck’s ancient speakers. Tinny, crackling, too loud. A song about being trapped in some sun-drenched hellscape where you could check out anytime you liked, but never leave. It felt... weirdly on the nose.

You exhaled a slow breath, unsure if it was from the adrenaline, the fear, or just the sheer absurdity of it all. Really, though. This was not the best idea.

College was... simple, you supposed. Simple in the way that it felt like a quiet shift rather than a complete upheaval—just enough change to make you feel like things were moving forward, even if you hadn’t gone all that far. Compared to high school, it was almost peaceful. The cliques that once ruled the halls—jocks, cheerleaders, drama kids, misfits—had either blurred into one another or faded entirely. People matured or at least pretended to. People weren’t being shoved into lockers anymore, and no one really cared what car someone drove or what brand of jeans they wore. It was freeing in that small, understated way that change often is when it creeps in instead of crashing down.

Of course, this was still Haddonfield. A small town with big memories and even bigger ghosts. And while Haddonfield Community College wasn't exactly a beacon of academic excellence, it was respectable enough around here. The kind of place that parents nodded approvingly at during dinner conversations, proud that their kids were “staying close to home.” Most people did stay, actually. Haddonfield had a way of keeping its own. The majority of your graduating class ended up at HCC, maybe out of comfort, maybe out of obligation, or maybe just because the thought of going anywhere else felt too far, too fast. Only a few scattered out of Illinois altogether, chasing something bigger.

You didn’t blame them. Sometimes you wondered what that felt like—leaving. But in the quiet rhythm of this place, with its cracked sidewalks and secondhand familiarity, staying had always felt easier. Safer. That, and you were fairly certain your mother would actually kill you if you ever decided to skip town. She wasn’t the type to take surprises lightly—especially not that kind. A self-made success in her own right, she ran a modestly thriving fashion line that catered to housewives and homemakers, mostly products you’d see peddled on cable: pastel aprons with embroidered quotes, matching oven mitts and floral-patterned day dresses that harkened back to some glossy, idealized version of the 1950s. She wasn’t just the brains behind the brand, either—she was the brand. Perfect teeth, perfect hair, a carefully curated persona that smiled through the screen as she told women how to make their lives more beautiful, more elegant, more together.

She was good at it, too. Charismatic. Polished. A little terrifying. Your father, on the other hand, was the editor-in-chief of the Haddonfield Gazette. And while local journalism might not scream glamour, in a town like this, it carried weight. Everyone read the paper. Everyone trusted the paper. He was well-respected, well-liked—the kind of man people greeted with a firm handshake and a “good morning, sir.” You were their only child. Their pride and project. You’d been doted on from the start—birthday parties with matching themes, piano lessons, cheer camp, the works. But all that love came bundled with expectations. Polished, invisible threads strung through every smile and supportive comment.

Go to Haddonfield Community College, because it was sensible and safe. Find a nice boy—someone clean-cut, maybe studying business or engineering. Settle down young, buy a home near your parents, and start popping out picture-perfect grandbabies. Continue the cycle. Keep the town alive. Keep the family legacy neatly intact. Be the sweet, pretty, doting housewife your mother had molded you to be. And really, you couldn’t even blame them. Not entirely. They were only passing down the dream they had built for themselves. The same dream they were convinced you would want too. Only... you weren’t so sure anymore.

Your first real act of defiance had come quietly—disguised in the form of a college application. It wasn’t anything dramatic. No big, cinematic shouting match or bags packed in the middle of the night. Just a single, subtle choice: Haddonfield Community College, yes—but your major, your terms. Your mother had lobbied hard for literature. “A well-read girl can charm any room,” she’d told you with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. She had this vision of you as a graceful, educated woman who quoted Austen at brunch and hosted book clubs in her curated, beige-toned living room.

Your father, ever the pragmatist, wanted you to study economics. “Understanding money,” he’d said with a gentle but firm tone, “will take you farther than any poem ever will. Learn how to invest while you're young.” Both perfectly fine, reasonable paths. And both painfully predictable. Safe. Small. But you didn’t want fine or reasonable. Not forever. The truth—the one you barely admitted even to yourself—was that you didn’t want to stay in Haddonfield at all. It wasn’t that you hated it, not exactly. It was just… too much of the same. Same people. Same faces. Same conversations over grocery store counters and gas pumps. Your dream to leave had started as a whisper—quiet, flickering, like the weakest flame in a forgotten box of candles. But it was there. Still burning.

And you were determined to keep it alive. So, you chose criminal psychology. It wasn’t something you’d spent years obsessing over, not a childhood passion exactly—but it had always fascinated you. The inner workings of the mind. The darkness that lived in people. The “why” behind the worst things they did. That interest had been stoked every time your aunt—your mother’s sister, the black sheep, the one no one in your family dared bring up unless it was with a sigh or a warning—came to visit. You adored her. She was sharp, sarcastic, unapologetic. A woman who’d built a life on her own terms, working alongside one of the most legendary figures in local psychology: Dr. Samuel Loomis.

She spoke of him like he was a prophet, a man who had stared into the abyss and still came back with answers. And her stories—raw, clinical, disturbing—had mesmerized you. You wanted that. Or something like it. Maybe, just maybe, it would be your way out of Haddonfield. A steppingstone to a career beyond the white-picket world your parents had prepared for you. Maybe even a position at the infamous Smith’s Grove Sanitarium—close enough to feel familiar, far enough to feel like freedom. It was a start. And it was yours.

The only issue—just a slight, barely-there, blink-and-you-miss-it sort of problem—was your parents. More specifically, how not thrilled they were with your chosen major. Your mother had been visibly displeased, and since your father typically mirrored whatever mood she wore like a tailored suit, he wasn't exactly jumping for joy either. After a series of tense dinners and passive-aggressive check-ins, they finally put their foot down—not about your major (that battle was already lost on their end)—but about a minor. Your mother insisted, quite firmly, that you add literature to your academic plan. Naturally, she won that argument. Your father had started to mention economics before being thoroughly out-talked.

It wasn’t the end of the world. A minor was a small concession to make if it meant getting them off your back about your actual degree. You even managed to smooth things over a little by throwing her a bone—saying something vaguely romantic about how studying people’s behavior might actually help you find the right person someday. Maybe even someone worth falling for. Someone you could understand, analyze, decode. That part had delighted her.

“Oh! See? Now that’s practical thinking,” she’d said, already picturing you using criminal psychology to weed out future boyfriends like an FBI profiler.

So, she was appeased. And you? You had your major... and a slightly ridiculous reason to pretend you were still a "dutiful daughter." It wasn’t ideal, but it worked. For now. Alright, so maybe that wasn’t the only issue. Maybe there was one more... a rather glaring, impossible-to-ignore kind of issue: the people you surrounded yourself with. Sure, the rigid high school cliques had mostly dissolved in the warm wash of freshman year idealism—no more jocks versus nerds, no lunchroom turf wars—but some divisions just evolved. In college, especially in a town like Haddonfield, it wasn’t about popularity anymore. It was about money. Not who you were, but what you had.

And for all intents and purposes, no, you didn’t flaunt your wealth. You weren’t walking around in designer labels screaming look at me. But your last name carried a weight in Haddonfield. Your family? Comfortable. Prominent. Not Rockefeller-level dynasty, but well-off enough to be considered part of the town’s upper crust. Which meant your social circle had long been decided for you. You were raised to gravitate toward the “right” kind of people—clean-cut, well-groomed, polished in that slightly smug way that came with summer homes and dinner parties. The girls wore pearls like armor and the boys already had resumes before they could legally drink. Future lawyers, surgeons, political interns. They talked about internships at their parents’ firms and whose cousin just got engaged at a vineyard. And you? You were nudged right into that glittering mold the moment you could string a sentence together.

Polite, pretty, and poised. A good girl from a good family, mixing with other good families. You didn’t hate them. Not exactly. But sometimes, when the conversation turned to skiing in Aspen or "Daddy's new Cadillac," it made you itch under your skin. Because whether you admitted it or not... there was a part of you that didn’t want any of that. Not the curated friendships. Not the matching sorority sweatshirts. And definitely not the future that had already been mapped out in neat, expensive lines. But really, what were you supposed to do?

Your parents had made it very clear: you weren’t allowed to get a job. And while to some people, that might’ve sounded like a luxury—an enviable kind of privilege—for you, a twenty-two-year-old junior trapped in a town as tight-knit and judgmental as Haddonfield, it was more like a slow-burning nightmare. Because here’s the thing: in Haddonfield, everything had strings. Every opportunity, every smile, every favor came with a whisper behind your back. And your mother? Oh, she was queen of those whispers. Her signature red nails and that glossy, practiced smile were more than just fashion statements—they were weapons. She could spin a story like sugar into candy, make it sweet enough for anyone to swallow.

If you even hinted at breaking out, of wanting your own money, your own life, your freedom—you could already see how it would unfold. She’d storm the social circuit like a woman scorned, tragic and glamorous all at once, telling anyone who’d listen that her only daughter was ungrateful, rebellious, possibly under the influence of the “wrong sort.” She’d suggest, just gently enough to sting, that maybe your major had warped your mind, maybe criminal psychology was a bit too dark for a sweet girl like you... and Haddonfield would eat it up like it was gospel.

You’d go from golden girl to cautionary tale in a week flat. Shunned at luncheons, whispered about at dinner tables, politely frozen out of every connection your family had so carefully cultivated for you since birth. It wouldn’t just burn bridges—it would incinerate your entire exit strategy. No. You couldn’t afford to blow it now. The plan was simple, or at least it sounded simple in your head: finish your degree, keep your head down, play the game. Then, with just the right amount of pleading and well-placed “please, Momma”s, you’d convince her you needed to go to graduate school. A serious one. And luckily, Haddonfield didn’t offer anything remotely prestigious in that department. The University of Illinois? That was your golden ticket.

You’d make it all about the future. About ambition. About meeting a good, stable man in a respectable doctorate program. Someone she could brag about. You’d promise to bring him back home, to have a tasteful wedding and tasteful children and a tasteful little life in Haddonfield. You’d swear up and down it was temporary, even as you packed your bags and planned never to return. You’d become the perfect daughter again—just long enough to escape.

Still, none of that changed the reality of the people you had to surround yourself with. You could go down the line—names, families, what kind of car they were gifted on their seventeenth birthday (BMWs were in, Camaros if they had “personality”), who had the biggest Sweet Sixteen, whose daddy just bought a boat, and who’d already made plans to intern at their uncle’s firm in Chicago over the summer. But none of it really mattered. Not in the way you wanted things to matter. What did matter was that these people—these glossy, moneyed, and mostly tolerable classmates—were your routine. Your rhythm.

Wake up. Fix your hair just enough to look like you hadn’t tried too hard. Throw on a cardigan, maybe a mini if you were feeling brave. Walk to class with your Sony Discman tucked into your bag, earbuds in but never loud enough to be rude. Sit with your pre-approved crowd—girls with shiny lip gloss and boys with hair parted too neatly—nod along to whatever was new, popular, or vaguely scandalous. Talk about Friends or Beverly Hills, 90210. Gossip about who got kicked out of the Sigma party last weekend. Bat your lashes. Pretend to laugh when one of the boys made a dumb joke about co-eds and keg stands.

Lunch was always the same. Maybe a Coke, maybe not. Someone inevitably talking about their calorie count. You’d pick at a salad, flip through your notes, and float through the rest of the day in a fog of lecture halls and passive eye-rolls. Occasionally, someone would suggest forming a study group—usually more of an excuse to share gossip than knowledge—and you'd nod along like everyone else. And then? Reset. Same scene. Same script.

It was numbing in a way only privilege could be. Soft and slow, like being rocked to sleep by expensive boredom. And no matter how many times you had to sit through the next “hot take” that “chokers are out, now it’s all about skinny gold chains again,” you'd bite your tongue, tuck your lip gloss into your purse, and hold on. Because this was survival. And you? You were playing the long game. So while every single day tested your patience, your identity, and that thin membrane of self-control you had left, you still did what you were supposed to.

You came home with a pretty smile on your face, kissed your mother’s cheek, told your father about your classes—even the ones he didn’t care about. You picked at dinner like you were supposed to, retreated to your room under the guise of study, and performed your nightly ritual like clockwork. Cleanse, tone, moisturize. A dab of cold cream. Hair brushed precisely one hundred times. Pajamas, the nice kind, of course. And then you'd tuck yourself into your floral comforter like a good girl, a quiet girl, their perfect little girl. God, you hated it.

But it had to be done. Because this wasn’t about now—it was about later. Survival, again. Everything was a means to an end. You were just biding time. Still, that didn’t mean it didn’t eat away at you. That it didn’t splinter in ways you couldn’t always predict. There were always these tiny little fractures in the façade—little betrayals your body or mood couldn’t quite keep hidden. Sometimes your smile didn’t stretch far enough, and your mother would arch a brow at you over her wine glass. Sometimes one of the boys in your circle would glance at you just a bit too long when your laugh pitched too high, too sharp. Sometimes your fingers trembled slightly when you reached for your glass of iced tea. No one ever said anything, but you knew they noticed.

You’d trained yourself to walk the line so well, it was like muscle memory now. Posture, tone, charm—dialed to perfection. You could practically recite your role in your sleep. But repetition breeds cracks. And you were cracking. Even the things meant to make you feel elegant and polished—the delicate pearl studs your mother insisted you wear, the fine gold chain she gifted you on your eighteenth birthday—began to feel like shackles. They pinched. Pulled. Choked. And some nights, lying there in that perfect bed, with your skin scrubbed raw from expectation, you swore you could feel every single one of those cracks widening just a little more.

The hardest part, you often thought, wasn’t your mother’s scrutinizing looks over the rim of her wineglass, or the way your “friends” curled their lips into polite little smiles just wide enough to be cutting. It wasn’t even the crude remarks and low chuckles that came from the boys who trailed along like well-dressed hyenas—good families, your ass. No, the hardest part was the rumors. Haddonfield was small. Small enough that any real secret might as well have been printed in the morning paper and handed out on street corners. It took one mistake—one misstep, one whisper too loud or glance too long—and suddenly you weren’t a person anymore. You were a cautionary tale. A wildfire of scandal. A ruined girl.

Take sweet Martha Smith, for example. A girl not so different from yourself, once upon a time. Pretty. Polite. Came from a proper family with clean nails and even cleaner reputations. Got pregnant at seventeen. The next day, it was like a bomb had gone off. The way her name spread through the school—hell, through the whole town—like blood in water. The pity. The judgment. The snide smiles. The speculation about who the father was, about what her parents thought, about what she must have done. They ate her alive.

You remembered how people talked about her in class, in the cafeteria, at Sunday service. And somehow everyone knew something. That was how it was in Haddonfield. Everyone had a connection. Everyone knew someone whose cousin's girlfriend had been there when it happened, or whose neighbor overheard a conversation at the hair salon. Everyone was a witness to someone else’s shame. And your little circle? They lived for it.

Not that they would ever admit it. No, they preferred to call it discourse. But you saw through it. The way their eyes glittered when something juicy made the rounds. How they'd lower their voices just enough to be conspiratorial and lean in close, like they were letting you in on something sacred. They didn’t talk about it the way high schoolers might’ve, in crude jokes and crumpled notes. No, this was something colder. Sharper. They dissected rumors like surgeons, hands clean, expressions bored, voices honey-sweet.

You never really joined in. You knew better than to offer commentary—God forbid your words be traced back to you. You just smiled when it was appropriate, frowned when expected, nodded your head and sipped your drink, kept your mouth shut. That was the safest route. You weren’t about to become another Martha. But there was one rumor to rule them all. The mother of all whispers. The kind of thing so deeply etched into the town’s bones that even the sidewalks seemed to flinch when his name came up.

Fourteen years had passed. Fourteen. And still, it lingered like a raw wound that refused to close. Not a faded scar, not a distant memory softened by time. No—this was a festering, blistering gash that cracked open again and again, oozing red and sticky and impossible to ignore. The kind of thing that felt alive in its own right. The kind of thing you felt more than heard when it made its way into a room. It was the tale that parents used to scare their children straight. The one that girls whispered during sleepovers with wide eyes and blankets pulled up to their noses. The one that came up at wine-soaked dinners, long after dessert, when the laughter turned brittle and the air a little too quiet. Even businessmen—those smug, polished men in three-piece suits—lowered their voices when they mentioned him.

And there he was. Seated five rows above you, leaning back just slightly in his chair, like he owned the air in the room. Like gravity bent for him and not the other way around. His legs were spread, his boots planted firm against the floor, and the stretch of his broad shoulders under that old hoodie looked like it had no business fitting into this world, let alone a college lecture hall. He was a massive man—monstrous, if you were being honest with yourself, if you had to slap a label on it. Towering at what had to be 6'9", he was less man and more... presence. A looming figure of muscle and shadow, the sort of form that made myths and monsters shrink in its wake. He moved like a predator, slow and deliberate, never rushed, like he knew the world would wait for him. And maybe, in a way, it did.

That long dirty blond hair of his always had a slight greasy sheen to it, like he'd just stepped out of a fight or maybe rolled out of bed and into the world without caring who was watching. Stormy blue eyes sat sharp beneath heavy brows, and that ever-present stubble looked less like he forgot to shave and more like it dared anyone to ask. His jaw was a blade, his frame all power and intimidation with not an ounce of softness to be found. He didn’t just look like trouble. Michael Myers was trouble, wrapped in sneers and menace.

And he was an outcast. Not just disliked—feared. In a lecture hall of over fifty students, there was a perfect radius of absence around him. Five seats in front, five behind, five on either side. A perfect, untouched ring of nothing. Like he radiated something toxic. People avoided him like he was contagious—like proximity alone might tether them to whatever darkness surrounded him. They didn’t speak to him. They didn’t look at him. They didn’t breathe in his direction. Not out of cruelty, but out of fear. If you sat too close, people would talk. They’d wonder what you knew, why you were there, if you were next. The rumor was sticky like that—once you touched it, it never let go.

And it was tragic, in a strange, backward kind of way. Not that you’d ever say that out loud. You didn’t know the truth. Not really. You’d been seven when it happened, still young enough to believe in Santa Claus, but old enough to know when the adults were lying to each other through their teeth. You’d caught whispers through cracked doors and hushed phone calls, through your mother’s clinking wine glass and your father’s gritted teeth. The adults never said his name. Only the incident. The tragedy.

The rumor went something like this—hazy, fragmented, retold so many times it had taken on a folkloric quality. Supposedly, when he was just ten years old, Michael had murdered his stepfather, his older sister, and her boyfriend. With a kitchen knife, no less. The details varied depending on who you asked, but the general consensus was grim: a bloodbath on All Hallows’ Eve. And he’d done it, some claimed, while dressed in a clown costume—complete with a cheap rubber mask that distorted his face into something eerie and unrecognizable. They said he was covered in blood, head to toe, like a suburban version of Carrie, only this wasn’t prom night—it was just home.

What made it worse, apparently, was his reaction. Or rather, the lack of one. Not a single tear, not a flicker of guilt. Just this strange, vacant calm as the bodies of Ronnie White, Judith Myers, and Steve Haley lay mutilated inside that modest house on Lampkin Lane. There was, however, a lesser-known part of the story—one that never made it into the newspaper, but floated through hushed conversation at dinner parties and PTA meetings. Another boy had been found dead, though his name never stuck in your memory the way the others did. He hadn’t been stabbed like the rest; no, he’d been bludgeoned. Brutally, according to the whispers. And everyone—everyone—was convinced Michael had done it too.

But apparently, the authorities didn’t see it that way. Your mother had explained it once with a scoff, over coffee and a gossip magazine. "The police said a child couldn't possibly have the strength to take down a grown man like that," she'd recounted. "Must’ve been the boyfriend. Temporary insanity. Jealousy, rage, hormones. You know how they spin these things."

It was absurd, of course. The idea that a young boy could murder three people in cold blood and feel nothing? The Myers boy, they said, had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time—traumatized, not guilty. Your father, pragmatic as always, had muttered something about image control. "A child killer? In Haddonfield? No chance. They’d rather fabricate a crime of passion than admit something darker was growing in the suburbs."

Though the story had been retold countless times since—embellished, warped, practically mythologized—one truth remained: no one believed the story told by the police. That’s why the rumors never truly died out. That’s why the stares persisted, why the sideways glances and whispered jokes never stopped trailing him like a shadow. The legend of what he’d supposedly done wasn’t just bedtime horror material anymore—it had become a permanent fixture in the Haddonfield ecosystem. And it didn’t help that the Myers family, once just another quiet household on Lampkin Lane, had fallen on unequivocally hard times in the years that followed.

Deborah Myers—his mother—was said to be a kind woman. The type who wore her hair up with a pencil and kept coupons in her purse. The sort of woman your mother used to describe as “soft-spoken but resilient.” You’d never met her yourself, but the way people talked about her always carried a tint of mourning. Like she’d been collateral damage in a tragedy too large for anyone to contain. She passed about four years ago. Quietly. It hadn’t made the paper. Just a line in the local obituary column, one your mother noticed and commented on over breakfast. “Leukemia,” she had said, as though reading a grocery list. “Late stage. Probably snuck up on her... the poor dear.” And that was that. A gentle woman reduced to a passing comment and a white lily arrangement on someone’s porch.

After Deborah’s death, things spiraled even further for the Myers family. Not that they’d been in a good place to begin with—rumors like the ones that surrounded Michael had a way of blackening everything they touched. Respectable folks whispered, and those whispers cost you jobs, friends, chances. Whatever stability they might have clung to after that Halloween night had eroded long ago. Now, from what you’d gathered, it was just Michael and his younger sister, Angel—though no one called her that anymore. She went by Laurie now, and had for quite some time. You only knew her full name because of your tutoring work over at Haddonfield High.

Laurie Myers. Bright girl. Lovely, really. She had the same dirty blond hair as her brother, but where his eyes were storm clouds and silence, hers were blue skies and endless talk. She was all chatter and nerves, notebooks full of doodles and dreams, always scribbling in the margins when she wasn’t paying attention (which was often). She laughed easily, talked fast, and asked a million questions during study sessions—half of which had nothing to do with the lesson. And people loved her for it. She was magnetic in a way that felt effortless, like she didn’t have to try to be liked—she just was. Laurie could’ve fit in with your crowd if she were a little older. With her quick wit and breezy confidence, she’d charm your circle without even trying. She was the kind of girl mothers adored and teachers doted on.

It made things all the more curious, really. How could two siblings—cut from the same cloth, raised under the same roof—become such opposites in the eyes of the town? But maybe that was Haddonfield for you. Once it made up its mind about you, it was almost impossible to change it. It was strange, really. For all the things you heard about Michael Myers, for all the weight his name carried in Haddonfield’s whispered lore, the most jarring thing was how completely unlike his sister he was. If Michael had possessed even a sliver of that temperament—if he’d smiled more or softened the sharp edge he wore like armor—maybe the town wouldn’t have clung so tightly to its suspicions. Maybe he could’ve rewritten the narrative.

But he didn’t. He was a towering thing, all muscle and menace, as if the years had hardened him into a permanent sneer. There was something quietly brutal about him, not loud or showy—just this constant, simmering tension beneath his skin, like he was always a few thoughts away from doing something catastrophic. Step too close and you’d be met with a look so cold it could hollow you out. A flicker of his eyes, a shift of his jaw, and suddenly you’d forget how to breathe.

And then there were the moments—rare, but unsettling—when he’d throw out some low, biting remark to one of the few misfits he hung around. College dropouts, troublemakers, the kind of people your mother would cross the street to avoid. No one really knew what that little crew of his did, only that they existed like shadows around the edges of campus, drifting in and out of classes like they didn’t quite belong. Just like him.

His wardrobe was equally consistent: always dark jeans, those heavy combat boots that announced his steps long before he arrived, and a rotating collection of faded rock band T-shirts—some recognizable, others bearing the logos of groups so obscure they felt made up. And then there was the hoodie. Always that hoodie. Black, oversized, the hood perpetually pulled up like a curtain shielding his thoughts from the world. It wasn’t about shyness, though. No, the way he wore it felt more deliberate, almost theatrical. He liked hiding just enough to make people wonder. But even beneath the shade of fabric, you could still see his eyes—sharp, unreadable, a storm bottled behind lashes.

You really didn't know Michael all that well, just the bits of rumors and the things you saw and sometimes whatever Laurie said during group tutoring. Although she didn't often bring up her brother, sometimes she'd playfully talk about the state of his beat-up pick-up and how he needed a new car... something neither of them could afford. That was the extent of your knowledge really, that the two of them weren't in the best financial state and that Michael was a rough one.

You’d never been quite sure what to make of the rumors. Maybe that was the most unsettling part—how convincing they sounded when passed from one mouth to the next, and yet how completely unverifiable they really were. Your father, ever the pragmatist, had warned you to steer clear of Michael Myers. “Nothing good comes from getting close to someone with trouble surrounding them,” he’d muttered once over dinner, the edge in his voice sharp enough to slice through the roast.

You’d gone to the same high school, technically. Though you’d been a wide-eyed freshman, barely fourteen, when he was in his final year. Even then, he’d had a presence—larger than life, and not in a good way. He didn’t just walk down halls; he owned them, with that cold, slow stride that made people part like waves. The rumors were alive and well back then too—raw and juicy, passed around like cautionary tales during lunch periods and study halls. Still, something about it all never quite sat right with you. Maybe it really hadn’t been him. Maybe the boyfriend had snapped, or maybe the stepfather had been hiding more than anyone realized.

You didn’t know. But you’d never been the kind of person to jump to conclusions. You tried to give people a chance, even if everyone else turned away. So, in your own quiet way, you’d offered him something few dared to: kindness. It wasn’t much. A soft “good morning” in the hallway when you passed by and no one else was around. A glance and a faint smile—not forced, not fearful, just... neutral. Civil. You didn’t flinch or cast your eyes down like the others. You didn’t shrink away, and while he never smiled back or said a word in return, at least you weren’t met with one of those freezing glares he was known for. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

Eventually, he graduated, and you figured that was the end of it. The end of seeing him skulking around campus, the end of wondering if the rumors were true. You filed it all away under “odd high school memories” and moved on. Until freshman year of college. You’d barely found your seat in one of those dry, generic intro courses when you felt a shift in the air behind you. That familiar heaviness. And when you turned—there he was. Same slouched posture, same brooding stare, now older, sharper. Michael Myers. Sitting right in the back like he was part of the furniture. You almost didn’t believe it.

Criminal psychology. Of all things. You didn’t know whether to laugh or be deeply concerned. It almost felt like a bad joke—someone with a notorious past, possibly criminal, studying criminal psychology. Ironic, maybe. Inevitable, probably. He had to be what, twenty-four? Maybe twenty-five? A bit older than the typical college junior, but not unheard of. Still, something had clearly kept him out of school for a while. Trouble, no doubt. Some shadow clinging to him that had delayed the start of everything. But he was here now. And so were you.

In truth, you had no real connection to Michael—not beyond the occasional, half-hearted greetings you offered in passing. A nod here, a barely-there “hey” there, always met with silence or the flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes, if that. You didn’t feed into the whispers or fan the flames of the rumors that clung to him like smoke. You weren’t part of the pack that giggled and gawked or dared each other to get too close. You just did your usual—lips pursed around your straw, a careful glance when no one was watching, and then back to business.

But that didn’t mean you were bold enough to go out of your way, either. You weren’t looking to befriend him, or whatever that would even mean. You didn’t try to sit near him, didn’t angle yourself toward him in crowded lecture halls, didn’t go digging for some deeper truth in his silence. Because doing that? That would’ve been immediate social suicide. Sure, at first your little circle might’ve brushed it off—"Oh, she’s being nice." But the second it became a pattern, something intentional, they'd turn. They always did. One raised brow, one comment behind your back, and suddenly, you'd be the one people watched in the halls. Not admired. Watched. The curiosity would curdle into concern, and soon enough, someone would plant the seed: She’s obsessed with him.

Then there were your parents. God, your mother. You could already hear her: the weeping, the hysterics, clutching your father’s shirt like a widow at a funeral, babbling through tears about how her little girl was being lured in by a monster. “He’s dangerous,” she’d say. “He’s unstable,” your father would add. “You’ll ruin your life!” they’d chorus together. As if you didn’t already have enough weight pressing down on your future.

And if that wasn’t enough reason to stay in your lane, there was Michael himself. You didn’t know him, not really, and frankly, he didn’t exactly radiate warmth. If you tried to approach him—really approach him—you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t strike you as someone who appreciated being poked and prodded. And even if you thought the rumors were exaggerated, that didn’t mean the man wasn’t intimidating. His size alone could unnerve anyone. He could probably toss you like a rag doll if he wanted to. So no, you didn’t flirt with disaster. You stayed where you were—quietly observing from the safety of distance, offering your tiny bits of kindness without risking too much. Not out of fear, exactly, but out of understanding. That some things—some people—are best kept at arm’s length.

So no, there really wasn’t any personal connection between you and Michael Myers. None at all, actually. But life has this infuriating tendency of stirring the pot just when everything seems relatively quiet. It happened during class—one of those mid-morning lectures on criminal psychology, the topic today centered on the often-blurred distinctions between psychopaths and sociopaths. You’d barely touched your notebook, half-listening, half-daydreaming, until you caught the low buzz of whispers floating from the chairs beside you. It was your group. Of course it was. And of course, it was Tommy Swain leading the charge.

Tommy always struck people as charming—the kind of boy with a golden halo of tousled tawny hair, a straight, too-white smile, and an easy way about him that teachers and parents adored. His grades were decent, his manners better, and when he spoke in class, it was usually with the slick polish of someone who’d been trained to charm since birth. But that charm? It stopped dead the second authority figures weren’t around.

You recognized the gleam in his eye before he even raised his hand. A sharp glint, smug and daring, like a kid about to knock over a vase just to watch it shatter. You didn’t need to hear the full whisper to know what it was about. You caught the tail end of it—Michael’s name, floating from Tommy’s mouth like a slur wrapped in silk. The rest of your little group, always eager to play the devil’s chorus, grinned along, leaning forward like they were waiting for the punchline.

“Dr. King,” Tommy began, voice light and oh-so-polite, “would someone be considered a psychopath or a sociopath if they, say… murdered a few people and didn’t feel a thing about it afterward?”

The words struck the air like a hammer to glass. Your eyes snapped toward Tommy, narrowing instinctively. The professor blinked, taken off guard by the bluntness of the question, while your group snickered beneath their breaths—so proud of themselves, like children tossing breadcrumbs into a lion’s den. And just like that, you felt it. That tight, crawling sensation at the back of your neck. You didn’t dare look behind you, didn’t have to. You knew Michael was there—had been the entire lecture, seated five rows back, like always, brooding and silent and still as stone. And now? Now he was being baited.

It wasn’t the first time your circle had done this. Michael was their favorite target—had been since day one. Not out of fear or curiosity, but something crueler. They treated him like some mythological beast, something to gawk at, prod, provoke. They loved the story. Loved the mystery. Loved the idea of him being a killer—because that meant they could feel powerful mocking him. Dehumanizing him. It was a game to them. A twisted, childish game where he wasn’t a person anymore, just the town’s favorite horror story come to life.

And maybe what bothered you most wasn’t the fact that they played the game... it was how easily you had slipped into your role, sitting there, silent. Part of the audience. And right then—right in the thick of the smirks and glances—you wondered: Was he going to react? Or would he just sit there, soaking it in like always, letting them treat him like a museum exhibit instead of a man? You didn’t know which would be worse.

Dr. King cleared his throat, adjusting the worn green folder in his right hand as he leaned against the edge of his desk. He had a habit of using that folder like a conductor’s baton—tapping it against the chalkboard or the desk when he was deep in thought. That’s what he was doing now. A few light taps echoed through the quiet room, punctuating the tension like a ticking clock.

“Well,” he said finally, voice even, “it depends.”

He paused, lifting the folder slightly and motioning with it as if weighing the answer in the air.

“An absence of remorse could apply to both conditions, but it’s not enough to define someone as either a psychopath or a sociopath. The distinction lies more in how the violence happens—what drives it, what it looks like.”

He glanced at the class, scanning the rows like a man surveying a chessboard.

“A psychopath,” he continued, “would likely plan the crime in advance—meticulously. They’re cold, calculated. They manipulate. They lie easily, convincingly. And yes, on the surface, they often appear perfectly charming, socially adept... maybe even likable.”

A few students chuckled quietly, and you swore Tommy’s smirk grew just a little wider. But your mind caught on that word—charming. That definitely wasn’t Michael.

Dr. King tapped the folder again, this time against his thigh. “Now, a sociopath, on the other hand... tends to be more impulsive. Less careful. The violence comes in the heat of the moment—raw, emotional, usually born out of anger or frustration. Still no remorse, still no real empathy, but they’re far more erratic. Easier to spot, harder to predict.”

The room was still, save for the faint shuffling of papers and someone’s quiet cough near the front. You didn’t turn to look behind you, but the image of Michael sitting back there—hood up, arms crossed, maybe chewing on the inside of his cheek—was fixed behind your eyes like a painting. Dr. King didn’t elaborate further. The classroom sat in a momentary hush, broken only by the sound of Tommy offering a smooth, “Thank you,” his voice all honey and false manners. The kind of line meant to keep up his polished image—the perfect student, the golden boy. That illusion held, right up until the snickers began again. A ripple of amusement passing through your little circle, and of course, you caught the word sociopath being tossed around like some edgy party trick.

Another day, another label to toss onto Michael Myers’ already decaying reputation.

The lecture droned on after that, a blur of clinical terms and textbook definitions, though it was hard to focus with the weight of what had just happened still lingering in the air. You found yourself checking your watch more than once, and when the professor finally slapped his signature green folder against the desk—a gesture that always signaled freedom—you didn’t waste time. You slipped your pen into the spiral binding of your notebook, zipped your bag closed, and exchanged a few easy smiles with your seatmates. The usual routine.

It wasn’t until you were standing that you finally let yourself look—just briefly. Michael was standing now, though he’d shifted to the end of the row . From this angle, you couldn’t quite catch the full view of his face—not that he ever made it easy with that damn hood always shadowing his eyes—but you silently hoped his gaze wasn’t pointed toward your group. You weren’t sure you wanted to know. As you and the others filed out of the row and began climbing the steps toward the exit, you fell into step beside Samantha Coster—Sammy, as everyone called her. She was everything polished and put-together: hair in perfect golden ringlets, nails freshly done, lips glossed in some shade of pink that probably cost more than your entire outfit. Her dad ran the only bank in Haddonfield, so money had never been a problem for her. She was babbling now, something about seeing a new thriller that weekend, her green eyes wide and flirty as she twisted a curl around her finger like it owed her rent.

You nodded, offering a vague smile, about to chime in when—

Your balance shifted.

The world tilted sharply beneath you, and before your mind could process what was happening, your foot caught on something, sending your body sideways. Your arms shot out instinctively, grasping at air, heart leaping into your throat. You braced for impact—desk corner, cold floor, bruised pride—but none of it came. Instead, you landed against something warm. Something solid. Your face pressed briefly into cotton, the heavy scent of cigarettes and motor oil crashing into your senses like a wave. Your hands found rough fabric, the front of a hoodie, and the solid wall of a chest beneath it. You were caught. And not by just anyone.

Your stomach dropped when you realized who it was. His hands—broad, calloused—had clamped onto your upper arms, keeping you upright with an ease that almost insulted gravity. His grip was firm, a little too firm. Still, it was him. You didn’t even have to look up to know.

You straightened fast, nerves sparking, breath caught halfway between embarrassment and disbelief. “I—I’m so sorry,” you managed, your voice more breath than words. “I didn’t mean—”

He didn’t respond. Just looked at you. Not a word passed from his lips, not even a breath loud enough to catch. The silence stretched between you, taut and thrumming, thick enough to drown in. You didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare lift your head fully—just barely tilted it up, almost involuntarily, like your body needed to see what your mind warned you not to. And there they were. Stormy, ice-blue eyes locked onto you, narrowed beneath the shadow of his hood. Cold, unreadable... but burning in a way that made your skin prickle. His mouth was downturned into the beginnings of a sneer, jaw tight, and yet—

Your breath hitched.

Because Michael Myers was handsome. In that dark, dangerous way that wasn’t supposed to be real. Handsome in a way that you should’ve run from. That every part of you should’ve recoiled against. Instead, a shiver ran its way straight down your spine, blooming low in your belly like something secret and shameful. You didn’t get a second more to dwell on it. A sudden jerk—another set of hands—yanked you backward, almost whiplash-fast. You gasped, stumbling slightly as you looked behind you.

“Hands off, fucking freak.”

Tommy. He stood between you and Michael now, chest puffed, arm thrown out like he was guarding something precious. His expression was all mockery and muscle, smug righteousness hiding behind it. You blinked at him, caught off guard, as his hand landed on your shoulder.

“Hey—hey, you okay? Did you trip?” he asked too loudly, like performing for the room. “He didn’t touch you, right?”

His voice was sharp with faux concern, but underneath, it was something else—laced with challenge. Directed not at you, but the man standing just a few paces behind you. The one who hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t moved a muscle. Michael was still standing there, looming and quiet. His expression hadn’t changed, though maybe—maybe—his sneer had grown a little sharper. His eyes flicked to Tommy. One second. Two. No words. But it was enough to make the air go still, like the whole lecture hall was holding its breath.

You shook your head quickly, brushing Tommy’s hand off your arm. “I’m fine,” you muttered, too quiet.

Tommy didn’t seem to hear—or pretended not to. Behind Tommy, Michael lingered—watching. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as they flicked between the two of you. There was no subtlety to it, no attempt to hide the disdain tightening his features. And then, low and unmistakable, came a scoff. Not just a breath of amusement, but something heavier, rougher—more like a growl rumbling from the back of his throat. The sound hit you like a sudden drop in pressure, catching in your chest and making your heart lurch.

It was stupid. So, so stupid. You didn’t want to find him attractive. Not in the way that mattered. You were aiming for quiet rebellion, something that could fly under the radar until you were out of this town. Not this—not catching yourself looking a little too long at the man everyone whispered about like he was a horror story in the flesh. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Michael wasn’t just a cautionary tale. He was tall and broad and carved from something rough and real, all in worn denim and black boots. And that face—sharp angles and shadows half-hidden beneath the hood—was far too easy to imagine pressed too close to yours.

If your mother knew what passed through your head just then, she’d probably faint on the spot. Actually faint. Arms thrown over her face, maybe gasping for her rosary. And your father? He’d try to shoot the boy on principle alone. You had to smother the mental image fast—it was dangerously close to funny. But no. No, that kind of chaos was for later. That was graduation material. The plan was to play the part of the good girl for just a little longer. Smile sweetly, make Latin honors, charm your way into a prestigious grad program far, far away. Then—and only then—could you make your mother collapse in horror and your father roar with disapproval. Preferably with someone who looked just a little less like the embodiment of every whispered nightmare Haddonfield had ever produced.

It was just a silly thought—fleeting, born from the sharp buzz of adrenaline still humming through your system after that stumble. Your mind hadn't quite caught up to your body yet, your pulse stubbornly racing, the edge of embarrassment still prickling beneath your skin. You tried to shake it off, but when your eyes flicked sideways to Tommy—chest puffed out, jaw squared like he was preparing for a duel—you couldn't help but scoff internally. Really? He was still trying to size up Michael?

The idea alone was laughable. One swing from a man like that and Tommy would crumple like a wet napkin. Hell, with the sheer bulk Michael carried—quiet, coiled strength in the shape of a man—it wasn’t a stretch to imagine Tommy’s skull going off like a water balloon. And yet, it didn’t come to that. Of course it didn’t. Michael, true to form, didn’t even bother giving the situation his full attention. He just let out another one of those low, irritated huffs—a sound that somehow managed to vibrate right beneath your ribs—before turning and walking off like none of this was worth his time. The echo of his boots on the floor was the only sound for a beat, a steady rhythm that faded only when the door slammed shut behind him with a sharp finality.

And just like that, the spell broke. The second he was gone, your group surged in, surrounding you in a well-practiced flurry of concern and perfectly manicured sympathy. You felt hands on your arms, soft voices pressing in close, familiar perfume clouding your senses. It was all so... performative. But then again, you were used to performance. You were popular, sure, but popularity wasn’t just handed to you. It came with a script—one you’d learned well. Your mom’s business gave all the girls their seasonal discounts. Your father’s golf club membership made boys like Tommy feel important. And, of course, there was the credit card. The one your parents rarely checked unless you gave them a reason to. And why would you? You were the golden girl. You didn't spend it on drugs or wild parties—just bags, brunches, the occasional spa day. You gave them nothing to question.

Because that’s what good girls did. Good girls played the game. And in return, you were loved. Or, well, liked. Respected, at the very least. But if you peeled back the pretty layers, you’d find something else. A quiet transaction. Everyone in that group used each other like currency. And you? You didn’t even like most of them. Especially not Tommy. But some things were just... necessary. That was the way the world worked, wasn’t it? Sammy latched onto you first, her expression a flawless combination of concern and subtle drama. She blinked up at you with those huge green eyes, bottom lip pushed out just enough to look soft and sincere.

“Oh my God, are you okay?! He didn’t, like, grab you anywhere, did he?”

You gave her a small smile, already slipping back into the role. The one they expected. The sweet, untouchable girl who definitely hadn’t just entertained a dangerous little fantasy involving the man they all loved to whisper about.

“No,” you said softly. “He didn’t... touch me.”

Not really. Not the way they were worried about. Not the way they’d understand.

“Are you sure?” she pressed, giving you a once-over like she half-expected to find bruises blooming beneath your clothes. “He’s such a freak!”

You didn’t respond to that. Just looked down and nodded again like the good girl you were supposed to be. Because good girls didn’t admit they found guys like Michael Myers interesting. Dangerous. Unfairly hot in that lean, rough-edged way that smelled like cigarettes and recklessness. Good girls didn’t wonder what it would feel like to tug down that ever-present hoodie or hear that gravel voice whisper in their ear. No. They stuck to what was expected—polite smiles, pre-approved boys, and futures painted in pastel tones. So, yeah, it was a stupid thought. A fleeting, stupid little daydream.

You turned back to your group with a bright, easy smile—one you’d perfected over years of needing to look unfazed. You even added a small laugh, as if the whole thing had been some kind of harmless misunderstanding. Just a little stumble, nothing worth lingering on. And it worked. Like always, it worked. Concern flickered for a heartbeat and then vanished, replaced by the usual snide commentary.

“Total fucking weirdo,” someone muttered.

But soon enough, the moment had dissolved, swallowed up by other shallow distractions. Sammy was already rambling about the local theatre’s upcoming viewings—some movies she’d seen a half-dozen times already—and Tommy, ever desperate to sound impressive, had launched into a story involving his dad’s law firm and some judge whose name no one really cared about. You walked in the middle of the group, nodding, laughing when appropriate, but mostly tuning it all out. It was white noise. Your mind drifted elsewhere—mostly back to those stormy blue eyes and the way they had sliced clean through you without even trying.

As the group rounded the corner and made your way through the glass doors into the communal dining space, your gaze flicked toward one of the little chalkboard menus propped up beside the entrance. Pasta. The creamy, cheesy kind. Your favorite. Your mouth almost watered before reality came crashing back. No chance. Not here. Not in front of them. If you so much as looked at that pasta too long, Sammy would wrinkle her nose in mock disgust, and the other girls would follow like a pack of rehearsed hyenas. You could practically hear the laughter already: “You’re really eating that?” Followed by snide whispers and not-so-subtle glances toward your stomach the next day.

So, no pasta. No carbs. Not when the rules of the group were so strictly unspoken but ruthlessly enforced. You’d all pretend to love salads, picking at bits of lettuce while the boys piled their trays high with burgers and fries, chasing it all down with sodas and smugness. You’d get a Coke, though. That was your one small rebellion. The one indulgence that didn’t draw criticism. No one questioned a Coke. You could sip it like you didn’t care, like it tasted better than the things you actually wanted.

But you did care. You cared more than you wanted to admit, and it was getting harder to pretend. Harder to keep playing this role when every part of you wanted to rip off the costume and do something reckless. Something real. Like eat the pasta. Or stare too long at Michael Myers. Gah—enough of that. You gave your head a subtle shake, mentally brushing off the spiral you’d been caught in. No use sulking over pasta you weren’t brave enough to order. So instead, you slipped into line, grabbed a sad little plastic bowl of greens, and treated yourself to the tiniest rebellion—a few pieces of grilled chicken on top. Barely indulgent, but it made you feel like you were claiming something.

With an empty cup for your Coke in hand and your tray in the other, you made your way back toward the table, your practiced smile slipping effortlessly into place. Same game, different day. You set your tray down and eased into your usual seat, right as Sherry leaned toward you, shoulder bumping yours lightly to grab your attention. She tilted her head toward the boys, who were—of course—huddled at the end of the table and half-laughing, half-shouting at a group of freshman girls nearby.

Something about their skirts. Charming. You gave a little roll of your eyes and shook your head like it was all just some harmless mischief, but the irritation buzzed quietly beneath your skin. Real gentlemen, truly. Tommy, especially, looked like he was trying too hard to impress. Again. Sherry Thomas was probably the only one in your circle you didn’t secretly loathe. She was the kind of pretty you couldn’t really replicate—unapologetic and utterly effortless. A shock of red curls pulled back in a ponytail, a dusting of freckles across skin that practically glowed, and those big glasses that always seemed to be sliding a little too far down her nose. She looked like someone straight out of a coming-of-age indie film—if the script was written by someone with a thing for fantasy book heroines and flirty English professors.

And of course, she was dating Tommy. Because the world was occasionally bleak and confusing like that. You didn’t get it. Not in the slightest. She was far too soft, too thoughtful, too real for someone like him. Maybe that was the appeal. Or maybe she was just as good at playing a part as you were.

Still, when she looked at you with her usual curious half-smile and asked, “You good?” in that quiet voice of hers, it felt almost disarming. She actually meant it.

You smiled back, softer this time, and nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.” Which was, as always, the easiest lie to tell. You glanced down at Sherry’s empty cup, then back up at her with a little tilt of your chin. “Coke?”

She nodded with a grateful smile, that soft, understanding look in her eyes again. Well, that settled that. You rose to your feet, smoothing out the hem of your white mini—mostly for formality’s sake, but a little for show too. Old habits. Both cups in hand, you maneuvered your way out from the booth and headed toward the drink line. Why they insisted on separating food from drinks was anyone’s guess. Maybe it was some master plan to control traffic flow, or just the result of a tragically over-ambitious architect trying to make a dining hall feel like more than it was. To be fair, it wasn’t terrible. The space was huge—open, airy—with a mixture of booths, long communal tables, and smaller circles tucked near bookshelves and decorative planters.

The food stations were off to the left, drinks to the right, and one entire wall was made of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a courtyard dotted with patio tables and a few bored-looking students pretending to study. Honestly, it looked a lot like your old high school cafeteria—if your high school cafeteria had been built with more money and fewer bars on the windows. You made your way toward the drink line, pretending not to notice the heads that turned as you passed by. A few girls leaned in to whisper, their eyes darting toward you before flicking away again. A group of boys at the far table let out some sort of laugh that was probably meant to sound casual but wasn’t. You didn’t bother reacting.

You just smiled—easy, breezy—and offered a few waves, lifting the two plastic cups in your hands like some kind of peace offering. You weren’t best friends with everyone, but you weren’t invisible either. You were something, and that was more than most people could say. So you walked with purpose, keeping your posture relaxed and your expression pleasant. And maybe—just maybe—you felt the tiniest, strangest prickle down your spine. Not fear. Not really.

Just that strange sensation. The kind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, like you’re being watched. You didn’t turn around right away. You had a destination. And a job to do. Coke duty. You slid into your place in line, a little exhale slipping through your nose as you stood behind a couple of freshmen trying to flirt their way into an extra splash of Dr. Pepper. Typical. When it was your turn, you passed both cups to the tired-looking woman manning the drink counter and asked for Coke with a casual smile and a playful quirk of your brow. She didn’t smile back—just filled the cups, capped them, and handed them over like it was all a bit beneath her. Fair enough.

With drinks in hand, you pivoted on your heel and began the slow walk back, the cool plastic sweating against your palms. Your eyes flicked sideways out of habit, glancing through the row of spotless windows lining the wall. The courtyard came into view, and you took it in with practiced ease. There were only two groups out there, dotted across the cracked stone patio. One—closer to the doors—looked like a cluster of honor roll kids and debate team regulars, hunched together in a ring of denim jackets and dry laughter. You recognized a few—people who waved at you when they thought no one else was watching. Nothing to write home about. The other group was a little harder to ignore.

They’d staked their claim beneath the largest tree in the courtyard, one whose roots cracked the concrete in lazy rebellion. And there he was—he—leaning against the bark like he was born there, one long leg bent at the knee and a thin wisp of smoke curling from his fingers. Michael. You knew that hulking frame instantly. Knew it the way one recognizes a storm on the horizon. The sharp slope of his shoulders. That wild hair, untamed and curling at the edges of his collar. His face tilted just slightly down, enough to make the shadows dance over his eyes. It was impossible to tell if he was watching anyone in particular—but you felt the weight of him anyway. Even through the glass. Even with a dozen feet between you.

He was surrounded, of course. Not like a king—more like a danger no one wanted to admit they were drawn to. Two guys flanked him on the ground, dressed in an eclectic mess of leather, band tees, chains and boots, each looking like they’d walked straight out of an underground club. They laughed like they didn’t care who was listening, feet kicked out and elbows draped across each other’s knees. Then there were the girls. Those girls. The ones everyone talked about in whispers and stares. The “punks,” people called them—though that didn’t quite cover it.

Their hair was glossy and curled into intentional chaos, makeup loud in all the right ways—blue eyeshadow, blood-red lips, glitter dusting their cheeks like war paint. They wore black like it was a second skin, heels like weapons, and walked with their shoulders back, unbothered and unapologetic. People tolerated them because they were pretty. Dangerous, but pretty. The guys? Not so much. And Michael? He wasn’t tolerated. Only respected in the way people respected wild animals—because they knew better than to turn their backs.

You kept walking. But not too fast. Something about the scene pulled at you. Not just because he was there. Not just because you knew what it felt like to be under that gaze—brief as it had been. But because some stupid part of you—some curious, restless part—wanted to be over there. Wanted to know what they were talking about. What they laughed at. What it would feel like to sit under that tree and not pretend you belonged somewhere else. You didn’t let your face show any of that. You just walked, Coke cups in hand, heart kicking up in your chest as you rounded the corner.

You returned to the table to find nearly every seat claimed, the usual whirlwind of laughter and idle chatter already in full swing. The only spot left was yours—thankfully still unbothered—and you slid into it without a fuss, settling between Sherry and Sammy. You handed Sherry her Coke with a small smile, to which she nodded in gratitude, already mid-sentence in whatever gossip spiral had taken root. The noise faded to background static as you opened your salad container and took the first few bites, savoring the grilled chicken you’d added as a small act of defiance against the unwritten “lettuce-only” rule. It wasn’t that you didn’t like salad—you actually did. But when your stomach whispered longingly for something warm and carby and smothered in cheese, a tangle of leaves could feel like punishment. Still, you made do. That was your specialty, wasn’t it?

You were just raising your cup to your lips, the cold fizz brushing against your skin, when David Beecher’s voice cut in across the table.

“Movie house is doing a Goodfellas re-run tonight,” he announced with that trademark smugness that always made you want to roll your eyes. “I’m buying. Popcorn, drinks—the whole shebang. Who’s in?”

David was a bit like Tommy, just slightly less loud and significantly more tolerable if you caught him on a good day. With his slicked-back hair, crooked grin, and perpetual leather jacket, he played the part of the vintage bad boy a little too well. The kind of guy who probably wished he’d been born in a decade with jukeboxes and milkshakes instead of grunge and dial-up. Predictably, the offer caught everyone’s attention. Sammy perked up instantly and even Sherry glanced over with mild interest. You, on the other hand, exhaled quietly, relief blooming in your chest. For once, you had a reason—an actual one—not to go. You leaned back in your chair, took a slow sip of Coke, and let the corners of your mouth lift in an apologetic, unbothered smile.

“Can’t,” you said, casually enough. “I’ve got a lit paper to start. It’s on old fairytales. I’ve got to dig through some reference texts tonight if I want to avoid a caffeine-fueled breakdown Sunday night.”

There were a few groans and half-hearted boos tossed your way, David among them.

“Oh, come on,” he drawled. “That’s what the night before is for.”

You tilted your head slightly. “And that’s how C students are born.”

David groaned, throwing his head back in exaggerated agony as if you’d just told him someone had died. “Boring~,” he sang, drawing the word out like a taunt. A few of the others chuckled. Sammy leaned over and bumped your shoulder lightly with hers, her lip gloss catching the overhead light.

“Lame excuse,” she teased, drawing out the "a" and tossing her hair like that sealed the verdict. “Come on. You can write about Cinderella tomorrow. Or just make something up about how Snow White was secretly a cult leader or whatever.”

You gave a tight smile and reached for another bite of your salad, letting the fork clink delicately against the bowl. “It’s a Grimm tale. Sleeping Beauty. And I don’t think cult leaders wake up from death-like curses with a kiss, but nice try.”

That earned a few light laughs—some impressed, some amused. Sherry grinned behind her cup and murmured something that sounded like “ouch", while Tommy muttered a sarcastic “nerd” under his breath that wasn’t nearly as insulting as he’d probably meant it to be. You didn’t mind, really. It was always like this—a balancing act of playing smart enough to keep your edge without tipping into full-blown try-hard. This crowd liked their girls pretty, witty, but not too deep. You'd mastered it like a science.

David leaned forward on his elbows, eyeing you with a sly smile that was meant to be charming. “Suit yourself, Snow White. If you change your mind, we’ll be there.”

“Sure,” you said mildly, not bothering to look up this time. You took another sip of Coke, the cold bite of it welcome against your tongue.

Still, as the conversation around you drifted back into banter and gossip, your gaze slid toward the window again—toward the tree, the smoke, the boy who hadn’t been invited and wouldn’t have come even if he had been. Myers didn’t need movie nights or group approval. And somehow... that made him more interesting than all of them combined. You stabbed a piece of lettuce and tried not to think about how it would feel to be pulled into that world instead. But Sherry knocked you out of your thoughts before they could wander too far.

“So, late night at the library then?” she asked, nudging your arm lightly with her elbow and giving you a sly little smile behind her straw.

You nodded, biting into another leaf of romaine dressed generously in ranch—your taste buds perking up as you hit the jackpot. Crouton. Finally. A small, salty crunch of satisfaction. You chewed, swallowed, and glanced up just in time to catch her eyes watching you over the rim of her cup.

“Mhm,” you replied smoothly, brushing your napkin across your lips. “And hey—anyone’s welcome to join... that is, if David’s temptations don’t pull you into a life of crime and gangster quotes.”

That earned you a dramatic gasp from Sammy and a mock-offended look from David, who threw a crumpled napkin in your general direction.

“Oh please, you say that like you’re not tempted to come watch De Niro smirk for two hours!” he quipped, flashing a grin.

You just laughed and leaned back into your seat, letting the group’s teasing float around you like bubbles in the air. It was easy to play your part here—smiling, laughing, throwing clever little jabs—but underneath it all, you could already feel that pull in your chest again. How fake it all was... every perfectly timed laugh, every exaggerated gasp, every dramatic eye-roll and giggle over something none of you really cared about. It was all so curated, so manufactured. The routine of it had become second nature—smile when they smiled, laugh when expected, nod and murmur the right words. You were practically on autopilot. Sometimes it felt like you were just playing a role in a script none of you had written but all of you followed to a tee.

So you settled into silence, content to let the others carry the noise. You offered the occasional grin or an “oh, totally,” when the conversation demanded it, but mostly, you just tuned it out—mind already a few miles away. Before long, the little break was over anyway. Some had classes to rush off to, others were calling it for the day. You stood, smoothed down your skirt, slung your bag over your shoulder, and waved your goodbyes with that same polished smile they all expected. But the moment you turned your back to them, it slipped right off your face.

Your steps toward the library felt heavier than they should. Maybe it was the weather, or maybe it was the looming quiet you knew would greet you there—but either way, you walked a little slower, as if dragging your feet might somehow keep you from sinking further into the strange heaviness that followed you like a second shadow. Still, the library doors creaked open eventually, and you stepped inside, the hush of the place immediately swallowing up the noise of the outside world. You didn’t have any more classes this evening, so you had all the time in the world. May as well get started. At least here, you could pretend the quiet was your choice.

The library in the late afternoon held a hush that felt almost sacred. It was never particularly busy—just the occasional student drifting between stacks, a librarian murmuring behind the desk, the distant hum of an overhead light. You liked it this way. The stillness was comforting, a stark contrast to the relentless chatter and shallow noise that filled most of your day. Here, in this little cocoon of quiet, your mind finally slowed down. It was one of the few places where you could simply exist, without performance, without polish.

You were nestled into a beanbag tucked between a pair of worn, towering shelves, legs folded beneath you, the weight of a hefty book resting in your lap. One of the old Grimm collections—your chosen poison for the afternoon. Despite their name, or maybe because of it, you found the tales oddly captivating. Violent, dark, sometimes utterly senseless... yet still enduring, still whispered across centuries. You suspected your mother wouldn’t appreciate the irony of assigning you these very stories in hopes of “rounding out” your education. Literature, after all, had only made you more curious—more inclined to look between the lines, to question the world instead of swallowing it whole.

Beside you, your notebook lay open, scattered with scribbled thoughts and half-formed ideas. You’d been taking notes on Sleeping Beauty—the original version, not the sanitized, Disney-fied dreamland everyone grew up on. In the Grimm version, the tale was less about romance and more about fate, silence, and the unnerving power of time. You liked that. There was something poetic in the way the girl slept for a hundred years, untouched, waiting for the world to catch up to her. Or maybe she was just trapped.

A slow yawn escaped you as your gaze drifted toward the narrow window nearby. Afternoon light poured through the glass in soft golden strips, painting the wooden floor in quiet warmth. You stared for a while, letting your thoughts wander. Out there, the world spun on without you—people laughed, flirted, postured. Inside, it was just you and the crackle of aged pages. This little corner of the library felt like your own secret, a hidden room no one else bothered to check. None of your friends would be caught dead here—except maybe Sherry, if she was in the mood or had a paper due. The others would wrinkle their noses at the smell of musty pages and scoff at your choice of solitude. But that was fine. Let them stay in their loud, plastic world. You’d take paper and ink over empty chatter any day.

You adjusted your posture slightly and turned the page, eyes scanning the old text as your pen twirled absently in your fingers. Alone, yes. But not lonely. Not here. You raised your free hand to your cheek and leaned into it with a soft yawn, your thoughts slowly drifting with the heat of the sun filtering through the tall windows. That late afternoon light had a way of turning everything honey-warm, like the world had dipped into a sigh. It made your limbs heavy, your brain fogged with that pleasant drowsiness that only came with true quiet.

The silence was complete—no footsteps, no whispers, just the hum of a nearby light and the soft rustle of paper now and then. Your eyes fluttered closed for a beat, then opened again in a slow blink. Your head dipped forward in the next moment, startling you just slightly. You gave a soft huff under your breath, defeated, and closed the book with a gentle thump. It landed atop your notebook like a sealed thought. Just an hour, you reasoned with yourself. One tiny hour. A quick nap wouldn't hurt anyone, and you’d be sharper for it. More focused. That was what you told yourself, anyway.

Curling further into the beanbag, you adjusted your skirt and settled back. The fabric sighed beneath you. You shut your eyes fully this time, letting your breathing even out. The paper-scented air wrapped around you like a blanket. No one would find you here. It was safe. It was still. You let go of the day, the drama, the endless performance... and let sleep take you. Well, that had been the plan at least. Just an hour. A short nap to reset your mind and gather yourself before diving back in. So how, exactly, had the sky outside managed to turn so deep and ink-dark, stars pricked like glass pins against velvet?

You blinked. Once. Twice. Sat up slowly.

“Oh... oh fuck.”

Panic snapped you upright. The beanbag hissed as you pushed yourself off of it, already reaching for your bag with half-blind urgency. You opened it and shoved your things inside with the grace of a tornado—notes crumpled, pens scattered, and the poor library book almost left behind in your rush. You snatched it last minute, clutching it like some forgotten child. The moment you stood, the lights above flickered on with an automated hum, illuminating the small pocket of space you’d occupied. But the rest of the library? Dark. Silent. Still.

Your pulse stuttered. That wasn't a good sign. You moved quickly, the sound of your steps echoing a little too sharply across the polished floor. With every step forward, the lights clicked on ahead of you, trailing behind like a soft current. It felt eerie now, theatrical almost, like the library had become a stage—and you were the only one left in the final act. You passed the empty librarian's desk and made a beeline for the main doors, already pushing your hands against the cool metal bar—nothing.

They didn’t budge. You froze, stomach dropping. Tried again, harder this time, leaning your weight into it.

Still nothing.

Your face drained of color. “No. No, no, no!"

Locked. Completely locked in. The worst part? You weren’t even mad at yourself for falling asleep. You were mad because now you had to explain this—somehow. And you just knew your mother was going to kill you. Maybe you could play it off. Pretend you'd had a change of heart, gotten swept up in some spontaneous night out with your group. You could get one of them—Sherry, probably—to vouch for you. Lie, just a little. Say you'd left campus hours ago with the others, decided to skip the library altogether. Your mother might even be pleased. She might think you were finally showing an interest in boys. She might think you were softening into the kind of girl she'd always wanted you to be.

God, but that was a trap all on its own. An exhausting, performative role you didn’t feel like committing to. Because if she thought that—if she really believed it—you’d have to prove it. Talk about the boys, giggle like the other girls did, flirt with someone like David. No thanks. That kind of lie came with its own prison.

“Fuckity fuck,” you muttered under your breath, forehead gently thudding against the cool glass of the door.

You took a few deep breaths, counting them out, trying to push the panic back down where it belonged. There had to be another way out. A fire exit, maybe, or one of those side doors the custodians sometimes left cracked while they smoked behind the building. You just had to find one. It wasn’t like they bolted every inch of the place down, right? You turned, eyes sweeping over the dark rows of shelves stretching into the quiet beyond. The silence felt... heavier now. Denser.

Then you saw it. To your right—just past the main reading area and the long row of study carrels—a trail of lights flickered on, one after the other. Not all at once, like the automatic lights did when someone entered a new space, but in sequence. Deliberate. Like something—or someone—was walking. Your stomach dropped. It could be someone else locked in. Another unlucky student who’d pulled an all-nighter and dozed off too long. Or maybe, hopefully, a janitor or campus security doing a sweep before locking up the final exits. Please God, let it be a custodian. You didn’t hesitate. You took off, your shoes slapping against the smooth linoleum floor, echoing down the empty corridor as you followed the newly lit path, breath caught somewhere between hope and dread.

You kept moving, heart pounding a little harder with each step. The lights ahead of you—those artificial trail markers—had now looped back to your original path, converging near the bean bag you’d abandoned. As you rounded the corner, your breath came in short puffs, but you felt a rush of cautious relief when you spotted it. A coverall. That one-piece, industrial-grade uniform that screamed custodian. The muted blue, that slightly shapeless cut—it was the kind of thing meant for mopping up spills and changing light bulbs, not for delivering terror. You huffed out a breath and slowed your pace, brushing your hair away from your face with a trembling hand.

Thank God. Just a janitor. You stepped forward, crossing the familiar patch of floor toward the bean bag. The figure stood still, his back half-turned as he faced one of the tall shelves. From behind, it looked just like you expected. Tall. Broad. Working man’s build. You exhaled a bit of your tension and called out, a nervous laugh tucked into the start of your sentence.

“Hi—! Oh God, I’m so sorry. I must’ve fallen asleep here and totally lost track of time. The doors are locked and—yes, I’m a student here,” you rushed out, voice slightly breathless but friendly. “Could you possibly open—”

But then you stopped. Dead cold. Because your eyes had traveled just a little further up, taking in the figure more clearly now. The blonde hair—too dark to be mistaken, too familiar to be ignored. The way it curled slightly at the base of his neck. The strong jaw, clenched tight. And worst of all—the side glance he gave you. Liquid blue. Piercing. Icy. Not indifferent like a stranger. No. Aware. Your mouth went dry as your voice tapered off to a choked whisper.

“... Myers.”

He turned his head slightly, not all the way—just enough to confirm what your gut had already screamed. It was him. Michael fucking Myers. And you were locked in here. Alone. His shoulder shifted the tiniest bit, like he was annoyed by your recognition. Like he’d let you figure it out just then. You stood frozen for a second, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. He turned. Slowly, deliberately—like he had all the time in the world and knew that you didn’t. And when he faced you fully, your stomach dropped clean out of your body. Because in his hand—so large it nearly dwarfed it—was something small, familiar, horrifying in its innocence.

A book. Your book. That soft baby blue leather, the elastic strap you sometimes chewed on when you were nervous, the faint bend in the upper right corner from being shoved into your bag a hundred times. Your diary. Your goddamn diary. You stared at it like it had grown teeth, like it was something otherworldly, cursed. But the curse wasn’t in the book—it was in the man holding it. In the way he just stood there, one hand at his side, the other casually cradling your life between his fingers.

No blood. No knife. Just your secrets. And somehow that felt worse.

You could feel the chill rushing over your skin like frost on glass. Because if he had read it—and it sure as hell looked like he had—you were ruined. Exposed. That diary wasn’t some dumb little journal with hearts doodled in the margins. It was your entire mind. The rawest, most unfiltered parts of yourself: your doubts, your hatred, your heartbreak. The guilt. The fantasies. The aching little dreams you’d never speak aloud.

The things you’d written about your friends—how you didn’t trust them. How you thought most of them were shallow, cruel, or simply convenient. The things you’d written about your mother. The rage there. The things you’d written about leaving this town. And worse. Much worse. The parts where you’d written about him. Your breath caught in your throat. You’d called it your “little blue book of secrets” for a reason. But now it wasn’t yours. It was his. And in his hands, those secrets weren’t just words. They were leverage.

"Interesting read."

His voice hit you like a slow-motion wreck. Gravel and smoke, low and drawn out like he knew exactly what it did to people—and didn’t care. If your knees hadn’t already been locked from panic, they might’ve buckled. And still, that wasn’t what scared you. It was his expression. Not neutral. Not confused. Not even angry. Amused. That slow, knowing twitch of his mouth. The way his blue eyes gleamed with some cruel kind of glee—he knew. Oh, he’d read more than just the first page. Maybe not the whole thing, but enough. Enough to have you absolutely cornered.

Your stomach turned as you stood frozen in place, eyes darting from the blue leather book to his face, trying to decode exactly how much he knew. Had he read the page about Tommy? The one where you called him a loudmouthed prick with an ego as fragile as his GPA? Or the part about your mother? How you’d rather burn the house down than follow her “plan” for your life? Or worse—so much worse—had he seen his pages? The ones where you wrote about the way he smoked like it was an art form, or how his silence filled a room more than any voice ever could. The way your eyes followed him sometimes like a compulsion. The curiosity that started with fear and somewhere along the way had turned into something else. Something darker. Something wanton.

"How much did you read...?" you asked, trying to keep your voice even, though it trembled anyway.

His eyes never left you, not once. He tilted his head slightly, slowly. That same smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if the question itself was funny. He didn’t answer. Instead, he held up the book between two fingers, just a little, like dangling bait. Then, with a deliberate flick, he tucked it into the pocket of his coveralls. Your heart slammed.

"Hey—!" You took a step forward, but he just raised an eyebrow. Just one. Like you were a joke that hadn’t gotten the punchline yet. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He stepped closer, just once, and that single movement made the distance feel microscopic. You could smell the faint tang of smoke on him. Dust and heat and some elusive sharpness, like metal left out in the cold.

“You write pretty,” he spoke—mocking, lazy. “Didn’t know you thought about me that much.”

And that was it. That was the cut. You stared at him, wide-eyed and breathless. This was the most you’d ever heard him speak, and you hated it—hated how calm he looked, how easily he held your entire life in one hand like it meant nothing. His gaze dragged over you slow and steady, like a predator sizing up its meal. If he was a wolf, you were already bleeding.

“Please,” you said, voice cracking slightly. “Give it back. It’s my book... it’s—property. That’s stealing!”

You tried to sound firm, but the panic had already crept in, curling its fingers around your throat. Maybe if you reminded him he worked here, or you assumed he did—maybe if you played it smart, pushed the right buttons, you could come out of this unscathed. If you reported him, he could lose everything. That was something, right? But that didn't stop him. Instead, his hand reached into his pocket and pulled the book out again. That pale blue cover looked almost harmless in his grip. Almost. He flipped it open to a random page, eyes skimming lazily. Then he scoffed.

“Blond one’s a pinup?” His tone was low, sharp, like a knife dragged across a chalkboard. “Sweet.”

You felt your cheeks burn.

He glanced at another line. “Tommy’s a prick. ‘No real depth.’”

He snorted through his nose, shaking his head like he was unimpressed. Like you were just funny to him. Your fists curled at your sides.

“Michael! I’m serious. Give it back.”

He tilted his head, finally looking at you fully. That glint in his eye wasn’t amusement—it was something darker. Meaner.

“You gonna cry?” he asked, voice flat, mocking.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. He slowly tucked the diary back into his pocket. A deliberate move. Like staking a claim.

“Why should I?”

Your eyes locked on the spot where your diary had disappeared, deep in the pocket of his coveralls like a secret grenade. Why the hell was he doing this? Was this some kind of twisted revenge? For what? You hadn’t spread the rumors. You hadn’t laughed at him. If anything, you’d gone out of your way to keep your head down. Sure, silence wasn’t innocence. But still—this? This felt targeted. He stared at you like a cat watching a pinned insect. No urgency, no sympathy. Just interest. Cold, curious interest.

“Michael, I—I won’t say anything,” you tried, holding your hands out slightly, like you could gesture your way into mercy. “I’ll pretend this never happened. You have my word.”

“Don’t believe you.” His voice was flat, mechanical. Barely a breath above a growl. And yet somehow it hit like a slap.

You stiffened. Alright. So that was the game now. Two blades drawn, both pointed—only his was already pressed to your throat. You didn't know Michael worked custodial for the college... but now you did. If you told your circle what you saw tonight—if you said he lurked the college halls at night—his job could be gone by morning. Angry parents would throw their weight around. A man like Michael Myers, with that kind of past? Working around students? They’d eat him alive. But you weren’t stupid. He held your entire world in his hand. One page. One sentence. One word. That’s all it would take. And between the two of you? You had a hell of a lot more to lose.

“What do you want?” you demanded through clenched teeth, the words dragged out between your shallow breaths. Your heart was thundering, wild against your ribs, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze. Forced yourself to look brave, even when every nerve in your body screamed that you weren’t.

Michael said nothing at first. Just stared. That unreadable, steely look in his blue eyes was somehow worse than if he’d raised his voice. He studied you like he was weighing something behind his gaze—how far he could push you, maybe. How far you’d bend. The lighting wasn’t helping either. For the first time, you could see every sharp edge of his face. The harsh line of his jaw. The faint shadow of a scar by his temple. It was unsettling how human he looked—how normal—considering the weight of his reputation. But this was no ideal situation. You’d just handed yourself over to the devil with a soft “please.” He broke the silence with a single word.

“Pager.”

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded toward your bag. Your stomach dropped. You froze for only a second, then reluctantly slipped the strap from your shoulder and rummaged through the mess of books, papers, highlighters—finally pulling out your slim, cherry red pager. A stupid little vanity choice that now made you feel ridiculous. You held it out to him with hesitation. He snatched it easily with one large hand, then pulled his own from his pocket. Oh. Of course he had the nicer model. Full-text capability. Probably provided by the school. Something about emergency maintenance or after-hours reports, you remembered overhearing. He typed for a moment, then handed yours back. One message was already flashing on the screen:

You come when I call.

You felt like your stomach had dropped through the floor.

“Oh fuck no,” you whispered.

But he was already turning, slipping your diary deeper into his coveralls like it was just another tool in his belt. You stepped forward without thinking, your voice rising as panic bled through your words.

"I'm not doing that, Michael! I'm not going to be dragged around by words on a little screen! Please just... please just give me back my book."

It was all you could offer now. A last-ditch effort. A plea wrapped in desperation. He stopped. That pause stretched—just long enough to fill your lungs with some fragile sliver of hope. But then he looked at you. First his head turned slightly, like he was studying a sound only he could hear. Then the full weight of his gaze found you. His eyes were unreadable. Cold. Calculating. You didn’t even get a second to react before he started toward you, slow, steady, like the outcome was already decided and he was just enjoying the space between now and then.

You backed up. One step. Two. Three—until your back hit the bookshelf behind you. He didn’t stop. Not until he was close. Too close. You stared up at him, eyes wide, heart rattling in your chest like it wanted to flee. His shadow overtook yours. His presence swallowed up the quiet little corner of the library like ink spilling over a page. Blond hair hung forward as he tilted his head down, casting a half-shadow over his face. His jaw was tight. His shoulders squared. And his voice—when it came—was a quiet, gravel-dragging threat.

"Pretty fucking mouthy for someone with everything to lose, huh, princess?"

Your breath caught. That word—princess—twisted in his mouth like a joke, a slur dressed in silk. There was mockery behind it, yes, but also something else. Something sadistic. A low burn behind his eyes that made your knees lock and your throat tighten. Because in this moment, with your diary in his pocket and your back against the wall, you weren't sure who exactly had the upper hand anymore. You just stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathless, your back pressed so hard into the shelf it felt like the spines of a dozen books were imprinting into your skin. Your mouth opened once—then closed. No sound came out. You didn’t know what to say, didn’t even know what to think with him so close, towering and unmoving, a heat in the air that had nothing to do with temperature.

You felt like a rabbit locked in the jaws of a wolf. Trapped. Small. And completely at the mercy of the predator watching you with those sharp, narrowed eyes. God, he smelled like cigarette ash and oil—acrid and mechanical, like sweat-soaked denim and something wild underneath. It burned your nose and still, for some reason you couldn’t quite explain, your heart stuttered. There was something electric in the way he looked at you. Something feral. Unblinking.

Fucking Michael Myers.

The guy your whole group whispered about behind their hands. The guy no one dared sit beside. The one people crossed the street to avoid. That guy was standing here with your diary in his pocket and a dangerous gleam in his eye—and instead of tossing it aside, instead of sneering and walking off like you didn’t even matter... he was using it. Against you. You, of all people. That meant something. You didn’t know what, but it sank low in your stomach and curled around something you weren’t ready to name.

“Got nothing more to say, rich girl?" His voice was low, clipped and curling with disdain. He stepped in just slightly closer, and you felt your breath hitch. “What? Fucking scared?”

Your lips parted again, but no words came. You weren’t sure what you were more terrified of—his sneer, or the thrill singing through your veins at the idea that someone like him had you pinned like this. Not physically—no, not yet—but cornered in every other way. And worse? He knew it. He didn’t say anything at first—just stared at you with that same infuriating mix of cruel amusement and quiet calculation. The kind of look that said he owned you now, and you both knew it. The slow curl at the edge of his mouth deepened, not quite a smirk, not quite a smile—just that dark little twitch of satisfaction. Like a predator settling in after cornering its prey. You felt it all the way down your spine.

“You fucking like this shit, don’t you?”

The words fell from his lips like a challenge, low and mocking, almost too soft for how sharp they cut. You flinched—not because he was wrong, but because he might not be. And that scared you more than anything. God, you were so beyond fucked. Your heart jackhammered against your ribs, a panicked rhythm that only made his eyes glint brighter, like he could hear it. Like he was savoring it. You had to go. Before your mom blew up the landline. Before your dad made some poor police officer canvas every square inch of the campus. Before Michael kept peeling you apart, layer by layer. Before you let him. You tore your gaze away from that too-knowing stare, eyes darting to the floor, to his boots, to anything that wasn’t the way his mouth looked when it curved like that.

“I’ll... I’ll come when you page me,” you mumbled, words tumbling over each other as you clutched the strap of your bag like it could anchor you.

Your voice cracked a little on that last word, and you hated that he heard it. You swallowed thickly, the realization hitting like a punch to the gut. You were done. There was no bargaining, no clever words left to twist this into something manageable. Michael had you exactly where he wanted you—cornered, vulnerable, and forced to comply. You could feel the coldness of his gaze as it bore into you, sharp and unrelenting. The weight of his presence, the weight of what he was holding over you, was suffocating. The room felt smaller now, the silence more oppressive than before. You could almost hear the click of your own pulse against your eardrums, a reminder that you had no other choice. Your options were stripped bare, and you hated every bit of it.

You couldn’t fight him. Not now. Not like this. His words were a weapon, and every syllable sent a jolt of fear through you. “One time,” you spoke, your voice unsteady but resigned, “I’ll come when you call. But you’ll give it back to me. You have to.”

You hated the way your heart raced, the way your body clenched in that quiet moment of submission. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. This wasn’t what you’d envisioned, not in any scenario. But here you were, striking some fragile, desperate deal with the devil in front of you. Michael didn’t speak at first. He just stared at you—those cold, piercing eyes never leaving your face. The silence between you stretched out, heavy and uncomfortable. Finally, he gave a small, dismissive grunt, as though your compliance was something he’d expected all along.

“Good,” he said, voice rough and low, just a single word that lingered like smoke in the air. And then, without another glance, he turned, moving toward the exit with the same indifference he always had.

You stood there for a moment, frozen, feeling like a puppet whose strings had been pulled too tight. The deal was struck. And for better or worse, your fate was tied to him now. You were tangled in the mess he’d made of your life, and there was no undoing it. He strode ahead without a word, long strides purposeful, boots echoing down the dim corridor like a ticking clock you couldn’t stop. It took you a second to register he was actually letting you go, and when it clicked, you startled into motion, hurrying to keep up. Your breath came quicker with every step—whether from exertion or adrenaline, you couldn’t quite tell—as you tried to match his pace.

By the time he reached the front entrance, you were just a step behind, slightly breathless, watching as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. They jingled softly in the hush of the empty library. He flipped through them without looking, like he’d done this routine a hundred times before, until he found the right one. With a low metallic click, the lock turned. He didn’t say anything. Just jerked his head toward the door and casually leaned back against the librarian’s desk, arms crossed, body language unreadable. You lingered for a beat, studying him like a trapped animal studies the open cage door, unsure if it’s a trick.

But then your hand reached out, slowly, and pushed. The door gave way without resistance. Relief hit you hard and fast—so much so you nearly stumbled outside. The night air was cold and crisp, brushing across your face like a slap. It grounded you. Reminded you that, yes, this was real. You were outside now. You turned around instinctively, eyes catching on him through the glass. He was already moving again, slipping the keys back into his pocket as he turned away. No words. No farewell. No smug smile. Just a quiet return to whatever janitorial duties he’d been performing before he stumbled across you and your little blue book of secrets.

That diary—your diary—was still with him. He vanished into the dark interior like he’d never been there at all. And you stood alone on the steps, spine stiff, heart a wreck. The door locked behind you with a soft, echoing click. And just like that, you were on the outside again, but not free. Not really. He still had it. Still had you.

God, you were so screwed.

Chapter Text

Your mother had always believed that a boy without proper upbringing was just an animal in a suit—and she never said it gently. It was one of those lessons she delivered like scripture, with a red lip and a flat tone that meant there was no room for discussion. You remembered it clearly, the evening she decided to spell it out for you: a quiet Sunday just before supper at the neighbors’—one of those polite, suburban affairs with casserole dishes and folding chairs on the lawn.

She had you seated at her vanity, all gold filigree and perfume bottles, gently tilting your chin as she dabbed a bit of powder onto your face. You were fifteen then, still soft in the cheeks and too young for lipstick, though she picked a gloss anyway—peach-tinted and sheer. “Just enough to make you look like a little peach,” she’d said with a smile, smoothing a hand over your hair.

Your mother wasn’t a Midwesterner, not really. She was Georgia-born, all syrup and etiquette, and she carried that Southern drawl like a pearl necklace—heavy, polished, and unmistakable. It could soothe you, sometimes, lull you into thinking she meant well. Other times it stung, like honey coating something cruel.

“Listen to me now,” she said as she adjusted the bow at the collar of your dress, “boys that weren’t raised right, they don’t know how to treat a girl. They don’t sit when you tell them to, they don’t open doors or ask permission. You give ‘em an inch, they take your soul.”

You didn’t quite understand what she meant back then. Not really. You were too focused on how the mascara tickled your lashes and whether or not the pale shimmer she dabbed onto your cheekbones made you look older, prettier, more like the girls you saw on magazine covers. You hadn’t fully grasped the weight behind her words—only the cadence of them, that gentle warning laced with a kind of fear that only mothers could manufacture.

Her voice had grown firmer as she spoke, her Southern drawl softening the edges of something that sounded suspiciously like judgment. She curled your lashes with a steady hand and held your chin in place like you might slip right out of frame if she didn't keep you still. “Boys like that Myers...” she muttered as if the very name tasted sour on her tongue. “Judith Myers is a kind woman, a sweet woman... but that boy of hers? He’s the devil, do you hear me?” She had paused to look you dead in the eye then, her mouth tightening. “Nothing good will ever come with mixing with his type. Now you stay away from him, do you understand? I don’t want my only daughter getting tangled up in some mess with such a boy.”

And at that young age, it felt like just another one of those motherly superstitions, like how she said you’d go blind if you sat too close to the TV or that girls who wore red lipstick invited the wrong kind of attention. You nodded like a good daughter was supposed to, smoothed your dress, and slipped your sandals on while she packed a bottle of wine into her hostess bag. Something that fit neatly in a gift bag with gold tissue paper and gave her an excuse to smooth her lipstick in the rearview mirror later. You never quite understood what was behind that ritual. Not then. Just like you didn’t understand what made a boy like Michael Myers so bad.

Was it the rumors? The stories whispered in locker rooms and scrawled on bathroom stalls? Was it something darker—something real? You weren’t sure. You’d never seen him do anything. Never heard him speak beyond a grunt or two, never seen him throw a punch or even raise his voice. And your mother liked Judith Myers—adored her, even. Called her a “woman of quiet dignity” once over brunch. She liked Laurie Myers (Angel back then) too, always cooed over how polite she was in church. But Michael? No. She could barely say his name without her voice hardening. Your mistake had been asking the question.

“But why, Momma?”

She’d gone still then, that bag of hers wrinkling from her grip. You could feel the shift in the room like static in the air. Her gaze snapped to yours through the vanity mirror, and you saw something tight coil behind her expression—disapproval, maybe. Or fear.

“Are you questioning me?” Her tone was sharp, dangerous in that way only mothers could manage—like a slap delivered with silk gloves.

“No, Momma, I just—”

“You just what?” She set the bag down with a little too much force, her movements quick and clipped now. “That Myers boy is the devil incarnate. A killer, no matter what the police say. Do you understand me?” Her voice cracked, rising like steam from a boiling pot. “He is disgusting. A man with no morals, no means of support—he’d chew you up and spit you out. He’d use you, ruin you, leave you barefoot with the spawn of Satan growing in your own belly.”

The image had startled you then, but more than that—it had confused you. You hadn’t understood why she said it with such conviction, such venom. You didn’t even know Michael. Not really. You only knew the outline of him, a shadow moving through the halls, a pair of tired boots beneath a dark hoodie and jeans. He barely existed in your world, except when he passed by with that quiet storm in his expression. But clearly, your mother thought otherwise. In her eyes, kindness toward someone like Michael Myers wasn’t just a mistake—it was a threat to everything she believed a young woman should be. And yet, despite all her warnings, you had tried, in your own quiet way, to be decent to him. Nothing dramatic, nothing memorable—just a few polite hellos in the hallway when you’d pass him near the gym, or outside the cafeteria doors where he’d mope around. You never lingered, never looked too long. But still, you’d nodded, smiled, offered him the smallest gesture of acknowledgment.

God help you if your mother had ever found out. She’d probably have dragged you to the church and had you baptized again on the spot. But it hadn’t been your mother who’d put an end to it. It had been your friends. That was the thing about popularity—it gave with one hand and took twice as much with the other. And somewhere along the line, your little hellos became ammunition. It happened on the last day of freshman year. The air was thick with anticipation, students buzzing like bees in a jar, all sugar and excitement. You were practically humming with relief. One year down. You were still low on the social ladder, but you were climbing, no longer a scared freshman dodging upperclassmen in the hallways. You had survived.

It was supposed to be a good day. A lighthearted day. The kind of day you spent scribbling messages in yearbooks and gossiping over melting slushies under the late May sun. You were supposed to sit with your friends one last time at those ugly red metal tables—the ones that always left checkerboard marks on the backs of your thighs—and laugh about the stupid things that had happened over the year. Boys. Detentions. Secrets. Summer plans. Instead, you found yourself at the center of something cold. You had barely set your tray down when one of the girls—Sammy if you remembered right—leaned in with a voice too sweet, too sharp.

“Sooo... how long have you been talking to him?”

The others snickered. You blinked, confused, until you saw them all glance in unison toward the edge of the courtyard. And there he was. Michael. Alone, as always, hunched over on the far side of the grass, flipping through a book with one finger absently tapping against his knee as if debating something in his head. You felt your stomach twist.

“Don’t play dumb,” someone added, Tommy maybe, tone mockingly patient. “You said hi to him twice this week. Are you trying to catch whatever he’s got?”

Laughter erupted. Loud. Cruel. You smiled weakly, the kind of smile you’d learned to wear when you were young—tight-lipped and hollow. You wanted to tell them it was nothing. That it didn’t mean anything. That you were just being polite. But that was the moment you realized politeness didn’t belong to you anymore. It was a privilege, a currency, and you’d spent it on the wrong person. Because the next words out of Sammy’s mouth made your blood run cold.

“We played a little joke to help you out...” she began innocently, twirling a lock of hair around her finger with that smug, manicured confidence only a queen bee could muster. “I wrote him a little letter. Had David slip it into his locker after school yesterday. Signed it from you~.”

The world tilted a little. Your ears rang. You couldn’t breathe. Your smile froze—too tight, too glossy—and your lips parted just slightly as the meaning of her words settled in. You were slow to speak, slower to process. It felt like your entire body had gone ice cold, suddenly too heavy, too loud when you sat down. Tommy barked out a laugh, not noticing your expression. He slapped you on the back like a congratulatory pat on the head.

“It’s gonna be a riot,” he said, beaming. “We knew you had something going on. No one says hi to that moron unless it’s part of a bit. I mean, come on—what kind of plan you got, huh? Flirt with the freak, get him to snap? God, that’d be hilarious."

They all laughed again—at you, with you, for you. You weren’t sure anymore. You weren’t even sure you could hear them right through the roaring in your ears. You blinked once. Twice.

“W-What did you... Sammy, what did you write?” Your voice cracked, barely audible, the words sticking to your throat like syrup.

Your smile was slipping now, no matter how hard you tried to keep it. The edges faltered, trembled. But you couldn’t let it fall. Not here. Not in front of them. Because they couldn’t know. They couldn’t know that your greetings had been genuine, however small. That sometimes you had looked for Michael in the halls without meaning to. That a part of you was—God help you—curious. Fascinated, even. They couldn’t know that maybe, just maybe, he had looked back. You stood there trembling in silence while they howled with laughter, and the cold, sick realization began to dawn on you.

“What else would I write?” Sammy said with a wicked grin, tilting her head as if the answer were obvious. “A love letter, duh. What kind of joke would it be if it wasn’t humiliating?”

Your stomach dropped.

She leaned in closer across the table, her glossy lips curling like a snake uncoiling. “Detailed how you swoon over him in your free time... how you just ache for him to look your way. Told him how you have the dirtiest little thoughts—” she lowered her voice mockingly, sweet as venom, “—about the big, bad murderer taking you as his next victim.”

Then, with a dramatic flourish, she wiggled her fingers in front of you like claws. “Rrrip! There goes your blouse, huh?”

The whole table erupted into laughter. But your world had gone quiet. Blood roared in your ears as your vision swam, and you had to clutch the edge of the table to keep from reeling. Her words echoed like a bell rung in a church—loud, final, unbearable. Filthy fantasies? You couldn’t even look at Michael too long without your cheeks heating. You’d never written anything like that—never even said it aloud to yourself.

But now he would think you had. That kind of letter, from a girl like you, would look like a sick joke. Or worse... something real. God, what if he believed it? What if he read it and thought you were trying to toy with him? Mock him? Or what if... what if it got to him in a way that would change everything? Your fingers trembled, breath shaky in your throat. The others were still laughing, still slapping the table, loving the spectacle of it all. But you couldn’t laugh. You couldn’t even breathe. You were in so much trouble—and you hadn’t even done anything. Your gaze flicked back toward the patch of grass where he'd been sitting just moments ago—but he was gone. Like smoke. Like he’d never been there at all. You felt your stomach twist, a cold, creeping awareness settling in your chest. Before you could dwell on it, Sammy’s voice cut through the static in your head, still bubbling with excitement.

“I told him to meet you after school by the basketball courts,” she said, practically bouncing. “You have to go! We’re all coming, obviously. It’ll be hilarious—just wait!”

Your heart skipped, a low hum of dread vibrating beneath your ribs. You smiled, or tried to, though it felt brittle on your face. “Sammy... seriously? I mean, come on, would a senior actually believe a love letter from a freshman? I’m fifteen! Michael’s what—seventeen? Maybe eighteen? He’s basically an adult. There’s no way he’d buy it.”

Sammy waved off your concern with a dramatic flick of her wrist. “That’s what makes it so good. It’s unexpected! Mysterious! You’re the last girl anyone would think has a thing for him.”

“Exactly,” you muttered under your breath, but she didn’t seem to catch it.

You tried again, more gently this time, as if logic might appeal to her better than nerves. “Look, he’s graduating... he probably won’t even show! It’d be a total waste of an afternoon, don’t you think?”

But Sammy was already shaking her head, grinning wider. “Nope. You’re going. We have to see his face. You’re not gonna flake on us now, are you?”

You hesitated—just for a beat—but it was enough. You could already feel the pressure mounting, the eyes of the group watching for your reaction. Bailing would mean questions. Accusations. And worse—ostracization. So you swallowed down the knot in your throat, tucked your nerves behind a practiced smile, and nodded.

“No way,” you said, voice too light to sound like your own. “I'll be there..."

You hated the words the moment they left your mouth—hated the agreement you’d just made, the way it sat heavy in your chest like something rotting. But it was too late. Sammy’s eyes lit up with triumph, Tommy let out a low chuckle, and the rest of the group buzzed with poorly hidden laughter, like you were all in on the same inside joke. Except you weren’t laughing. Not even close. This was a mistake. A huge one. And the worst part was, you knew it the second you said yes.

Your thoughts spiraled as you walked along with them after the hour was up, nodding at all the right cues, pretending to share their giddy anticipation. But inside? Inside you were frantically trying to map out an escape route that didn’t exist. What if he actually showed up? God, please let him blow it off. Let him ignore it. Please, please let it be beneath him. But if he didn’t? If he came, if he actually stood there waiting by the basketball courts like someone who believed—believed—what that letter said...

What would you even do?

Your stomach churned. Panic flickered behind your ribs. What if he got angry? No. You couldn’t let your mind go there. You couldn’t entertain the idea of him hurting you—not because you were sure he wouldn’t, but because you couldn’t afford to imagine that he might. You needed to believe he’d just walk away. Needed it, for your own peace of mind. But what if... what if he wasn’t angry? What if he looked at you like it meant something? What if, for one brief moment, he felt hope?

The thought made your skin prickle. Not with fear, but with shame. Because then you wouldn’t just be part of a prank. You’d be cruel. A cruel, pretty little thing who baited a boy with the idea of love just to rip it out from under him—and laugh while doing it. You didn’t want to be that kind of girl. You didn’t want to be cruel. Not like the others. Sure, you ran with them—the privileged, polished, poisonous few. You smiled when they smiled, nodded when they whispered their sharp little judgments, stayed quiet when the teasing turned ugly. But you told yourself it wasn’t the same. You weren’t like them. You didn’t join in the laughter when someone else was targeted, didn’t throw words like knives across the hallway. No. You just... looked away.

You convinced yourself that silence was something softer than guilt. That not participating was enough to absolve you. It wasn’t. And deep down, you knew it. Every time you swallowed your voice, every time you watched someone get crushed under the weight of the group’s cruelty and said nothing, you felt it. That hot flush of shame you tried to pray away when you were alone. The quiet, desperate thoughts—I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t stop them. But I didn’t help them either. Please, just don’t let it be me next time.

It was survival, wasn’t it? At least that’s what you told yourself. But today... today felt different. Worse. Because this time, your silence wasn’t passive. You’d agreed to something. You said yes, smiled even, let them believe you were in on it. And for what? To avoid being the next one on the chopping block? To stay safe in the pack? Your thoughts spiraled for the rest of the day. You barely registered your classes. You couldn’t focus. Every tick of the clock dragged you closer to the end of the day, to the moment you’d have to face whatever you’d agreed to. Your heart jolted with every bell. And then, it was over. The final bell rang, and the halls swelled with noise. Before you could even think of slipping away, they found you—Sammy looping her arm through yours with a squeal so high-pitched it made your ears ring. She clung to your side, practically vibrating.

“Oh my God, are you nervous!? I’d be nervous! You’re going to die, it’s going to be so funny—!”

Tommy trailed just behind, hands laced behind his head, that ever-present smirk stretching his face. “Bet he brings flowers or something. Wonder if he’ll wear that ratty hoodie he always has on. Real romantic.”

David was there too, of course. You hadn’t even seen him all day, but somehow, word had gotten to him. Probably through Sammy. Probably on purpose. Of course it spread. Why keep something like this to yourselves when it could be a spectacle? You were boxed in now. Surrounded. A showgirl marching to the center of a stage you didn’t want to be on. And the worst part? A tiny, aching part of you still hoped Michael hadn’t read the note. That he hadn’t taken it seriously. That he’d never show. Because if he did... this wouldn’t just be mean. It would be unforgivable.

You didn’t say a word. Just kept that same easy smile pinned to your face like a mask, though it didn't touch your eyes. Inside, your thoughts were screaming—rattling the cage of your mind, trying to claw their way out. Every step toward the edge of the building felt like walking deeper into a trap you hadn’t realized you were helping to set. When your group reached the last building—just before the concrete opened up into the basketball courts—they stopped. So did you. Completely still. Your stomach plunged, and a sudden cold washed over you like your entire body had been dunked in ice water. Tommy peeked around the corner, his expression shifting almost instantly. His smirk was wide and sharp when he turned back.

“He fucking came.”

The words landed with the force of a sledgehammer. Your heart bottomed out. It felt like it had fallen straight through your ribcage, thudding uselessly somewhere near your shoes. Your hands went clammy, slick with panic. Sammy let out an excited gasp and squeezed your arm, bouncing slightly before she gave you a playful shove.

“Go on! Go get him, tiger!” she sing-songed. “You’ve got this! God, this is going to be so good!”

You barely had time to process what was happening before she pushed you again—harder this time. Your feet stumbled beneath you, sandals scuffing the pavement as you were shoved out into the open. Onto the courts. Into the spotlight. You stood there, blinking against the sharp light of late afternoon, the breeze tugging softly at the hem of your white sundress. The same one your mother had picked out. She’d even insisted you wear that light blue cardigan over it, despite the heat. “So you don’t look too grown,” she’d said, straightening the fabric on your shoulders with a careful eye and tight smile.

Now you clutched at that cardigan, trying to smooth it down like it could anchor you somehow. Like you could still make yourself small, unnoticeable. But he had already seen you. You could feel it. The weight of his gaze. And though you hadn’t dared to look up yet, you knew—you knew—Michael Myers was standing just yards away, waiting. Probably hopeful. Probably believing. And you were alone. Your friends? They were still pressed against the side of the building, hidden and watching like this was all some thrilling soap opera, a harmless prank with a little flair. Your pulse pounded in your ears, loud and frantic.

You didn’t know what you were supposed to say. You didn’t know what you could say. Because no matter how this ended... you’d already done something awful. But maybe... maybe you could salvage this. Maybe you couldn't save yourself, not from the guilt, not from what it meant to be part of them, but you could still save him. You didn’t have to play the joke. You didn’t have to let it happen. That part was still yours to control. You hesitated, breath held tight in your lungs. Then, with a small, shaking exhale, you raised your head.

He stood just a few yards off—not on the courts, but beside them, where the grass met cracked concrete. Close enough to be seen, far enough to watch without being watched. His posture was still, arms at his sides, but the energy rolling off of him felt volatile. Like something coiled. Contained, for now. Your feet didn’t want to move. They felt like they’d been poured full of cement. But you forced them forward anyway, one slow, heavy step at a time. If you could just get close enough… maybe you could say something quiet. Something just for him. Maybe your voice wouldn’t shake. Maybe your group, still lurking at the edge like hungry animals, wouldn’t hear every word.

The closer you got, the tighter your throat became. And then—God. You really looked at him. He’d pulled his hair back, low at the nape of his neck. A few dark blond strands had slipped loose, falling across his brow and cheek. His face was clean for once—no smudges of dirt or bruises from fights, no dried blood, no smoke. Just him. But it was his eyes that stopped you cold. Stormy blue. Sharp. Watchful. Staring directly at you. And there was something there—something—that you had never seen before. Not in the halls. Not in the shadows behind the gym. Not in those brief, charged glances you’d stolen across a classroom.

Not anger. Not suspicion. Not even curiosity. But... hope. Soft and unspoken. Cracked open just a little, like the tiniest sliver of light peeking out from a door that had been locked for far too long. And you nearly broke right then. Because if he believed it—if he thought it was real—if he was looking at you like that because of a lie, a joke, a cruelty you didn’t stop—then what the hell did that make you? You swallowed hard, your mouth dry. He didn’t move. Not toward you, not away. Just kept watching. Waiting. Maybe still hoping. Your eyes flicked downward, catching on the soft curve of something pale and crumpled in his hand.

A pink envelope. Not just pink—pastel, delicate, the kind of pretty stationery someone might use for a love letter in a movie. The kind that felt too soft for this world. The kind of paper you didn’t even own. Your stomach dropped. You knew what it was. The letter. That letter. You lifted your gaze slowly, cautiously, as if eye contact might turn the air to glass and shatter it all. He was still watching you—unblinking, unflinching. That unreadable face. That storm behind his eyes. But now, up close, you could see it better.

There was something in the way he held the envelope, too tight, almost crushed. Like he’d read it over and over again. Like he’d memorized it. Like it meant something. Your lips parted, your throat burned, and you tried—tried—to form some kind of apology, some kind of beginning to an explanation that might not even exist. But he beat you to it.

“You wrote it?”

His voice was low—raspy, like he didn’t use it often. But the words were clear. Too clear. You froze. Your pulse thundered in your ears. The sound of your group laughing behind the wall was suddenly muffled, distant. You couldn’t even feel your limbs anymore. He took a small step closer, holding your gaze like he was trying to read your soul.

“I need to know,” he said. “You wrote it?”

There was no anger in his voice. Not yet. Only the kind of quiet that comes right before an earthquake. And still... still you hesitated. Because if you said no, he’d know it was a joke. But if you said yes... you didn’t know what that might awaken in him. Your lip trembled, and your hands had begun to shake in earnest. You couldn't go through with it. Not like this. No matter what you said—whether you played along or tried to lie your way through—it would all unravel eventually. He’d find out. And maybe he’d already begun to suspect.

You had to do something. Anything. The truth was, you didn’t exactly pity Michael. You didn’t think of him as some poor, tragic outcast who needed saving. The rumors that swirled around him weren’t fair, but they weren’t exactly unprovoked either. He never did much to make things easier on himself. He kept to the shadows, glared at anyone who looked too long, walked like he was looking for a reason to swing first. He may as well have worn a sign on his chest: Whisper about me, hate me, stay away.

But this? This was different. This was cruelty disguised as a joke, and you were the unwilling centerpiece of it. You looked up at him. Really looked. The envelope was still clenched in his hand, crumpled slightly now, like he’d been holding onto it too tight. His expression didn’t waver—jaw tight, eyes unreadable—but you could feel something beneath it. Something vulnerable. Your heart sank.

“N-No,” you said softly. It cracked out of you, broken and thin. “No, I didn’t... I didn't write it. It... it was a joke.”

His face didn’t change, but the silence that followed was heavier than any scream could’ve been.

“I’m sorry,” you rushed on, voice trembling as fast as your fingers. “I didn’t want this—I didn’t even know they were going to do it, not really! I should’ve said something! I should’ve stopped them. I just—” Your breath hitched. “I didn’t know how.”

You weren’t sure what you hoped for in that moment. Forgiveness? Understanding? That he’d say something sharp or cold and walk away, leave you to your guilt? But he didn’t move. Not a step. Just stood there, staring, like he was trying to see past your face into whatever pieces of truth you had left.

“I’m really... really sorry, Michael,” you whispered, eyes beginning to sting. “You have to believe me.”

Because if he didn’t—if he turned that weight of humiliation inward—you knew it would swallow you both. And behind you, just barely, you could still hear the faint echo of your so-called friends, muffled laughter and hushed giggles, waiting for the punchline they thought was coming. But it wasn’t a joke anymore. Not to you. Not to him. Not at all. His face didn’t change—not at first. Just that same unreadable stare, the kind that made it impossible to tell whether he was listening or deciding. Like he was weighing you. Not just your words, but your soul. The pale pink envelope crinkled faintly in his hand, his knuckles going white. And then—finally—he moved. Just a tilt of the head, slow and subtle. But it was enough to make your stomach seize.

“I did believe you,” he said.

The words were simple. Bare. But they knocked the wind out of you more thoroughly than anything loud ever could have. His voice wasn’t angry—it was hollow. Like the echo of something that used to live in him. Something he’d let himself feel for one second, one brief, fragile second.

“I thought...” He looked down at the letter then, brows knitting, jaw ticking slightly. “I thought maybe...”

You could see it now—the way he stood straighter, more rigid, like armor was sliding back into place. He looked up at you again. Not angry. Not broken. Just... resigned.

“I should’ve known better,” he scoffed, and suddenly his hand released the envelope. The wind caught it before it hit the ground, and you watched it flutter away like some stupid, meaningless thing. A joke. A punchline. A mistake.

“I didn’t write it!” you said again, helpless, tears beginning to sting at the corners of your eyes. “I didn’t mean for this to happen—!”

“I get it,” he cut in, voice flatter now, quieter, but still harsh and cold.

And then he turned. Just like that. Turned his back on you and started walking across the field without another word, leaving the courts behind, leaving you behind. His long, large frame shrinking in the distance as the laughter behind the wall began to bubble up again, unaware, uncaring. And all you could do was stand there—chest hollow, arms limp, dress fluttering faintly in the breeze—watching the only person who had ever looked at you like you weren’t part of them walk away without once looking back.

You didn’t really remember what happened after that—not clearly, at least. It all passed in a blur. Your eyes had stayed fixed on his back as he walked away, silent and slow, the crushed envelope laying on the grass like something wounded. Your friends came flooding in after that, laughing like it was the punchline to a perfect joke. They clapped you on the back, teased you for your supposed delivery, spinning the moment into something triumphant. As if you’d said something clever—cutting, even—that made him toss it like that.

But the truth was far simpler. You hadn’t said anything sharp or cruel. You’d only told the truth. And the fact that that was enough to make him walk away... it sank your heart right to the bottom of your chest. You hadn’t expected him to react like that. Not with that strange, quiet look on his face. Not with that unreadable stillness, like you’d knocked the wind out of him without even raising your voice. And the worst part was—somewhere deep down, beneath all the rumors and sideways glances, beneath the hushed whispers in locker-lined hallways—you knew it had mattered to him. The letter had mattered. You had mattered.

At least for a moment. And what stung more than the embarrassment of it all was the fact that maybe—just maybe—he had been hoping. Hoping that a girl like you could want a boy like him. It was... unfortunate. And in its own quiet, complicated way, it was sad. Because the truth was, you did like Michael. Maybe not in the way he’d wanted, not with the dizzy kind of affection wrapped in hearts and hallway glances—but you’d always thought he was interesting. Different. Someone worth knowing, if only you had the space or courage to try. But in the end, you hadn’t saved him. Not really.

And as your friends kept laughing around you, the echo of their joy clashing hard against the hollow ache in your chest, all you could do was stare at that pale pink envelope on the grass and wonder what might’ve happened if things had gone differently. From that day on, you avoided Michael. It didn’t take much effort—he simply wasn’t around. That afternoon by the courts was the last time you saw him for a long time, and life carried on in its messy, relentless way. The rest of high school blurred together into a predictable string of fleeting crushes, sloppy kisses behind the bleachers, late-night movie marathons, and weekends spent trying to outrun the guilt that sat like a stone in your chest.

You tried to like other boys. Tried to feel something. But no matter how many dates you went on or hands you held, it always ended the same—disappointment, detachment, a sense that something was missing even if you couldn’t quite name it. So you focused on your classes, kept your grades up, and funneled your energy into the future, determined to carve out some kind of path, some clean break from the past. In hindsight, it wasn’t all bad. It was high school. Chaotic, forgettable in places, formative in others. You buried the memory of the letter deep, and Michael faded with it—just a shadow in the periphery of your mind. You only ever thought about him when his name came up, usually as a cautionary tale whispered between classmates or a throwaway comment from someone who claimed they’d once seen him do something strange, something unnerving.

You never joined in. Not after what happened. Not after what you had done. Part of you had always expected some kind of retaliation, some ominous moment where he’d show up and make you pay for the humiliation. But he never did. No notes. No confrontations. No retribution. Just silence. As if he'd taken the blow, swallowed it whole, and disappeared into the earth. Honestly, you thought you’d never see Michael Myers again. You hadn’t spotted him once in town since then—not a single glimpse of that long, dark blond hair or those storm-gray eyes that used to watch you from across a courtyard like he already knew how everything would end.

But life has a way of circling back, doesn't it? Seeing him again in the lecture hall at Haddonfield Community College sent a jolt straight through you—equal parts dread and something far murkier. Excitement? Curiosity? You weren’t sure, only that it made your skin prickle beneath your sweater and your thoughts scatter. Michael Myers looked older now. Sharper. Broader. Like someone who had survived a fire and stepped out of the smoke with something elemental still clinging to him. His hair had grown out, brushing the tops of his shoulders in messy, dark-gold waves. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, his frame filled out with the kind of solid muscle that didn’t come from vanity—but from work, or maybe wrath. And his eyes—God, his eyes—were still that same stormy, unreadable blue, only now they looked straight through people like he was always a breath away from deciding whether or not to care.

He used to be an easy punchline back in high school. Now? No one touched him. People still whispered—your circle certainly did—but it was different now. He wasn’t just an outsider anymore; he was untouchable. Sacred or cursed, you weren’t sure. A figure people gave a wide berth, but couldn’t stop glancing at. A warning. A presence. Unwanted. Dangerous. Mesmerizing. It was almost beautiful, the way he’d become a kind of walking contradiction—handsome and terrifying, magnetic and mortifying. And there was something about that combination that made it hard not to look.

Not that you let anyone know. You weren’t that shy little freshman anymore, the one who had cast soft, guilty glances at the moody boy standing alone by the lockers. You’d grown out of red checkered tables and the delusion that kindness alone could save someone. College meant a new version of you: polished, careful, untouchable in your own right. And someone like Michael? Someone with a past like his, a presence like that? There was no space for him in your world anymore.

At least, not publicly. The best you could manage were soft hellos when no one else was around—murmured greetings in empty hallways or near-empty classrooms, words spoken quietly like confessions. He ignored you at first. Walked right past as if you didn’t exist. And you told yourself you deserved that. Probably did. But then came the moments where your eyes would meet across a space, locking for a second too long. His stare wasn’t cold, not exactly—it was assessing. Like he was still trying to decide what to make of you, what you meant now. And every time, your heart clenched with something sharp.

Attraction? Panic? You didn’t know. All you knew was that it felt like the ground shifted just slightly beneath you whenever he looked your way. And part of you—against all reason, against all self-preservation—wasn’t sure if you wanted it to stop. But it seemed that, deep down, you were still just as naive as you’d been all those years ago—that same foolish girl tiptoeing her way into a world she didn’t yet understand. You thought you had grown, that time and distance had given you clarity, perspective, even strength. But none of that prepared you for the reality of Michael Myers, or what he would become.

You had imagined, in your more vulnerable moments, that if the two of you ever ended up alone—truly alone—he might want to talk. Maybe confront you, maybe demand an answer. And if he did, you told yourself you’d be brave. That you’d explain everything. Offer the apology you never really gave. Not the half-hearted one, not the one strangled by fear and social pressure—but a real one. You were even ready to admit that most of what you'd say would just be dressed-up excuses. But at least they would be honest.

What you never anticipated—what not even your darkest, most guilt-ridden thoughts conjured—was this. That Michael wouldn’t want your apology. He wouldn’t want to talk, or understand, or even punish you in the straightforward way you expected. You never imagined he’d become your warden. And your diary—your private little world of thoughts, hopes, fears—would become your jail cell. There was something bone-deep terrifying in that quiet kind of control. He didn’t need chains or violence. He just needed your words. Words you had written with trembling fingers in the solitude of your bedroom, thinking no one would ever see. Words filled with confusion, with longing, with regret. And he held them now, with all the weight of an executioner’s axe—yet no theatrical threat, no dramatics. Just a look. A curl of the lip. A tilt of the head.

You had handed him the key without ever meaning to. Of all the ways you'd imagined your next real interaction with Michael Myers going, this certainly hadn’t made the list. You hadn’t pictured yourself half-hunched behind a tree in the dying light of dusk, glancing over your shoulder like a thief while loitering in front of his house on Lampkin Lane. The air was settling into that cool, lavender-blue stage of evening, and you already felt the guilt prickling under your skin. Your mother loathed you being out this late unless you were at a sanctioned study group or attached to the hip of Sammy or—God’s chosen—Sherry.

You winced a little, quietly offering an apology to Sherry in your mind. You had used her name as your get-out-of-jail-free card tonight, and if your mom ever called to confirm it... well, there’d be hell to pay. Not that you’d had a choice. Sitting at your desk just an hour earlier, textbook cracked open to the same half-highlighted page on Sleeping Beauty you'd been pretending to study all day, you were trying—genuinely—to be productive. You even sharpened a pencil, which felt almost laughably hopeful. But each time you brought the lead to paper, your thoughts sputtered out. All you could see was your diary—open, read, out of your hands—and Michael's expression when he read it.

The fear was simmering low in your gut, not exactly panic, but something close. And yet... you kept telling yourself you needed to act normal. Panic wouldn’t solve anything. Writing would help. That was always your thing, right? Wrong. Every scratch of the pencil sounded like nails across your nerves. Your mind couldn’t latch onto a single coherent idea, not even about a princess in a coma. And then the pager buzzed—loud and shrill in the otherwise quiet room. You’d jumped, the sharp edge of your elbow catching the side of the desk hard enough to make you hiss.

Cherry red. A stupid color, really, but it had looked cute in the shop. Now it glared up at you like an omen. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. There was only one person who had that number, and only one person who had your diary—your secrets, your feelings, your lies. Michael. You’d snatched the pager off your desk, almost dropping it again in your rush, and squinted at the glowing little screen. Just three words, blunt and unmistakable: My place. Now.

“Shit,” you hissed under your breath, teeth sucking in a sharp breath through the side of your mouth. There was no address, no explanation—not that one was needed. Everyone in Haddonfield knew where the Myers house was. Even if they pretended otherwise.

You hovered there for a second, hand clenched around the pager, heart thudding uncomfortably in your chest. The rational part of you begged to stay put, reminded you that this was stupid, dangerous even—but the larger, louder part of you—the one tied to the weight of your diary, the memory of Michael’s eyes on you, the horrible twisting guilt that hadn't left your throat since high school—had already made the decision. You scrambled to your closet, grabbing the first thing that looked neutral enough to pass inspection. A simple blue sundress—lightweight, modest—and a white cardigan your mother liked to see you in. It was clean, plain, something a girl might wear to the grocery store or to sit in a sunlit park reading poetry. Respectable. Unthreatening. Practically invisible.

You didn’t want to show up looking like you’d dressed for him. But you didn’t want to show up looking careless either. Once dressed, you stood in front of the mirror for half a second, checking for anything too much, too obvious. You brushed down the skirt with your hands, smoothed your hair, and tucked the anxiety behind your teeth. Then came the hard part—getting past your mother. You made up something about Sherry needing help with a take-home exam. Your mother nodded, albeit distractedly, though you noticed her nose twitch a little. She always liked to think she could smell a lie on you, but either you were better than she thought, or she was too tired to argue.

You walked quickly once you were outside, every step faster than the last, like you were afraid your resolve would vanish before you got there. You didn’t have a car—never needed one with how close campus was and how sheltered your life had been. So you walked. Past familiar trees and old picket fences, past homes winding down into dinner and bedtime. The streetlights hadn’t fully blinked on yet, and that strange in-between twilight lit the town in dull orange and navy shadows. By the time you turned onto Lampkin Lane, your palms were damp and your breath had picked up. You slowed down then, heart hammering somewhere in your throat as the old Myers house came into view, looming in the deepening dusk like some half-forgotten dream from childhood.

You’d been staring at the house for a while now, half-hidden behind the thick trunk of the elm tree out front. There wasn’t anyone around to see you lingering, but you still kept your distance—like the house itself might notice and ask what the hell you were doing here. It was two stories tall, and though you could tell it had once been painted white, time and weather had worn it down to a soft, dull blue—the kind of faded shade that made everything feel quieter, sadder. The paint had begun to peel in long, curling strips, revealing tired wood beneath that had started to splinter around the corners and edges. Some parts looked like they might come apart if you pressed too hard.

At the center stood a heavy oak door, deep mahogany in color, scarred with age but still solid. A small, uneven stone wall lined the front porch, the kind people might have once sat on in the evening to catch the breeze. Two worn pillars framed the space and stretched up to support a narrow balcony overhead. Above it, French doors faced out onto the street, glass panes smudged with time. You figured it must be the master bedroom—there was something about its placement, its looming stillness, that made it feel like it watched everything below.

The chain-link fence that wrapped around the front yard had seen better days. It was streaked with rust, and the gate hung partially open, one hinge completely loose, leaving it to tilt forward like it was trying to escape. The grass inside was a touch too long, not wild but definitely unkempt—just enough to show no one really cared to keep it looking nice. It wasn’t some horror-movie mess. It didn’t scream danger. But it didn’t belong either. Not next to the cheerful, over-polished homes lining the rest of the block, where lawns were cut into perfect squares and pastel wreaths hung on every other door. This house was the odd one out—quiet, brooding, a little forgotten. There was no welcome mat, no porch light, no illusion of warmth. Just age and shadow, and the uneasy feeling that whatever lived here didn’t like to be disturbed.

And yet... you were still standing there. Like a fool. Like the perfect little idiot you so often prided yourself on not being. Who even brought their diary to class with them? You did. Of course you did. Not because it made sense—because it absolutely didn’t—but because your mother had a habit of rummaging through your things like she had every right to. And your diary... well, that book was sacred. It wasn’t just a place for scribbled thoughts—it held pieces of you, moments you didn’t trust anyone else with. Carrying it around felt safer. Familiar. But clearly, that had been a mistake.

You drew in a deep breath, your teeth working anxiously against the inside of your cheek, then forced yourself to move. Just knock. Go inside. Figure out what Michael wanted. Listen, if you had to. Retrieve your diary, and walk away. That was the plan. That was supposed to be the plan. Only, your feet didn’t quite believe it. Neither did your heart. Because what did he want, exactly? What could Michael Myers possibly want from you?

The worst-case scenarios flickered through your mind. Threats? Revenge? Some sick way to twist your own words back on you? Or... was it something else entirely? Something unspoken. Darker. A part of you flinched at the thought—and then flinched again, not because it was horrifying, but because you weren’t horrified by it. Would he try to... sleep with you? The thought didn’t come out of nowhere. It had slithered its way into your head during the walk over, uninvited but persistent, lingering in the shadows of your mind where shame and curiosity mingled. And the truth was, you hadn’t pushed it away as quickly as you should have.

You weren’t completely repulsed by the idea. That was the problem. You’d be lying if you said there wasn’t something undeniably attractive about him. Even back in high school, buried under his silence and the rumors and that god-awful stare, there had been something that made your skin heat just a little too much when he looked at you. And now? Now he was older. Bigger. Sharper around the edges. Still hated. Still feared. And yet, he carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence that made people nervous—not just because of what he might do, but because deep down, some were probably afraid of what they wanted him to do.

It would be insane, of course. Utterly reckless. If anyone found out you let Michael so much as breathe near you, let alone touch you like that, you might as well kiss your life goodbye. But still, you hadn’t ruled it out. Not entirely. You told yourself you should resist, that anyone with sense would run the other direction. But as your hand hovered near the gate, breath shallow and pulse quickening, you couldn’t help but admit it—you still found him handsome. Even now. Especially now.

You took one more breath—this one shakier than the last—and forced your feet to move forward. One step, then another, as if each was being made through thick syrup. The broken gate gave an awful groan as you slipped through its crooked gap, brushing past rusted metal and onto the narrow concrete path that led toward the porch. Cracks webbed the walkway, splitting the stone like old scars, tufts of wild green poking through them in defiance of time and neglect.

Your flats made a faint tap with every step up the porch stairs. The air felt heavier now, denser. You could feel your heart thudding in your chest—each beat a dull echo against your ribs. Up close, the house looked even older, more worn. The dark mahogany door towered in front of you, its surface weathered and splintered, as if it too bore the weight of memory. You lifted your hand, hesitated, and then knocked. Then you waited.

You could practically taste your own nerves—bitter, metallic—clinging to the back of your tongue. What if Laurie was here? What if she answered the door? Your stomach twisted. Surely he wouldn’t have called you here if she was around. Right? He wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t careless. Seconds dragged. The silence around you pressed in. Just the rustle of trees behind you and the creak of the porch beneath your feet. Another knock. You barely heard your fist land this time, your breath caught halfway between inhale and regret. And then—the door groaned. Just slightly. A hesitant creak, the kind that crawled up your spine. The latch buckled softly and the door opened a fraction, just wide enough to reveal the outline of a man behind it. You saw the edge of his shoulder first—broad, unmoving—and then, peeking through the gap, a single eye.

That stormy blue, unmistakable and razor-sharp. It pinned you in place. That eye alone said everything and nothing all at once.

"... hi?"

The word came out thin, fragile—an anxious whisper barely worthy of the threshold it crossed. You winced the second it left your lips, cringing at your own lack of finesse. Of all things... A greeting so meek it felt like a joke. But the damage was done. No rewinding now. There was a pause. Then, a sharp huff from behind the door—dismissive, maybe amused, maybe something else entirely. You barely had time to process it before the door creaked wider, the wood groaning beneath years of weather and wear. He stood there in full now, but only for a second. Michael turned without a word and lumbered deeper into the house, the weight of his steps echoing dully down the hall.

You stood alone on the porch, lips pressed tight, heart squeezing against your ribs. The house loomed around you, quiet and still, and somehow just as expectant as the man who lived in it. You hesitated... then stepped over the threshold, like crossing some invisible line that you knew couldn’t be uncrossed. The door clicked shut behind you with a soft finality.

You took a breath and took in the space around you. It smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and dust, old wood and something fainter beneath—cologne maybe, or just the scent of someone who spent a lot of time alone. Directly ahead stretched a narrow hallway, and flanking either side were two open rooms. To the left, the living room: a sagging couch, a pair of mismatched chairs, a low coffee table cluttered with dog-eared magazines, a few bottles of nail polish scattered like forgotten candy, and an old boxy TV that looked like it hadn’t seen cable since the late ‘60s. To the right, the kitchen: counters dulled with age but clean, a fridge that hummed with a tired mechanical persistence, linoleum floors slightly yellowed with time, and a dated metal dining table that gleamed under the soft light.

Ahead, the hallway branched into several closed doors and a flight of stairs leading up to what you could only guess was the second floor—where you’d seen the French doors from outside. The walls were painted a pale yellow once, now faded almost to a dusky beige, and the carpet beneath your feet was surprisingly clean. Actually, everything was surprisingly clean. Well, mostly. You couldn’t picture Michael fussing with a vacuum or dusting corners, and yet... the place didn’t feel neglected. The only clutter was in the living room, and that had the soft fingerprints of Laurie all over it. Those bottles of polish, those romance novels on the arm of the couch—Laurie must have taken over the first floor.

You turned your head toward the kitchen again, sensing more than seeing the shape of him lingering just beyond the wall. Your heart thrummed—steady but too fast—as you stepped forward, flats tapping against the linoleum in a rhythm that sounded louder than it should. When you entered, you came to a halt just inside the doorway. Michael was already seated at the table like he’d been waiting all along, reclining slightly in a chair that creaked under his broad frame. His movements were slow, unbothered, as he pulled a crumpled carton of cigarettes from his pocket. That ever-present black hoodie was draped over him, unzipped for once, revealing a faded band tee underneath—one you didn’t recognize. Some obscure logo cracked across the cotton like it had survived a dozen mosh pits and one too many washes. His jeans were dark, slightly worn at the knees, and his boots were propped casually under the table, one crossed over the other.

He pulled a cigarette from the box and wedged it between his lips, then thumbed the lighter already waiting on the table. With a small click, the flame flared to life, and he lit up like it was just another part of his ritual—unbothered by your presence. You watched the orange tip glow, saw the soft smoke begin to curl from it like fog unraveling in the morning. He took a slow drag and exhaled without fanfare, blowing the smoke directly toward you. It didn’t make you flinch. You held your ground.

His eyes—cool, unreadable—dragged over you from head to toe. You stood still, unsure if you were being assessed or picked apart. Your hands fidgeted in front of you, the fingers twisting together of their own accord. His gaze was a weight, sliding across your skin with the deliberateness of someone who saw far more than they ever said. His hair had been pulled back into a loose, low knot at the nape of his neck, but a few strands had escaped, curling around his cheekbones in defiant waves. He looked more like some disheveled rock star than the town’s cautionary tale.

Then his attention shifted—eyes flicking toward the kitchen counter. You followed the glance. There, laid out without ceremony, was a modest meal-in-the-making: a box of spaghetti noodles, a jar of premade tomato sauce, and a pot already resting on the stove. A bowl sat nearby, covered with a napkin. Whatever was inside, you couldn’t tell. But it was clear enough what this setup meant. Your gaze returned to him, a question rising—but he was already looking at you again. That unreadable expression, that ever-present undercurrent of something darker... something amused. His lips barely moved.

“Cook.”

The word landed like a command, but not a harsh one. It was casual. Lazy, even. But there was no mistaking it for a request. You stared at him for a beat longer, something curling in your chest. Not fear, not exactly. Not yet. Is... was... was this really what he wanted? You stood there for a moment, suspended in disbelief as the weight of it settled over you like dust in sunlight. He wanted you to cook? A meal? Just... that? It felt so absurd, so completely sideways from anything you’d expected. Your mind had prepared for threats, for twisted games, for something dangerous or emotional or cruel—but not this. Not pasta sauce in a jar and a man sitting at the table like he was waiting for his dinner after a long day at work.

It was strange. Disarming. Almost laughably domestic. And yet, somehow, that made it even more unsettling. Your gaze shifted back to him, still leaned back in his chair, cigarette dangling lazily between two fingers as he watched you. Not with malice, not with urgency. No, the look he gave you was worse—it was the kind of look that said he already knew exactly what you’d do next. Cat meet canary. You swallowed. Still, it was one meal. One stupid, pointless meal. If that’s all it took to get your diary back, to close this strange chapter and walk out of here with your dignity mostly intact, then fine. You could boil water. You could stir noodles. You weren’t above that. Even if the whole thing made you feel like some odd fairytale heroine who’d made a deal with the devil in exchange for something precious.

You gave the smallest of nods, more to yourself than to him, before turning toward the counter. The ingredients were laughably simple. Boxed pasta. Store-bought sauce. The bowl covered with the napkin piqued your curiosity, but you didn’t lift it yet. Maybe it was garlic bread. Or some strange test. Or nothing at all. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Your fingers hovered over the box of spaghetti. You reached for the pot, filled it with water from the sink, and set it on the stove, clicking on the burner with practiced ease. You could feel his gaze on your back as you moved. Could practically taste it.

Maybe he couldn’t cook. Maybe this was a game. Maybe he wanted to humiliate you, just for the quiet thrill of it. After all, what sane Haddonfield girl would ever step foot in this house—let alone cook a meal for Michael Myers? Apparently... you. And you weren’t sure what that said about you. You didn’t want to think about any of it—the surrealness, the absurdity, the eyes on your back. You just exhaled hard through your nose, rolled up the sleeves of your cardigan, and got to work like this was any other evening and not... whatever this was.

The pasta was easy enough. You opened the box and eased the noodles into the pot, the ends stiffly poking out until they softened under the bubbling water. A rhythm. Something familiar. Something safe. Then your eyes moved to the napkin-covered bowl. You hesitated for a second, then lifted the cloth. Meatballs. Lumpy globs of ground meat, flecked with what looked like chopped parsley, dried oregano, and something reddish—maybe paprika. They were clearly hand-rolled, and probably earlier today. You didn’t know what to make of that.

Your eyes scanned the countertop, looking for a skillet or a baking dish—anything to cook them in. Nothing. You started opening cabinets, careful not to look like you were snooping. But just as your hand reached out again—

“Below.”

Your body stiffened. It was that voice again—gravel-rich, low, and certain. Almost like it had crawled up your spine instead of through your ears. You paused, casting a glance over your shoulder. He hadn’t moved. Just sat there in that chair, smoke curling around his face like it belonged to him. But he was watching you with a steady intensity, like he was measuring something in you. You gave a small nod, wordless, and crouched down to open the drawer beneath the stove.

Inside was a mess of pots and pans stacked unevenly. You fished through them until you found a reasonably clean skillet and pulled it out. The metal felt heavier than expected, but that might’ve just been your nerves. You set it on the burner beside the pasta and frowned faintly. How do you cook meatballs again? You didn’t want to mess this up—whatever this was. But you had no recipe, no mother behind you in the kitchen like when you were twelve, no helpful instructions. Cook, he’d said. As if it was that simple.

You turned the burner to medium and added a splash of oil from a bottle nearby, guessing it was vegetable. Then, gingerly, you began placing the meatballs in the pan, hoping they wouldn’t fall apart. The sizzle was immediate and sharp, and it made you flinch despite yourself. Still... you could do this. You could get through this. You just had to pretend he wasn’t sitting there watching your every move, smoke haloing his face, as if he were the normal one here. You didn’t speak. Didn’t dare.

This seemed to be going easier than you’d expected. The quiet was unnerving, sure, but not in a way that sent every alarm bell screaming. Not yet. It was thick, heavy, but not oppressive. The only sounds accompanying you were the gentle bubbling of the water and the crisp sizzle of meat hitting hot oil. Rhythmic. Predictable. You focused on that, keeping your eyes on the pan while one hand drummed an idle beat against the counter. A normal gesture. Something to anchor you.

Then—metal scraped against tile. Your head whipped around, startled. Michael had stood up, the legs of the chair screeching slightly as he did. The cigarette still hung from his mouth, curling smoke into the air in lazy threads. He tapped the ash into a small amber-colored tray on the table with a flick of his fingers, then turned and walked out of the room without a word. Your breath caught briefly, teeth finding your cheek again. Where was he going? Should you keep cooking? Was this part of some larger trap? But you stayed where you were. Checked the pasta. You even turned the meatballs gently with a spatula, proud of how none of them broke apart. Still, your ears stayed trained on the quiet footfalls upstairs—then down again.

He returned a minute later. In his hands, something new. You stopped moving for a second and just stared, unsure what to make of it. He sat back down in that chair with the same calmness as before, but your attention was no longer on him. It was on the camera. A real camera—not one of those disposable ones your friends brought to parties or the slim digitals Sammy liked to use when she was drunk and laughing. This had weight to it. Substance. Professional quality. The kind you saw in studio windows downtown or around the necks of yearbook kids who took themselves way too seriously.

Your brows knit slightly. Why did he have something like that? Where did he get it? Deborah? Laurie? Did he buy it? Steal it? But you shouldn’t have cared about that. The how didn’t matter. What mattered was why. You blinked once. Then twice. He tapped the cigarette again and turned his head, letting the smoke drift away. When he looked at you again, his eyes were unreadable. Then he said it—calmly, directly, like it was as mundane as asking you to stir the pot.

“Strip.”

Just that. One word. Your heart stopped. Your fingers froze over the counter’s edge, gripping it without realizing. The soft sounds of boiling and sizzling now felt distant—muffled under the thunderous beat of your pulse in your ears. He didn’t clarify. He didn’t smirk. He just watched. You stared at him, rooted in place, eyes flitting across his face in a quiet panic—searching for any sign that he might be joking, bluffing, not entirely serious. But there was nothing. His expression was flat, unreadable in that way he’d perfected, save for the faint crease near his eyes, the barest hint of amusement, or maybe mockery.

Your gaze flicked to the camera on the table—bulky, expensive, undeniably real—then back to him. He wasn't bluffing. You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what this was.

"M-Michael—" your voice cracked under the weight of uncertainty, of disbelief.

“Strip,” he said again, tone even, almost bored. “Just the stupid fucking cardigan and dress.”

You stiffened.

"Michael, I can’t—"

But he cut you off, not with volume, but with something sharper—calculated.

"David’s such an asshole, isn’t he?”

The air in your lungs stilled. Everything stilled. Your mouth snapped shut, lips pressed together in a taut, involuntary line. The name alone had struck too precisely, too personally. He watched your reaction, head tilting slightly as if confirming something. Like he already knew what you were about to do—what you wouldn’t do.

“Real fucking bright one, too,” he continued, his voice slower now, more deliberate. “No future. That’s what you wrote.”

You felt the blood drain from your face. He was quoting you. Your words. Your handwriting. From a page that was never meant to be read by anyone but you. You hadn’t told anyone how you really felt about David. That was the kind of thing you only confessed to pages. Silent ones. Safe ones. Except they weren’t safe. Not anymore. He leaned back in the chair, arms resting on the armrests now, legs spread just a little too wide—completely at ease, like he had all the time in the world to watch you unravel. And you were unraveling.

The realization hit in pieces, each one more humiliating than the last. He had your diary. He’d read all of it. He had seen everything—every stray thought, every shameful curiosity, every ugly truth you hadn’t even been honest with yourself about. He’d combed through it like a roadmap, and now he was following it straight back to you. And he wasn’t even angry. He was entertained. Intrigued. Maybe even turned on. You stood there, your hands curled at your sides, helpless against the heat climbing your neck and the stinging blur prickling at the backs of your eyes. You wanted to say something sharp, something defiant. But all you could do was stare—at him, at the camera, at the trap that had been so neatly set.

Your eyes dropped to the floor, lashes low, the sharp throb of realization pounding at the back of your skull. That hadn’t been a casual remark. That had been a threat—quiet, simple, unmistakable. A line drawn in the dust between you and the ruins of your privacy. And he knew exactly what he was doing. He knew what that diary meant. He knew the kind of damage it could do, the kind of ruin it could bring you if even a single page made it into the wrong hands. Your life—your reputation, your standing, your carefully curated image—would be over. He knew it, and he was wielding it like a knife.

Sex... you might’ve been able to stomach. You could’ve swallowed the shame, closed your eyes, detached your body from your thoughts, let it pass like a nightmare you wouldn’t talk about in the morning. But this? This wasn’t just about desire. This was humiliation. He’d brought the camera down deliberately. You weren’t naive—he wanted something tangible, something he could keep. Proof. A picture. A souvenir of your submission. And the worst part? You weren’t even sure he meant to show it to anyone. No, this was more intimate than that. This was for him. For his twisted satisfaction.

Your arms trembled as your fingers twitched at your sides. You swallowed hard and reached up, tugging at your cardigan, fingers brushing the buttons until you slipped it off in one smooth, resigned motion. You clutched it in your hands like it could still protect you somehow—like it was a shield, not just cotton. You glanced up at him. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just sat there, perfectly relaxed, smoke curling lazily from between his lips as he stared at you like he had all the time in the world. No rush. No urgency. Just patience and power—two things he had in abundance.

You drew in a ragged, reluctant breath, the kind that felt like it scraped your lungs on the way in. The cardigan sat where you’d placed it, quietly useless now, just folded fabric stripped of meaning. Your fingers hovered at the hem of your dress, nerves prickling under your skin as you debated—just one last chance to pull back, to ask him to stop, to say something. But when you looked over at him again, when your eyes found his, all you were met with was that narrow, expectant stare. No words. No sympathy. Just a flicker of warning in his eyes. A line you couldn’t cross without consequence.

So you didn’t argue. You couldn’t afford to. With a tightening in your chest, you reached down, grabbed the hem of your dress, and peeled it up over your body in one slow, shaking motion. You folded it neatly, mechanically, as if going through the motions of laundry might somehow make it less humiliating, and set it carefully atop the cardigan. You didn’t dare meet his gaze again at first. Not as the cool air brushed against your skin, not as the silence stretched between you. You were left in just your underwear—simple, white, matching only because part of you had still wanted to feel like you had some control over your day when you got dressed. Just in case. You hadn’t known what for. Now you did.

You finally looked at him. Michael was still in that same spot, cigarette now smoldering down to the filter, jaw tight as he observed you in silence. His head tilted ever so slightly, and then you felt it—that slow, burning sweep of his gaze across your body. Not hurried. Not leering. Just... methodical. Like he was studying something he already owned. Something he was considering what to do with next. You held your breath, your arms crossed loosely over your middle, unsure if you were shielding yourself or just trying to hold what little dignity you had left together. You waited for his next command. Some lewd request, some degrading order, anything—because anything would at least give you something to do. Something to brace for.

But all he did was glance back at the stove.

“Go on.”

That was it. Like you were just meant to stand there, half-dressed, and finish cooking like it was any other evening. As if nothing had changed. You forced down the tight lump in your throat and turned slowly back to the stove, exhaling through your nose in a weak attempt to steady yourself. Your fingers curled around the spatula again, the metal cool and firm against your clammy skin as you nudged one of the browning meatballs. The sizzle greeted you like a distraction, grounding you in the simplicity of movement, of task, of pretending this was anything but what it really was.

He didn’t speak again. Didn’t move. Just watched. And so, you cooked. In nothing but your bra and underwear, under the weight of his silence and scrutiny, your body exposed and trembling while you tried to focus on boiling noodles and browning meat. Time passed in small increments—tiny, measured moments thick with tension. Minutes that felt like hours. You tried to calm your breathing, to stop flinching every time the floor creaked or the fridge gave a low hum. And gradually, the anxiety in your limbs dulled. Not gone. Never gone. But manageable. Bearable. The silence stopped feeling like it would smother you.

You reached for a smaller pot nestled in the cabinet, carefully pulling it free and setting it on the burner. The sauce came next—thick and red, spilling with a dull glug-glug-glug as you poured it into the pot, the scent of tomato and spices briefly overwhelming the nerves that still hovered like a second skin. You’d just tipped the last of the jar, watching it swirl and settle into a simmer, when it happened.

Click.

You froze.

Not because you didn’t recognize the sound—oh no, you knew exactly what it was—but because of what it meant. The unmistakable shutter of the camera sliced through the stillness, clean and sharp, and you didn’t need to turn around to confirm what your gut already told you. He’d taken a picture. Of you. Like this. Bent slightly toward the stove, half-naked and trembling, framed by a domestic scene that felt like a twisted parody of normalcy. You swallowed hard—again—but this time it did nothing. The back of your neck flushed, hot and tight with awareness. Shame and something unknown pooled low in your stomach, heavy and bitter. Still, your hands remained where they were, gripping the jar of sauce with a steadiness that betrayed how hard you were working to keep yourself from shaking all over again.

He said nothing. Another click echoed behind you. You didn’t turn. You couldn’t. You froze. The soft click cut through the low simmer of the sauce and the gentle hiss of the meatballs, sharp and jarring. Your hand still hovered above the pot, the last traces of sauce dripping from the jar’s lip, but you didn’t move. Not immediately. You didn’t even breathe. Your mind whirred, racing through a thousand thoughts in a single, heart-spiking moment. You turned slowly, almost as if your body couldn’t keep up with the sick twist in your stomach. Michael sat there exactly as he had before—relaxed, cigarette gone now, hand steady where it rested on the camera. The lens was tilted slightly downward, pointed at you, and the shutter had already reset, ready for another shot. His expression hadn’t changed. Still unreadable. Still cold. Still watching.

“Michael,” you said, barely above a whisper. Your voice cracked around the edges.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The camera made its quiet click again. Your stomach dropped. The heat of the stove behind you was suddenly too much. Too close. The bare skin of your back prickled with it. You wanted to reach for your clothes, wanted to run, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because you knew exactly what that would do. What it would cost you. The photos were already his. A single escape attempt and he’d have all the leverage in the world. You’d never be able to deny it. Never be able to outrun it.

So instead, you stood there—half-naked and burning with shame—and watched as he lifted the camera a little higher, angling it now. Adjusting.

"Keep cooking," he murmured, voice low, smoke-rough and satisfied.

And your heart gave the faintest stutter of protest... before you turned around again, cheeks flushed hot, eyes stinging, hands trembling as you picked up the spatula once more. You kept stirring, movements automatic now—mechanical, detached. It was the only way you could make it through this. Just keep your eyes down, focus on the pot, on the rhythm of the spatula scraping along the bottom, anything but the reality behind you. Anything but the fact that you were half-naked in a stranger’s kitchen, being photographed by someone the entire town whispered about in fear. Someone who didn’t speak unless it served to wound or command.

You shut your eyes tight, just for a second, and willed yourself into some other version of the moment. One where this wasn’t happening. One where you were in your own kitchen, fully clothed, alone, humming softly under your breath. You could almost believe it—almost—until the chair scraped against the floor behind you. The sound pierced straight through your fantasy. You didn’t turn. You didn’t flinch. You kept stirring. Footsteps followed. Slow, deliberate. Then another click.

You swallowed thickly and opened your eyes just enough to glance down at the sauce. It wasn’t burning yet. Good. Focus on that. And then—warmth. Subtle and barely there, brushing against your shoulder. Not a touch of affection or care, but something else. Your shoulders stiffened. Your breathing hitched. It didn’t escalate immediately. Not until you felt the sudden pull—the unmistakable tug of your bra strap tightening, pressing sharply into your skin. Your head turned instinctively, eyes wide, just in time to see the look on his face: unreadable, but focused entirely on you.

You let out a soft, startled yelp as the elastic snapped back against your shoulder with a loud pop, stinging your skin. You flinched. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t speak. He just raised the camera again.

Click.

You clenched your teeth, focusing on the rhythm of the spoon scraping gently against the bottom of the pot. The sauce simmered, bubbling in slow bursts, but your mind was far from the food. You kept stirring, kept moving like nothing was wrong—even when your breath faltered and your side tensed at the unmistakable feel of rough fingers dragging a deliberate path down your ribcage. They were slow, calculated, like he had all the time in the world.

Still, you didn’t look. You kept your eyes fixed on the sauce like it was your lifeline. Don’t think. Don’t react. Just breathe. But then his hand shifted. Those fingers slipped lower, brushing the band of your underwear—calloused skin grazing the thin stretch of cotton, tugging it outward just enough to tease, to test. The pressure dipped, playful, intrusive in the quietest way, and it stole your breath right from your chest.

He wasn’t quite pressing against you, not fully—just hovering behind, the space between you charged with something. Then, for some reason—whether it was instinct or dread—you glanced down. And that’s when you saw it. The bulge in his jeans. Thick, defined, impossible to ignore now that you'd noticed it. It strained slightly against the front of his pants, and the sight sent a flash of heat up your neck so fast it made you dizzy. Your eyes snapped forward again, wide and panicked, your fingers tightening around the spatula like it was the only thing tethering you to the moment. He was hard.

You swallowed. He said nothing. Just stood there, still as a shadow, like he was studying you through the silence. And yet, somehow, the silence wasn’t still at all. It throbbed around you, pulsing with tension. You turned your gaze back to the sauce, trying to calm your breathing, to find your place in the ordinary act of cooking—except there was nothing ordinary about standing half-dressed in a kitchen, pretending not to notice the man behind you, the camera, the heat rising from both the food and his body. You didn’t want to look again. You didn’t want to know that he’d been watching you like that—watching your body, your skin, the way your bra clung to you as you moved. But the truth was now seared behind your eyelids, impossible to unsee. And he hadn’t even tried to hide it. You heard the soft metallic click of the camera again, and you flinched.

You didn’t dare turn around. You just whispered, voice shaky, “Are you done?”

He hummed then—low, rough, something that rumbled more than it spoke. The sound vibrated through the air between you, and then his hand withdrew, a slow, deliberate retreat that left a ghost of heat in its absence. You could feel him step back, the energy around you thinning just slightly, like a storm cloud moving just far enough away to let in a breath of air. You exhaled, shaky and shallow, as though you’d been holding it the entire time. The tension in your shoulders didn’t vanish, not entirely, but it loosened just enough to let your body remember how to move. Then came the scrape of the chair again—metal legs dragging softly against the linoleum floor—and the absence of the camera’s subtle clicking.

You didn't glance behind. The illusion that he had returned to his seat was one you needed to believe in that moment. If you turned and saw him still standing, still close, it might break the fragile thread of composure you were clinging to. So you stayed where you were, back straight, eyes forward, spoon in hand, pretending to focus on the food. Pretending the warmth on your skin was from the stove. Pretending the air around you didn’t still carry the weight of him. You stirred the sauce slowly, mind racing in quiet circles, trying to figure out what this all meant—what he wanted, what he was thinking, and why the very silence he gave you felt more loaded than any words could’ve been.

You focused on the food, trying to anchor yourself in something ordinary. The sauce bubbled steadily now, rich and fragrant, and the noodles had gone soft, their edges curling ever so slightly. The meatballs sizzled with a final hiss, browned just right. You bit the inside of your cheek, more out of habit than thought, and moved on autopilot—lifting the pot, draining the pasta into the waiting strainer left in the sink, then gently folding the noodles and meatballs into the simmering sauce.

With practiced motions, you stirred everything together, left the spatula resting in the pot, and placed the dirty utensils in the sink. The clatter echoed faintly in the silence that had fallen around you like a held breath. Only then did you allow yourself to turn. He was seated again, just as you'd hoped—though something about him had changed. The bun was gone, his long hair falling loose around his face in uneven waves. It was striking in its own way: a wild, honey-gold mess that caught the overhead light. One eye was completely obscured, but the other watched you steadily from beneath half-lowered lashes, unreadable.

A new cigarette hung from between his lips, its ember glowing faintly. The camera rested idle beside him on the table now, as if the moment it had captured was done—for now. You couldn’t help it; your gaze dropped. A flicker of curiosity, or instinct. You caught sight of the outline in his jeans—still present, still obvious—and your stomach gave a small, traitorous twist. Your eyes snapped back to his face, heart skipping once, maybe twice. He drew the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling smoke with the slow confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. It curled from his nostrils in a slow, controlled stream, like a dragon toying with its own heat. The smell should have made you wrinkle your nose—acrid, rough—but instead, it seemed to settle in your chest, warm and dizzying.

You hated the way your body betrayed you—this low, electric hum buzzing just beneath your skin, impossible to ignore. It was an irritation, really, like a spark you couldn't quite snuff out, no matter how hard you tried. You forced yourself to reel in that restless part of your mind, the one that was already spinning stories, trying to make sense of the tension curling tight in your belly. Being half-dressed in a stranger’s kitchen, under his intense gaze, with a camera quietly clicking away—it wasn’t supposed to make your heart race, wasn’t supposed to stir something that felt like anticipation. It simply wasn’t.

Still, there you were, standing exposed in more ways than one, feeling the heat of vulnerability prickling at your skin, yet oddly tinged with a strange kind of thrill you weren’t quite ready to admit to yourself. You raised your hands, crossing them over your chest—not because it did much, but because it gave you a sliver of control, a barrier you could put up even if it was mostly for show.

Your voice came out quieter than you intended, catching on the edges but steadying as you pushed through your hesitation. “It’s done... so, can I... can I have my diary back and go now? I did what you wanted, Myers.” The name hung in the air between you, charged and raw, as if saying it out loud gave you a little more courage than you felt.

He sat there, motionless except for the faint rise and fall of his chest as he drew another drag from the cigarette perched between his lips. The smoke curled lazily around his face, softening the harsh lines of his expression. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and slightly muffled, the words slipping out around the cigarette like a half-whisper. “Go on.”

You took that as your signal to move. Swiftly, almost mechanically, you grabbed your dress and pulled it over your head, the fabric clinging to your damp skin as you hurried to cover yourself. Next came the cardigan, which you slipped on, your fingers trembling just a little as you buttoned it up. A shaky breath escaped you—a small relief flooding through your chest as you began to feel a semblance of normalcy return.

You glanced back at him, searching his face for some hint of what came next. “My diary?” you asked, your voice tentative but steady.

He gave a slow, almost lazy blink, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Gotta earn it.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion, disbelief flickering across your features. “... what do you mean?”

“Gotta earn it,” he repeated, voice low and deliberate, each word hanging heavy in the air.

You stared at him, wide-eyed and caught off guard, confusion swirling inside you like a storm. “No—Michael, we agreed. You said I only needed to come once, and I’d get my diary back. That was the deal.”

He tilted his head slightly, cigarette still perched between his lips as he regarded you with an expression that was equal parts amusement and cold calculation. “You said.”

“What?” you echoed, your voice barely steady. The room suddenly felt smaller, the weight of his words pressing down on your chest.

“You said that. Not me. Didn’t even agree to it,” he said plainly, as if dissecting a simple miscommunication rather than twisting a knife.

Your mind scrambled, trying desperately to rewind the conversation in your head, searching for any hint of a real agreement. You remembered the moment clearly—how you had spoken those words hesitantly, and he had only responded with a curt, “Good.” No promises, no confirmations, nothing binding. To him, that was not a contract; it was a challenge, or maybe just a statement to dismiss.

Your throat tightened, and your eyes burned as the sting of frustration and helplessness crept in. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his unwavering gaze, your voice trembling slightly but determined nonetheless. “So... that means what? You’re just going to keep it? Make me prove myself over and over?”

He exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his nostrils like a predator savoring the hunt. “Maybe,” he said simply, adding nothing else.

The silence that followed was thick and heavy, but beneath it all, you felt the undeniable truth: whatever game he was playing, you were caught in it, and the rules were his to set. You were trapped.

It settled over you with a slow, suffocating weight—the realization that this moment, this setup, had never been spontaneous. He had orchestrated it with quiet precision, weaving you into his web with the patience of someone who had waited years. Every word, every stare, every carefully calculated silence had been a step toward this. And now, here you were: standing in his home, your dignity fraying at the edges, with nothing but your crossed arms and trembling breath to shield yourself from him.

He had made himself your gravity. Every choice he gave was an illusion, every escape route conveniently sealed just before you reached it. The boy you once knew—awkward, quiet, strange—had grown into something far more cunning. And though you hadn’t meant to hurt him back then, though the cruelty had been born more from fear than intent, it didn’t matter. Not to him. Not anymore. Now, he was returning the favor. In full. And then some.

Your voice cracked under the weight of your own disbelief. “How... how many more times do I have to come when you call for me, Michael...?”

He didn’t miss a beat. His reply was low, dry, and final.

“Until I say.”

The words hit you like a lock clicking into place. Your heart thudded in your chest, slow and heavy, as you searched his face for something—remorse, humor, mercy. But there was none. Only the faint curl of smoke rising from the forgotten cigarette between his fingers, and that unreadable look in his eye that made your stomach twist. You weren’t just in his hands now. You were already his. It was humiliating in a way that lived quiet and raw just beneath your skin—an ache only you could feel, and one that, somewhere deep down, you couldn't stop telling yourself you deserved. You didn’t even know why. Maybe for what you did to him all those years ago. Maybe for not saying no when you still could’ve. Or maybe just for the strange thrill that had hummed low in your gut despite every shred of logic screaming otherwise.

You watched him, trying to piece together the shape of his intentions from the silence stretched between you. What now? What more did he want? Would he call you back tomorrow, or the next day, to do the same thing all over again—cook for him while half-dressed, your skin prickling under his gaze? Would he demand more photos, ones that served the same twisted purpose your stolen diary now did? You hadn’t even seen them yet, but you could feel the weight of them, those images—undeniable proof that whatever this was, it wasn’t over. Not even close.

Your eyes drifted to the camera resting near him on the table. It sat like a loaded weapon, still and confident, holding your vulnerability in its frame. He caught you staring. Of course he did. With deliberate ease, he reached for it, his fingers curling around the body like he’d done it a hundred times, thumbing a button as the screen lit up. You heard the soft tick of him flipping through shots, and then—a low whistle. He didn’t even bother taking the cigarette out of his mouth.

“You’re a real looker, ya know that?” he muttered, smoke curling from his lips as he said it.

There was no mockery in it. No overt cruelty, either. Just that casual, rough-edged drawl—like he was stating a fact, same as if he’d pointed out the time or the weather. But it still made your stomach tighten, a ripple of heat and discomfort winding through your chest like something shameful. You didn’t know what to say. You weren’t even sure you knew what you wanted anymore. All you could do was stand there, bare legs brushing against one another, the imprint of his eyes still crawling across your skin.

“What...” You swallowed, forcing your voice to steady even as it quivered at the edges. “What are you going to... uhm... do with those photos?”

Michael didn’t even lift his head. Just kept thumbing through the images, cigarette hanging lazily between his lips as he said, with flat certainty, “They’re mine.”

No elaboration. No smirk. No threat. Just a blunt, unapologetic claim of ownership.

"... but will you—”

“Don’t have to explain shit to you.” He cut you off without so much as looking up, tone as disinterested as if you’d asked him about the weather.

Right. That was your place in all this now. Not a person, not really. Just something for him to play with, to twist into whatever shape suited his mood. You could feel the heat rising in your chest—not desire, not this time. Anger. A red-hot burn that made your teeth clench as you glared at him, then at the camera like it had betrayed you too. Your hands balled into fists at your sides, nails digging crescents into your palms so hard it hurt.

God, you wanted to swing at him. Just once. Knock that smug quiet off his face, leave him with a bruise he’d have to explain. But you knew better. Retaliation wouldn’t end with a bruise—it’d end with you limping home, maybe bleeding, maybe worse. He didn’t need to say the threat out loud. It lived in his stillness. In the fact that he didn’t even bother to be menacing anymore. He didn’t have to. Your eyes drifted to the wall clock, old and slightly crooked, ticking steadily above the stove. You kissed your teeth quietly in frustration. You’d been here almost an hour and a half. Too long. Long enough for your mother to start wondering, long enough for concern to curdle into suspicion. You didn’t need her snooping. Not now. Not with this.

“I need to go home, Michael,” you said finally, voice quiet but firm.

He didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his head slightly like he was mulling it over—not whether you could leave, but whether he felt like letting you. And that was what it came down to, wasn’t it? His permission. His decision. You weren’t sure which was worse—the anger still clawing at your insides or the way a small part of you was already bracing to come back when he called. You waited, trying to stay composed, though every second that passed with his silent, narrowed gaze made the air in the room feel heavier. He was watching you again, like he always did—like he was thinking too much and giving you nothing.

“Go on, princess.”

You flinched at the name. Not because it was cruel—not outright—but because of the way he said it. Mocking. Dismissive. It was the kind of tone that made your skin prickle, condescending with a curl of derision right at the end. You gave him a look for it—small, a little sharp, but nothing too bold. You’d learned your lesson. Push too hard and Michael didn’t push back—he pulled you further into whatever twisted game he was playing. With a slow breath, you uncrossed your arms and edged toward the front door. Cautious. Controlled. You didn’t dare look away from him as you moved. You were halfway there when the soft, unmistakable sound of keys jingling at the lock snapped your attention toward it. Your spine went rigid. Instinctively, your eyes darted to the front window—and your stomach dropped.

Blonde. Familiar. Laurie.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, suddenly frantic. You turned back to Michael, eyes wide, pleading without saying a word. Surely he knew. Surely he understood why this was a problem. Laurie wasn’t just anyone—she was kind, talkative, and well-meaning. The type of girl who noticed things. The type who shared things. Not to be cruel, no—she wasn’t like that. But a girl like Laurie mentioning she’d seen you at her house, with Michael of all people... that would be enough. Enough to plant a seed. Enough to ruin you.

The town thrived on whispers. You knew what happened when those whispers turned into stories. When those stories grew legs. There were already enough shadows trailing behind you—you didn’t need Laurie lighting a match under them. Michael didn’t move at first. He just looked at you, his mouth curling faintly at one corner, like your panic amused him. Then, with slow, deliberate ease, he tilted his chin toward a narrow door at the back of the kitchen.

“Backdoor.”

You didn’t waste a second. You darted across the kitchen, feet barely touching the floor, your breath catching in your throat. Panic propelled you more than anything—pure, unfiltered survival instinct. Your fingers fumbled with the latch, but you managed to wrench the back door open just in time, slipping out and easing it shut behind you with a quiet click. Then you flattened yourself against the exterior wall, pressing your back to the wood siding, trying to still the erratic rhythm of your heartbeat. It was thundering in your ears. You swallowed hard, straining to hear what was happening inside. The front door opened—smooth and familiar. You heard her voice immediately, bright and warm in that way Laurie always was.

“Hey! Did you see—oh my God! Michael?!”

There was a beat of silence, and you pictured her standing in the doorway, staring in awe at the kitchen like it had transformed into something out of a TV sitcom.

“Did you cook? See, I told you you could do it if you just tried!” she continued, utterly delighted. “Holy crap! I’m so proud! Good job, big brother.”

You closed your eyes, mouth tightening. That girl could find a ray of sunshine in a thunderstorm. Always seeing the best in people. Always making others feel like they could be better. And yet, standing out there in the cool air with your cardigan pulled tight around your body, you felt like a ghost who had just narrowly avoided being seen. A secret. Not for the first time, you wondered if Laurie had any idea just what kind of person her brother really was. Or how many layers he kept hidden behind that silent, brooding mask of his. The thought made your stomach twist.

You peeked through the edge of the kitchen window, just barely. Laurie was laughing softly, reaching for something on the counter. You could only see Michael’s broad frame, unmoving, still in the same chair, cigarette lazily smoldering in his fingers. And somehow, impossibly, he met your eyes through the glass. He didn’t say anything. Just lifted the cigarette back to his mouth, took a slow drag, and exhaled—smoke curling around his face like a halo of warning. You stepped back from the window, your skin prickling.

You needed to get home. To smooth out the lies you'd already layered like foundation over a bruise. Your mother would have questions—when did she not—and you’d have to offer her something soothing, something light, just enough to keep her distracted. Something like, “Sherry and I just studied too long, lost track of time,” or maybe, “We went to the bookstore too. They were having a sale.” Safe. Familiar. Domestic.

Except now you also had to call Sherry and loop her in—apologize for dragging her name through the mess without asking and prep her, just in case your mom followed up. You’d lie to Sherry too. Something about sneaking out to rent a movie or to grab takeout. Nothing unusual, nothing memorable. You were fluent in that kind of dishonesty by now. It barely counted as lying anymore. It was just... routine. Still, a small pang of guilt nestled in your ribs. Sherry didn’t deserve to be your cover story. Next time—God, you were already thinking of next time—you should probably say you were with Sammy instead. Sammy wouldn’t ask as many questions. She’d probably just laugh and tell you to bring her along next time.

But the part that made your stomach tighten was that: next time. The unspoken admission that you’d go back. That you’d endure more of whatever this sick little game was. That you’d bend if it meant getting that diary back. You had to. It was the one thing that could burn your entire world to the ground. Those pages held your insides, your longing, your guilt, your soft-bellied confessions. The photos—God, those were bad too—but at least a picture could be explained. Coerced. Forced. Silent. A diary spoke in your voice.

You leaned back harder against the house’s siding, your head tipping up toward the sky, listening to the muffled clinking of plates and Laurie’s voice floating from inside. Something warm. Some joke, maybe. She was always so easy with affection. She didn’t know—couldn’t know—the tension barely cooled in the room she'd just entered. The heat still radiating from what nearly happened. That was what confused you most. What hadn't happened.

Michael had you there. In his space. Half-dressed, cornered, humiliated, eyes wide with something that wasn’t entirely fear. He’d teased, toyed, touched—but hadn’t taken. Hadn’t even finished the game he clearly knew how to play. And he was hard—God, he’d stayed hard—through all of it. You’d seen it. Could still picture the outline of him behind his jeans, taunting you in silence. So... why stop? Why not press you into the counter? Why not finish what he started?

The answer scared you more than any threat could: maybe that was the point. Maybe he wanted you to think about it, to be haunted by the knowledge of what he could do—what he chose not to do. He didn’t need to take. He only had to dangle the promise of it like a blade you were meant to press your own throat against. You rubbed your arms, suddenly cold despite the spring air. You were in this now. Tangled. And whatever Michael Myers wanted from you—control, obedience, revenge—you could tell he was nowhere near finished.

Not even close.

Chapter Text

The first time you kissed a boy, you expected it to unfold like one of those scenes pulled from the dog-eared romance novels you used to sneak off the library shelves—half-hidden between textbooks, read in guilty little fragments beneath your desk. Or maybe like the movies you’d grown up on, where kisses happened beneath falling stars or rainstorms, all breathless wonder and music swelling in the background. You imagined something cinematic. Spontaneous. Magical. Like Sleeping Beauty, maybe—delicate, dreamy, the girl with wide, blinking eyes and the boy with a soft mouth and a hand that cradled her cheek like she might break. That’s how you thought it would happen. How you believed it was supposed to happen. A kiss born from fairytale logic—pure, sweet, a moment that would live forever in a diary or a daydream. Yes, that’s what you believed your first kiss would be like.

But it was nothing like that.

Your first kiss didn’t happen under a sky full of stars or in the hushed magic of a perfect moment. It wasn’t the stuff of storybooks or whispered girlhood fantasies. No, it happened under the chipped metal rafters of your high school’s bleachers—with the scent of old turf and cigarette smoke clinging to the air. The boy was a year older than you, the kind who thought being on the varsity basketball team made him immortal and who seemed to believe his tongue was a gift you should be grateful to receive. He leaned in with the smirk of someone who’d done this before, and you—stupidly, nervously—let him.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t anything close to magical. You stood there stiffly, eyes screwed shut, lips parted only because you weren’t sure what else to do—and then came the overwhelming weight of his mouth on yours. Wet. Sloppy. Aggressively confident. His tongue shoved past your lips like it had somewhere to be, tasting vaguely of whatever the cafeteria had served that day—something sour, vaguely meaty, and tragically memorable. It was like being kissed by a dog who’d just eaten a leftover sandwich and then decided to try CPR.

It was suffocating. Disorienting. You remembered thinking it felt like an eel—slick and wrong and writhing where it absolutely shouldn’t be. You hated it. And worse? You hated that you’d let it happen, hated that you had expected something delicate and dreamy, only to be given something that left you wiping your mouth with the sleeve of your sweater the second he turned his back. So no, it wasn’t a fairytale. It was a footnote. A sour, squelchy reminder that real life rarely delivers the kiss you think you deserve.

When it was over, you managed a polite smile—tight-lipped, hollow, the kind of smile you’d learned to use when adults asked if you were having fun at parties you didn’t want to be at. He grinned at you like he’d just rewritten the laws of chemistry, proud and oblivious, wearing that smug little expression of a boy who thought he’d just rocked your world. You wanted to puke. Truly, you did. Your stomach churned and your lips felt raw, like they'd been manhandled by a wet sponge instead of kissed. But you didn’t say a word. You just nodded faintly, let him sling his arm around your shoulders like you were some prize he’d won, and allowed him to guide you back up the metal steps toward the bleachers.

The varsity football game was still playing, a blur of movement and shouted plays, but you couldn’t focus on any of it. Not the scoreboard, not the crowd, not even Sammy’s voice when she waved at you from a few rows down. All you could feel was the imprint of his mouth, the sour taste lingering at the back of your throat, and the bitter awareness that your first kiss had been nothing like you'd hoped it would be. It hadn’t been magical. It hadn’t felt like yours. It had just... happened. And now it was over, tucked away in your memory like a stain you knew would never quite wash out.

You sat with him for a little while longer, legs crossed neatly as you stared down at the field, trying to act like the last few minutes hadn’t been monumentally disappointing. Jeremy was preoccupied now—two of his buddies from the basketball team had jogged up and started roughhousing with him, all elbows and laughter and half-hearted shoves, like boys who hadn’t quite grown into their skin yet. You watched them for a moment, silently marveling at how easy it all came to them—touching, joking, filling the space around them like they owned it.

This was supposed to be a date. And truthfully, it had started off promising enough. Jeremy Hover had the kind of résumé your mother approved of without question: clean-cut, well-groomed, polite enough in public. He drove a glossy black car that looked far too expensive for a junior, lived in one of those pretty homes with a circular driveway, had a father who was a lawyer and a mother who seemed to be in a constant state of tennis brunch. Your father liked his father. That had sealed it, really. It didn’t matter that you had never particularly thought about Jeremy in any kind of romantic way—when he’d shown up at your front door, dressed too nicely and asking if you wanted to go to the Friday night game with him, the answer had been more or less decided for you.

He’d been... polite, mostly. Didn’t try to put his hand on your thigh or anything, though his gaze did linger far too long on your legs, especially when you shifted. He made sure to open your car door, pulled out your chair at the little pizza place beforehand. On paper, it was perfectly acceptable. But then came the kiss. Or rather, that thing he’d mistaken for one. It wasn’t even fair to call it a kiss—not when it felt more like a trial you’d failed than a moment of affection. You could still feel the imprint of it, heavy and wrong on your mouth, like something you hadn’t consented to even if technically, you had. You shifted uncomfortably, folding your hands in your lap and offering him a small, automatic smile when he looked over—mid-laugh, as if none of this mattered. Maybe to him it didn’t. Maybe it was all just a checklist: big football game, pretty girl, bleacher make-out, victory lap with the boys. You were something pretty to drape his arm around and show off for a few hours.

"Hey, Tom and Grayson and I are gonna hit the snack bar for a bit. You want anything?"

Jeremy’s voice pulled you from the spiral of your thoughts, cutting through the din of the stadium crowd and the whistle-blasts from the field below. You blinked, turning your head just slightly, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. For a moment, you just looked at him—really looked at him. He stood there with that same easy posture, tall, maybe six feet even, and dressed like someone who cared about appearances in the way suburban boys often did. There was a studied casualness to his look: light-washed jeans, spotless sneakers, a button-down shirt just barely tucked in, and of course, the requisite letterman jacket thrown over it all like a stamp of social approval. His skin was tanned to that perfect sun-drenched shade that came from hours at the lake or his family’s backyard pool, and his hair—dirty blond and tousled—looked like he had spent exactly the right amount of time trying to make it seem like he hadn’t tried at all.

He was handsome, objectively speaking. The kind of boy people expected you to be seen with. But that’s all he was: expected.

You offered him a small, polite smile—one that didn’t quite reach your eyes but passed as genuine if you weren’t looking too closely. “No, you go ahead. I think I see one of my friends. I’ll chat with her until you come back.”

It was a harmless lie. One he didn’t question. You knew full well he wasn’t going to come back. Not with Tom and Grayson at his side, not when the game was still going and the snack bar had a cluster of cheerleaders already lined up, laughing and pulling bills from glossy crossbody purses. Jeremy was the type to get swept up in the noise, in the camaraderie of being one of the boys. You were something that had fit into the night like an accessory—pleasant, presentable, easy to handle. He had gotten what he wanted, really. A kiss to brag about, a date to mention in passing at school come Monday. Enough to say he’d taken someone out, even if that someone didn’t quite matter in the long run.

Because you weren’t Tiffany Hayes. Everyone knew Jeremy had been hopelessly infatuated with Tiffany since third grade—the kind of crush that lived in the folds of notebook paper and locker door scribbles, that still lingered even after she'd turned him down three separate times. Tiffany was everything boys like Jeremy fell over themselves for: bubbly, blonde, part of student council, good with parents and teachers alike. You were not Tiffany Hayes. You never would be.

You let out a slow, quiet sigh as you watched Jeremy wander off, already joking around with his friends again—backslaps, shoves, loud laughter echoing under the stadium lights like the whole evening hadn’t happened at all. You sat there a moment longer, letting the cold bleacher press through your tights, a sharp reminder that you were still here, still real, even if none of it had felt very real. Eventually, you rose, brushing your skirt down with both hands as if that might smooth over the awkwardness too. Your mother had been so excited about this date. She’d practically dressed you herself, fussing over every detail like it was some debutante occasion instead of a Friday night game.

You could still hear her voice from earlier that afternoon, bright and busy as she laid the clothes across your bed. “This one is perfect—baby blue is so soft on your skin tone. And the white skirt makes you look like a dream.” Then came the stockings, sheer and barely there, followed by your pale blue flats that had been declared “just right.” She had dressed you like a doll. Her version of a well-mannered, well-presented girl that any boy would be lucky to date. And now, sitting there with your sweater sleeves pulled down, her carefully coordinated vision had amounted to exactly nothing. A disappointing kiss, a boy who would barely notice if you left, and a fresh reminder that none of this was quite meant for you.

You made your way down the bleachers, heels clicking softly against the metal until your feet met the grass. Your eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on a familiar duo: Sammy and David, seated near the front row, half-watching the game and half-lost in their own little world. They were dating back then—something that, in hindsight, made too much sense. You slid onto the bench beside them without much of a word, folding your hands in your lap as you listened to them talk. They barely glanced your way, and you were grateful for it. You weren’t ready to explain the look on your face, the hollow knot in your stomach, or the way your lips still tasted faintly of salt and cafeteria pizza.

You just needed to sit. To exist. To let the night fade into the background until you could tuck it away like something pressed between the pages of a book—forgettable, flat, and closed. But you were never good at hiding—not when it counted. You never could stay tucked in the background, not for long. Even as a kid, playing hide-and-seek in the neighborhood cul-de-sac, you’d get caught in record time. The others used to tease you mercilessly for it. Not because you chose bad hiding spots (though sometimes you did), but because you’d give yourself away—whispers too loud, feet shifting, breath held too short. You hated being alone in the quiet for too long. The silence back then always felt too heavy, too much like being forgotten.

And apparently, some things never changed. You hadn’t even been sitting for a full minute before Sammy turned her head, catching sight of you with that sharp-eyed, cruel grin she was famous for. Her expression lit up with something between curiosity and excitement as she nudged David with her elbow and leaned toward you.

“There she is!” she said, sing-song and smug. “I saw you coming in with Hover. And I definitely saw you sneak behind the bleachers, you devil...” She waggled her brows and leaned in conspiratorially. “So come on, don’t hold out on me—how was it?”

How were you supposed to answer a question like that? If you told Sammy and David the truth—that the kiss had been one of the worst, most awkward things you’d ever endured, nothing like the swooning daydreams you’d clung to for years—what would they say? Would they think you were childish? Pathetic? Weak? Would Sammy laugh and nudge David with one of those “can you believe her?” grins? Would David join in with a little too much amusement in his eyes? Or worse—would they start spreading it around? Suddenly you’d be the girl who couldn’t kiss. Who didn’t like kissing. Or maybe—less likely but still possible—it’d become Jeremy’s fault, and he’d be the one to suffer the whispers. But honestly? That felt unlikely.

Jeremy Hover had that all-American glow that made people look the other way. Golden boy immunity. And Sammy... Sammy didn’t like letting boys slip too far from her orbit unless she said so. If she had any plans for Jeremy, she wouldn’t let you taint the goods before she got her shot. So really, there was only one answer. The safest answer. The answer that preserved your pride and the little illusion that maybe, somehow, everything had been okay. You gave a little shrug, playing the casual game.

“It was... nice,” you said, forcing a small smile. “Not bad, not like... amazing or anything. Just, you know—nice.”

Sammy hummed thoughtfully, like she was reading between the lines, but thankfully didn’t push. David raised his brows in a neutral sort of way before turning his attention back to the field. And you exhaled, silently grateful. You’d dodged the bullet—for now. But you also knew you’d just added one more harmless-sounding lie to the pile you were quietly learning to build. You sat back on the bleacher, letting your gaze drift toward the field where the players still ran drills and the crowd kept cheering, none of it feeling as loud or alive as it had earlier. Jeremy Hover had a nice smile and a nice car, and parents who made your parents feel comfortable, and yet none of that had mattered. You wanted to feel something tonight. Magic, maybe. Like the books. Like the movies. Instead, you just felt... tired.

Boys came and went after that. There were more kisses—some better, some worse. Some were too rushed, all nervous breath and clumsy lips. Others were too soft, like they thought you’d break if they dared to mean it. A few were too eager, all tongue and teeth and desperation. None of them ever quite matched the fairytales. None felt like the stuff of library paperbacks or Disney daydreams. Not once did fireworks burst behind your eyes or your heart skip for anything other than anxiety.

Boyfriends, too, came and went. Some lasted longer than others. Some were sweet, most were forgettable. And the breakups, oddly enough, never really devastated you. Not the way they seemed to devastate your mother, who always seemed to take it as a personal slight when things didn’t work out. She wanted the fairytales for you too, in her own rigid, manicured way. The right kind of boyfriend, the right kind of image. But you? You learned to smile through it. You learned how to make breakups work for you. Over time, you figured out how to spin the story, twist the facts just enough, so that you weren’t the problem. It was always them. They were inattentive. They were immature. They didn’t know what they wanted.

And your group? They bought it. Why wouldn’t they? You were one of them, after all. Glossy, put-together, quietly cutthroat when you had to be—just enough to survive the game without playing it too obviously. Still, perhaps the greatest humiliation of your young life had been your first attempt at sex. Not because it happened, but because of how it happened—and how badly it all unraveled. The memory lingered not because it was charged with heat or longing, but because it had been a thorough and unmitigated disaster.

It was your senior year. You’d somehow found yourself in the upstairs bedroom of Richard Cole—Richie, as everyone called him. Tall, maybe 6'2", with a carefully tousled mop of dirty blond hair and a smile that suggested he knew exactly how attractive he was. His eyes had been a pale blue. Not quite the blue you knew now—the one that haunted you in fleeting glances and stormy silences—but close enough that it made something in your chest stir, even if you'd never admit that aloud. Richie had been your boyfriend for about three months. A fairly successful relationship by high school standards. You liked his car, his easy laugh, and the way he introduced you to his friends like you mattered. Your mother approved of him—clean-cut, suburban, the son of a dentist and a former pageant queen—and that had to mean something, right?

Still, you’d been raised to fear sex. Not explicitly, not in those words, but in the way your mother tightened her jaw when the topic came up, in the way she warned you—without warning you—that a good girl never gave herself away too easily. You were told, implicitly, to be smart, to be discreet, to always leave room for deniability. Marriage was the end goal, of course. Children. Appearances. And you’d internalized all of that so well that even kissing had felt like a tightrope walk. But Richie? Richie had been patient. Not perfect—his kisses had a bit too much tongue, and he always smelled faintly of far too sharp cologne and chewing gum—but he wasn’t awful. He’d been decent. Sweet, even.

And it had almost been enough. Almost.

You hadn’t exactly planned to lose your restraint that night—not really. But alcohol has a way of softening resolve, and peer pressure, especially from girls like Sammy and Sherry, could be just as persuasive as any whisper in the dark. It was a party at Richie’s house—one of those bigger ones where kids showed up wearing their parents’ cologne and perfume like armor, where expensive bottles were passed around like they weren’t funded by allowances, and where the music throbbed through the walls with all the self-importance of adolescence trying to be grown. You weren’t even sure how many people you knew; they blurred together in that strange, unmoored way drunk nights often go—just fragments of faces, half-remembered conversations, the cigarette smoke curling into the air like secrets.

Two whiskeys and a vodka tonic later, you found yourself in Richie’s bedroom, clothes rumpled, your back brushing against the edge of his unmade bed. His breath was hot and heavy as he leaned in, his hands bolder than before, fingertips dragging across your hips like he was entitled to every inch. His mouth found your neck, wet and aimless, more dog-like than romantic. There was no rhythm, no tenderness—just lips and tongue and too much spit. You tried to tell yourself this was what it was supposed to feel like. This was what they all said: awkward, messy, a little embarrassing. Maybe it would get better. Maybe it was nerves. But it didn’t get better.

His hands felt clumsy. He didn’t read your reactions or slow down, didn’t seem to notice how you stiffened each time his palm moved somewhere new. It wasn’t that he was cruel—no, Richie wasn’t that—just oblivious in a way that made you feel lonelier than if you’d been entirely alone. He was performing, not connecting, chasing a goal like it was a race and you were just a checkpoint. You stared up at the ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark stars that were probably stuck there years ago, maybe by a little sister, or maybe by Richie himself back when he still believed in that sort of wonder. They flickered faintly, and something inside you twisted—a bitter little knot of disappointment.

He’d managed to shove your skirt up and his jeans down, clearly under the impression that whatever fumbling came before was enough. His fingers had been rough—more like clumsy stabs than anything remotely sensual—and the whole thing had felt more clinical than intimate. When he finally tried to push in, without a condom no less, your hand shot up instinctively, landing on his shoulder in a firm tap. Part of it was self-preservation—you were suddenly overwhelmed with nausea, like your stomach had turned on you mid-breath. The other part was pure pain. It hurt. A lot. And not in any way you could spin into sexy or spontaneous. Just... wrong.

He seemed to get the message. He froze, stared at you for a second with unfocused eyes, then let out an irritated huff as he pulled back. Drunk, like you, but not so far gone that he couldn’t scowl. Some curse spilled out of his mouth—what exactly, you couldn’t recall—and then he was gone, stumbling shirtless out of the room with his jeans still hanging halfway off his hips. You just lay there, quiet, the air a little too loud around you. Slowly, you tugged your shirt down and smoothed your skirt back into place. Not because you felt modest, but because you felt... displaced. Like your body needed to be put back together in small ways.

Well. That had gone miserably.

You didn’t leave his room right away. Maybe twenty minutes passed while you sat on the edge of his bed, blinking slowly, trying to decide what to do with the feeling crawling up your spine. Eventually, you found your legs again and stepped out, only to catch the tail end of Richie slipping into his parents’ room with some brunette you didn’t recognize. And just like that, the last fraying thread of whatever the two of you had unraveled without ceremony. You didn’t cry. Didn’t even feel particularly heartbroken. Just... tired. You sighed and wandered back downstairs, wondering how this had become such a familiar rhythm: building something out of nothing, only to watch it fall apart without ever making much noise.

So yeah, your love life? A total disaster. Awkward kisses that barely registered, forgettable boyfriends who slipped in and out of your life like passing seasons, and a disastrously failed attempt at sex that left you wondering what it was even supposed to feel like. Were you a virgin? Technically... maybe? A dick had slid in, sure, but nothing beyond that before you made Richie take it out—and honestly, that was the sum total of your “experience.”

No one ever asked you about it. Your friends were smart enough to know that your textbooks and lecture notes had long since become your closest companions. Besides, when a fresh, reliable note-taker joined the group, they didn’t complain. Sammy begged you to do her homework constantly. She might have asked Sherry too, but Sherry was far too proud for that, and you were always the easy yes—the pushover you allowed yourself to be. Romance and friendship alike had been rough waters up through college. You’d convinced yourself it was over. Done. Finished. You even swore off trying—why bother? What was the point in chasing something that had never quite caught hold? You’d settled into the quiet resignation of giving up, of letting the whole messy business of love and lust slip through your fingers like sand.

So then... what the hell was this?

How had you ended up pressed up against the grimy, chipped door of a janitor’s closet, the smell of old cleaning supplies thick in the air, while someone’s rough lips crushed against yours with an intensity that both shocked and stunned you? His mouth was unpolished, harsh even, nothing like the soft, hesitant kisses you’d known before—yet somehow that rawness sent a strange electric jolt through your body. His knee slid firmly between your thighs, the pressure both possessive and urgent, rubbing in time with the slow curl of his tongue against your teeth, teasing and claiming every inch of the moment. Your head tipped back, eyes fluttering closed as the rush of sensation blurred the edges of your thoughts, drowning out the quiet voice inside that had told you to stop caring.

It was confusing. It was reckless. It was everything you thought you’d sworn off. And yet here you were, tangled in the unexpected, gasping for breath between ragged kisses, caught somewhere between disbelief and desire. His tongue was a paradox—soft enough to tease, rough enough to claim. It slid against yours with a slow, deliberate hunger that was impossible to resist. The taste was smoky and sharp, like bitter whiskey burning down your throat, but instead of repelling you, it pulled you in deeper, raw and intoxicating. Your jaw slackened without you realizing it, opening just enough for him to glide his tongue inside, moving against yours with a torturously slow rhythm that felt less like a kiss and more like a takeover. Every flick, every curl of his tongue played your mouth like an instrument, coaxing out sounds you hadn’t known you could make—soft moans tangled with breathy gasps that echoed somewhere deep inside you.

Your wrists were trapped high above your head, fingers intertwined and held tight by one of his hands—rough, calloused, and unyielding—like he was anchoring you to the moment, refusing to let you pull away. His other hand pressed low against your hip, solid and possessive, dragging you flush against the heat of his body. The way his fingers dug into your skin sent sparks of electricity shooting through you, raw and urgent. He was a furnace—burning hot and overwhelmingly solid—covering you with a weight that made everything else fade into nothing. The dull, flickering yellow light above you dimmed under his presence, as if the room itself recognized the danger and wanted to stay out of your way.

Your eyes opened slightly, heavy and overwhelmed, as breath caught and spilled out in ragged, gasping pants from your nose. Your legs shook under you, trembling with the raw shock of sensation. Every inch of your body was alight—every slow, deliberate press of his lips, every flick of his tongue, sending jolts of heat down to your core and back again, like wildfire igniting nerve endings you hadn’t even known existed. You fought to keep your legs steady, but your knees wobbled, barely able to hold you upright under the weight of what he was doing to you. It wasn’t soft or sweet—it was fierce and demanding, wild and untamed, and it had you caught in a heady trap you never wanted to escape.

His mouth moved with a ruthless patience, like he was savoring the way you melted beneath him, as if this kiss was a kind of conquest—a secret he was claiming just for himself. His grip tightened on your wrists and hips, pressing you harder, making sure you couldn’t slip away even if you wanted to. The sharp scent of him—sweat, smoke, something dark and dangerous—filled your senses, swirling with the bitter taste in your mouth until you felt dizzy, breathless, like you were on the edge of losing control.

And then, through the haze of desire and heat, a single, undeniable thought broke through: Who would have ever guessed that the fairytale kiss you’d dreamed of—soft, perfect, gentle—would hit you like this? Like a force of nature? Like Michael Myers himself, rough and reckless and utterly consuming, pressing you up against the grimy door of a janitor’s closet and setting everything inside you ablaze? This wasn’t a storybook moment. It was fire and smoke, hunger and heat, danger wrapped in leather and sweat, and you were already burning—completely and irrevocably—alive.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t gentle. He ended the kiss with a sharp tug of your bottom lip between his teeth, releasing it with a soft, almost frustrated huff that ghosted against your mouth. The heat of his breath lingered for a second too long, as if he was reluctant to give up the taste of you. Then, without a word, he leaned away, eyes dark and unreadable, and reached into the pocket of his uniform. You watched, dazed and unsteady, as he pulled out a battered carton of cigarettes—the kind that looked like it had survived a was—and tapped one out with casual ease, like he hadn’t just wrecked your nervous system.

Your back pressed against the wall behind you, needing something solid to cling to as the aftermath of everything crashed into you at once. Your breathing was a mess—deep, shaking inhales that never quite steadied, like you were still trying to remember how lungs were supposed to work. There were spots dancing in your vision, a warm fog still lingering in your head. You didn’t even want to guess what your face looked like. Flushed? Swollen from the kiss? Your lips definitely felt ruined in the best way—tingling, swollen, bruised with heat.

And your jeans—God. They were absolutely no help now. The denim clung uncomfortably between your legs, sticking slightly in a way you knew wasn’t just sweat. There was a damp patch forming in your underwear, cotton saturated with want, and you could feel it when you shifted your thighs. Every breath made you more aware of it. The ache. The pressure. The fact that you were wet enough to notice it, feel it, even under layers of clothing. Did he know? Could he feel it when his knee was slotted between your thighs, pressed right there, rocking just enough to drive you mad?

You told yourself no, surely not. He couldn’t have. It wasn’t that obvious... was it? But then again... what if he had? What if the way his grip had tightened, the way he kissed you even deeper after you'd started to squirm, hadn’t just been coincidence? Fuck. What if he knew? Your stomach flipped, a wave of heat rolling over your skin again, this time from pure embarrassment—or was it excitement? You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you were standing there, wrecked and reeling, and Michael was lighting a cigarette like none of it had even scratched the surface for him. And somehow, that only made you want more.

Your eyes trailed upward, still fogged and slow, watching the fluid motion of him flicking open a silver lighter. The flame flared briefly, throwing a warm glow over the harsh angles of his face. The lighter looked worn, heavy, with something etched into the metal—a name, maybe, or something crude—but the light was too low and your vision too blurred to make it out. You were still trying to catch your breath, still leaning against the wall like your bones had turned to static. The cigarette sparked to life with a soft crackle, the tip glowing red as he drew in his first drag. He didn’t rush it—just stood there, breathing in smoke like oxygen, letting it unfurl slow and heavy from between his lips. The scent of tobacco curled around you immediately, thick and bitter. It clung to your clothes, your skin, your already-reeling senses. You hadn’t realized how shallow your breathing had become until you took in a full inhale and it hit you like a wall. You coughed once, then again, chest shuddering from the impact as your lungs sputtered, still caught in the aftershocks of what had just happened.

Your body felt off-kilter. Lips bruised. Breath unsteady. Jeans still uncomfortably damp. You couldn’t even look him in the eye for more than a second, not with your skin burning and your legs trembling and everything between your thighs aching with residual want. You didn’t know what he’d say—or if he’d say anything at all. He hadn’t spoken once during that entire feverish moment. So when his voice finally broke the silence, it hit like a whip.

“You’re a shitty fucking kisser.”

Flat. Low. Like it didn’t matter—like he was just stating a fact. Your head snapped up, heart stuttering. You blinked at him through the smoke, too stunned to speak, your mouth still parted, lips swollen from where his had claimed them only moments before. And yet there he stood—cool, composed, dragging again on the cigarette like he hadn’t just pinned you to a wall and ruined you for every kiss that came before. Like it was nothing. The cherry of the cigarette glowed red. His expression didn’t change.

“... oh.”

It was all you could manage—a small, hoarse croak of a word that barely made it past your lips. The sound felt laughably inadequate, considering the storm still crashing inside your chest. Your body was still trying to catch up, to piece itself back together in the heavy, smoke-laced silence he'd left in his wake. You blinked slowly, eyes stinging from the lingering haze, vision struggling to focus as your thoughts blurred and overlapped. You didn’t even know what you were reacting to anymore—the kiss, the insult, the heat still pooling between your thighs, or the fact that he had just kissed you like that. Michael fucking Myers.

You knew how you’d ended up here. Knew the hallway you’d walked, the door you’d backed through, the way his body had pressed against yours with that unspoken intent—slow, looming, magnetic. But what you didn’t know, what left you standing there stunned and speechless, was how you’d ended up letting him kiss you like that. Like you meant nothing. Like you were just another body. Because for all the rawness, for all the fire and force in it—that kiss had been good. The best you’d ever had, actually. No question. And that alone made your stomach twist with something ugly and uncertain.

Michael had kissed you like a man dying of thirst—ravenous, desperate—but with the control of someone who had a dozen water bottles within reach and all the time in the world to decide which one to open. He had kissed you like he wanted you, but not like he needed you. There was a difference. One you felt now like a splinter under your skin. It had been slow. Passionate. Rough. Not clumsy or greedy—no, that kiss had experience behind it. He knew exactly how to tilt your chin, exactly how to bite, how to drag his tongue across yours just enough to make your knees weaken. That wasn’t accidental. That wasn’t first-time fire. That was practiced.

And the realization hit you low in your stomach—he’d done this before. To how many women? Several, probably. Maybe more. Of course he had. He was handsome—infuriatingly so. Big and intimidating, but carved from something dangerous, something primal. That rough, rugged beauty you didn’t want to admit you noticed. The kind that made you feel small in the most seductive, addictive way. Dammit. You looked at him again, still holding that cigarette between his fingers like he hadn’t just shattered something fragile inside you. Like he wasn’t even thinking about it anymore. Like the kiss—the moment—had been nothing to him.

How many?

The question curled like smoke in the back of your mind again, thick and unwanted. How many women had he brought to their knees, made them feel like they were drowning just from a kiss? How many had stood exactly where you were now—dazed, breathless, ruined—while he lit a cigarette like it meant nothing? In Haddonfield? Maybe not many. This town wasn’t exactly crawling with women willing to get tangled up with a man like him. Not openly, anyway. But elsewhere? On the road? With that rusted-out monster of a truck that sounded like death dragging chains down the highway? You weren’t stupid. He had that look— the kind that made women ignore the alarm bells in their heads. That quiet, brutal allure. That rough kind of handsome that wasn’t pretty, but devastating.

Yeah. He’d done this before. You could feel it in the way he kissed. In the way he held you. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d figured out the blueprint to breaking women apart and enjoyed watching them come undone piece by piece. And it made your stomach twist. You hated that you were wondering about them. The other girls. The ones who had melted under that same mouth. Had he pinned them too? Whispered anything? Or had he just taken what he wanted, then walked away like nothing had ever touched him? Your jeans were still too tight, sticking uncomfortably in all the worst places, and your body was still humming from contact, hypersensitive and flushed. Your wrists still felt the ghost of his grip. And yet here you were, wondering if you’d been just another girl added to some invisible, unspoken list—one more moment for him to throw away and forget.

This was all your fault. Wasn’t it? The thought struck hard, sharp as glass beneath your skin. It festered somewhere in your chest, blooming slowly like regret soaked in heat. This moment—this claustrophobic, electric, breathless moment—hadn’t just happened. You had made it. Crafted it with your own hands. You were the one who left your stupid little diary out like bait. The one who scribbled high school fantasies in curling, girlish script about the quiet, moody boy who lingered by the lockers like a ghost—untouchable, unreadable, and yet always there. You’d turned him into something else on the page, something cinematic and tragic and dripping in mystery, like a character you could reach for but never actually touch. And now? Now here you were. Touched. Kissed. Shoved up against the edge of reality by that same boy, no longer just moody but dangerous, standing across from you in the dim light, staring like he was deciding whether he wanted to kiss you again or kill you where you stood.

Who could you blame for this?

The man before you—the one who smelled of oil, smoke, and iron, who moved like a shadow but kissed like fire? The man who now held your secrets like weapons, curled casually in his palm? The same man who had dragged a kiss from you that made your body hum and then left you wrecked and cold all at once, tossed back into silence like the flame he lit and walked away from? Could you really blame him? Or was the fault with her—that version of you who had played a terrible joke? The girl who had smiled at him in passing, said soft “hi”s in the hall like it didn’t mean anything, even when her stomach fluttered. The girl who tried so hard to look like she didn’t care. Who kissed other boys with clean faces and practiced hands, who dated boys with soft blue eyes and messy blond hair, pretending they were enough. Was it her? The girl who flirted with danger without knowing the rules?

You knew it was your fault. Not his. Not fate’s. Yours. The stupid girl. The foolish girl. The pushover. The easy one. The one who smiled too politely and apologized too often, who mistook attention for affection and silence for safety. The innocent one who thought she could toy with shadows and not get burned. You were the lamb, wide-eyed and soft, severed up for slaughter—and there was no farmer herding you to the edge. No hands forcing you forward. You had walked. Willingly. Blindly. Right into the wolf’s waiting maw.

And not just walked—followed. You’d trailed his presence like a moth to flame, fixated on every flicker of him: the heavy boots, the broken-in denim, the sharp cut of his jaw when he clenched it too hard. You'd crafted excuses to be near him. Glanced when you thought he wouldn’t notice. Wrote about him like he was a fantasy instead of flesh and blood and danger. That was how you’d ended up here. Pressed up against a door that didn’t lock, breathless and flushed, the taste of him still clinging to your tongue, and your shame collecting between your thighs. It was a stupid decision. One you had made before. One you had sworn—with shaking hands and tear-streaked cheeks—you would never, ever make again after that first house visit.

And yet. Here you were. It had started off like any other day, really. Normal. Predictable. Quiet enough to convince yourself that the weekend before hadn’t happened—that you hadn’t run from the Myers house with your heart in your throat and your dignity in pieces. You’d made a promise to yourself that night, one you carved deep and bitter into your chest: you wouldn’t go back. Not if he called. Not if he looked at you. Not even if he dangled your diary before you and made your name sound like scripture.

It wasn’t fair. That had been the final thought before you fell asleep—hot tears on your pillow, fists clenched. It wasn’t fair. Maybe he hadn’t agreed to your deal. Okay. Fine. Maybe you could’ve been more specific when you offered the trade. But he knew. You were certain he knew what you had meant. He always knew too much, read too deep, listened too closely—that eerie way he watched everything without saying a word. You had expected that night to be the end. A clean break. You get your diary, he gets his silence, and the whole twisted chapter closes. Instead, he yanked the rug out from under you with one look—one amused huff—and left you sprawled in the emotional dirt, breathless and humiliated, with the cold realization that he wasn’t done. That he wanted this to stretch. To tighten. To twist.

Whatever game he was playing, whatever rules existed inside his head, you didn’t know. You weren’t even sure you wanted to know. But God, you wanted to know. Desperately. You wanted to understand what he was thinking when he took those photos of you, half-dressed and vulnerable, his breath just barely audible in the heavy silence. What was going through his mind when he watched you shift and squirm under his stare, your dress gone, your skin warm, exposed? When you glanced down, heart catching in your throat, and saw the outline of him—hard in his jeans, thick and straining, clear as day—and he didn’t even flinch.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t move. Just stood there. Watching. Like you were a puzzle he wanted to dismantle slowly. Like he could break you apart with just his eyes. And maybe he could. Because even now, long after you’d stormed out, long after you swore you'd never return—you could still feel it. His stare. His silence. That heat. It had followed you home that night. That feeling. It clung to you like smoke, like the scent of him had soaked into your skin—under your nails, in your hair, behind your teeth. It haunted you through every quiet room, through the steps you took to pretend your life was still normal. But it wasn’t. Not after what happened. Not after the way he had looked at you. Touched you. Didn’t touch you.

You curled into your bed like you were trying to disappear into yourself, face buried in the pillow, hot tears dampening the fabric as your body betrayed you again and again. Your stomach was warm, fluttering with nerves you refused to name, and low in your belly was that ache—deep and pulsing, wrong in every moral way but so real. So sharp. So constant. Your fingers twitched with restless energy, clenching, unclenching. You couldn't stop thinking about it. About him. About how your body had reacted to him. How it still was. He’d done something to you—and not just physically. He’d rewired something. Flipped a switch. Lit a fuse that hadn’t stopped burning since you left his house.

And yet, somehow, you fell asleep that night. Whispering lies into the darkness. You promised yourself—over and over—that you wouldn’t go back. That you couldn’t go back. That you wouldn’t be that girl. But the memory was there, curled up against your spine: you had stood in his kitchen, half-naked. You had cooked for him in your underwear like some obedient little doll. You had let him pull at the strap of your bra. Tease the waistband of your panties. And you hadn’t stopped him. You hadn’t said a word. If you were willing to stand there like that, offering yourself in silence—what else would you let him do if he got you alone again?

The thought made your skin prickle, your thighs squeeze tighter together under the sheets. What if next time, he bent you over? What if he didn’t even ask? What if he didn’t need to? There would be no gentle coaxing. No soft words. Just expectation. Just him—taking. And you? You’d let him. God, you would let him. You’d take it. Every rough, possessive second of it. You’d deal with it—the way your body already ached to. Because you weren’t just the lamb led to slaughter anymore. You were the offering.

But that had been Saturday night—a fever dream of tears, heat, and twisted longing pressed tight against the silence of your bedroom walls. That was the night you’d buried your face in your pillow, trembling with shame and want, whispering promises to yourself you already knew you wouldn’t keep. By the time Sunday morning came around, you were already up. Dressed. Composed. Perfect. Not a hair out of place, not a smudge to your name. You wore the little peach dress your mother had picked out just that week — delicate and feminine, cinched at the waist with a bow that made you look sweeter than you felt. White gloves, white wedges, a hat with a soft satin band that matched your lipstick. Your makeup was light and pretty, lashes curled just right, cheeks blushed like you had nothing to hide.

You looked like the picture of innocence. A lamb washed clean. And there you sat—dainty and divine—in the front pew of your family’s church, back straight, legs crossed at the ankle, clutching your Bible like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The choir sang. The preacher raged. And the congregation swayed under the weight of judgment.

“Do not let him in!” the preacher roared, spit flying from his mouth as he slammed a hand against the pulpit.

Your stomach twisted. You had. You had let him in with trembling hands and parted lips and wide, helpless eyes. You had gone to the devil, tasted his smoke, let him pin you to a kitchen counter and breathe fire into your lungs.

“He’ll take your soul!”

He would. Hell, you were pretty sure he already had. Bit by bit. Word by word. With every unread page of that diary he still held hostage—your secrets, your fantasies, your truth.

“He’ll corrupt you from the inside out!”

Too late. You could feel it. Like rot beneath porcelain. Like something sinful leaking through the seams of your skin, sweet peach dress or not.

“The Father of Lies!” the preacher cried, voice echoing through the stained glass.

And you blinked. Because wasn’t he? Wasn’t that what Michael was? Your lie? Your sin? Your shadow? Your secret? He had never needed horns. Never needed red eyes or smoke. He wore oil-stained denim and boots heavy with dirt. He drove a rust bucket and smoked cancer sticks like it was the end of the world. But it was only you sitting there, alone in your head, nestled between your father’s stoic silence and your mother’s expectant posture, your gloved hands folded neatly in your lap, eyes trained forward but not seeing anything. Not really.

Michael Myers never came to church. Why would he? The town already believed he was the devil—or something close to it. Whispers followed him like shadows, words like troubled, violent, wrong. Mothers clutched their children a little tighter when he passed on the street, fathers locked their car doors when his truck rattled by. Maybe he was the devil. At least part of him. You certainly couldn’t explain what he’d awakened in you, what he'd taken—or what you’d so willingly offered up like a sacrificial gift.

You didn’t feel holy in that moment. Not in your peach dress. Not with your glossy lips and white gloves. Not even when the preacher bellowed scripture like a warning, his words echoing in the cavernous silence that followed. You felt like a pretty porcelain thing that had already been cracked. You only escaped the haze of your thoughts when his voice quieted, giving way to the final hymn. The organ groaned to life. People rose to their feet like dolls on strings, and you followed suit, moving automatically. Your voice barely joined the hymn, the words familiar but hollow on your tongue. Then came the greetings. The idle smiles. The gentle grasping of hands and kind, tired comments exchanged like currency. You stood beside your mother as she was swarmed by women in pastel skirts and coral lipstick, voices like syrup as they chatted about brunch, dinner parties, bake sales, and evening book clubs you’d never be invited to join.

You kept your smile in place—soft and practiced—as you murmured polite acknowledgments. Your skin felt too tight, your dress suddenly too warm under the growing weight of your thoughts. Sammy floated by in her own delicate sundress, looking like an angel out of a watercolor painting, her blonde hair curled into a halo and her lips curved in that same practiced, dainty smile you wore. You wondered if hers was fake too. Sherry passed close behind, not quite as polished, but more real—her eyes kinder, her smiles never forced. She gave you a little wave. You returned it. David and Tommy were leaning on a pew across the aisle, laughing too loud for a church, and looking like they didn’t care. They were always just a little too casual. A little too aware of themselves.

You looked back at your mother just as she finished sealing another brunch plan with a light laugh and a gloved touch to someone’s shoulder.

“Let’s go,” she said, turning to you without missing a beat.

You nodded, quiet. Outside, the sun was too bright, and you wondered if Michael was awake. The rest of the day passed in a blur—a soft, pastel-tinted fog of clinking cutlery and forced laughter, of watching life happen around you while your body went through the motions. Brunch was first. One of your mother’s friends, all perfume and pearls, with a baby in tow and a voice too shrill for the tiny restaurant booth. You’d been handed the five-month-old without ceremony, like it was expected, like that’s just what good girls do. So you sat quietly and bounced the baby in your lap while the mothers clinked mimosas and leaned in close, whispering gossip behind manicured hands. The fathers—your own included—spoke in hushed tones about business, about stocks and land and someone’s recent promotion. You were the only one not spoken to.

And that was fine. You were quiet anyway—too quiet, apparently, because your mother had noticed. She turned toward you halfway through brunch, head tilted with that sharp little smile she wore when she was trying to be gentle but meant to needle.

“You’ve been awful quiet today,” she said lightly, eyes flicking between your face and the baby in your arms.

The words cut straight through your trance, and you forced a smile so fast it made your cheeks twitch.

“Oh, just tired,” you heard yourself say—or something like that. You didn’t remember the exact words. But she had nodded, satisfied, and the conversation swept on without you like a current you’d never been meant to swim in anyway.

Brunch passed. So did dinner—another domestic performance, staged and practiced. You watched your mother flutter around the kitchen like an actress in a film from the '50s, fretting over the seasoning, scolding your father for reading the paper at the table. He barely responded, just muttered now and then while chewing on squash and overcooked chicken, his attention more on world events than the people at the table. And you—you played your role. Perfect. Perfect routine. Perfect posture. Perfect skincare, toothbrush, floss, cleanser, toner, moisturizer. Perfect folded towels. Perfect bedspread. Perfect girl.

But when you slid beneath the sheets and stared up at the ceiling in the dark, that perfect feeling evaporated. It wasn’t peace that sat heavy in your chest. It wasn’t even guilt. It was dread. You weren’t supposed to feel this way. Not about him. Not about the man who held your secrets in the curl of his fist, who could snap you like a twig and make it look like art. Who could pull your strings without saying a word. You weren’t supposed to feel lust twisting low in your belly, a slow, poisonous ache that only seemed to grow sharper the more you tried to smother it. It was stupid. It was wrong. It was insane, really—to lie in bed, legs clenched tight beneath the covers, heart hammering just from the memory of his eyes on you. The way he looked. The way he stood. The way he made you feel like a lamb in a den of wolves and somehow grateful for it.

You weren’t supposed to feel anything for Michael Myers. Period. And yet... here you were. Staring at the ceiling like it held answers. Like it could make sense of the mess inside you—the ache, the shame, the twisted, burning want you couldn’t untangle. But the ceiling gave you nothing. Just silence. And that silence was loud enough to drown in. The worst part wasn’t what had happened. It was what was coming. Tomorrow. Because tomorrow was Monday and Mondays meant Criminal Psych 2200. Mondays meant sharing a lecture hall with Michael—the only class your group had with him, the one time he sat close enough that you could feel him. Not beside you, no. Never that. He always chose a seat a few rows up, looming just enough to remind you he was there. Watching.

It was always him above you, quiet and unreadable, a figure in your periphery even when you tried not to look. Sure, you might pass him on campus here and there—in the cafeteria, near the quad, behind the gym. But he was easy enough to avoid then. Background noise. A presence. You could convince yourself he hadn’t even noticed you. But not in that lecture hall. Not when the lights dimmed and the screen flickered to life, and you could feel his stare drag across the back of your neck like smoke. Not when your professor mentioned violent impulses or psychosexual trauma and you swore you saw his head tilt, just slightly, like he was listening differently.

And now... after everything... what would he do? Would he try to talk to you? Come near you? Touch you? You doubted it. The voice in your head—the one you didn’t want to listen to but always did—whispered no. That wasn’t his style. He wasn’t the chase-you-down kind. He didn’t seek attention. He never had. Your interaction with him hadn’t been romantic, not in the typical sense. No flowers. No whispered sweet-nothings. Just heat and breath and the sharp weight of his stare in an old and tiny kitchen. It was intimate, yes. Devastatingly so. But also... off. Disjointed. Strange. If you were being brutally honest with yourself—it had been a little creepy. A little off. Like he was studying you, not wanting you.

Besides, you were fairly certain Michael couldn’t stand anyone in your group. Least of all Tommy. You remembered it—vividly. The way Michael’s jaw had tensed, eyes darkening as Tommy had postured up beside you, puffed-up and loud and oblivious to the danger he was prodding. Michael hadn’t even spoken. He just stood there, towering and silent, looking one breath away from knocking Tommy out cold on the spot. And if you were being honest? A small, awful part of you had wanted him to. So now you were left with this. This dread. This tension. This ache that wouldn't quit. You closed your eyes tight, as if that might chase the thoughts away. But they stayed.

The thoughts stayed with you. All the way through the night. Sleep came in fits, never full, never restful—just pockets of darkness stitched together by the pulse of dreams you couldn’t quite shake. Nightmares bled into one another like ink in water. Stormy blue eyes hovered behind your lids, always watching, always there. The scent of smoke clung to your pillows even though it wasn’t real. You could feel it in your lungs when you breathed too deep. And always, somewhere in the distance of your dreamscape—the shutter of a camera. Flashing. Freezing you in time. Framing your shame.

By the time morning arrived, you were already exhausted. You went through your routine on autopilot—robotic, deliberate. You brushed your teeth. Washed your face. Curled your lashes and dabbed concealer under your eyes to cover the shadows he’d left behind. A bit of gloss. A brush through your hair. The usual. Always the usual. That’s what made you feel normal. The ritual of it. The control. You slipped into a tee-shirt and a pair of high-waisted shorts—something casual, something safe. Paired it with your white sneakers and tied a ribbon in your hair, soft and pale to match the rising heat of late spring. It made you feel just a little put together, like you had some sort of armor on, however flimsy.

Fashionable? Maybe. Relatively. You still tried to keep up, to stay in line with the trends even if they shifted like the wind—long skirts one month, crop tops the next, chokers one week and charm bracelets the other. It was like running to keep from falling behind, from being forgotten. Invisible. But that morning, you didn’t really care if you were trendy. You just wanted to look okay. Not like a girl who'd tossed and turned all night dreaming of a man with rough hands and secrets in his eyes. Not like someone unraveling from the inside out. Because soon, you'd be in the same room as him. And you needed to look like you weren’t thinking about the way he made you feel.

You ate breakfast that morning with a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You wore it like your ribbon—perfectly tied, perfectly placed, part of the costume. You said good morning when prompted. Nodded when asked about your plans. Pressed a kiss to your mother’s cheek, then your father’s. Took your bag. Walked out the door. Just like always. But inside, you were fraying. The first lecture of the morning passed in a haze. You sat still for maybe five minutes before your knee started bouncing. You couldn’t stop it. The movement was small, unconscious—the kind of nervous energy you didn’t even try to hide anymore. The second lecture was worse. The third, the same. And then came the fourth. Criminal Psych 2200.

You sank into your usual seat and tried to keep your breathing even, hands folded politely in your lap like you were paying attention—like you weren’t looking for him. Sammy dropped into the seat beside you, bright as ever, spinning a strand of her blond hair around her finger as she launched straight into one of her usual stories, voice bubbling with excitement.

“You missed it,” she said, her tone practically bouncing. “This guy from out of town kissed me on Saturday—like full-on, in front of everyone—it was so hot. He had one of those denim jackets with the shearling collar? Ugh. We met at the movie when we all went out—you really should’ve come.”

You turned to her with a smile that didn’t quite crack your mask and made all the right noises. Laughed at the right beat, rolled your eyes when expected, tossed your hair back with just enough flourish to stay in sync with the version of you she believed in. The easygoing girl. The cool one. The perfect one. But your mind wasn’t there. Your eyes weren't there. They were darting, restless—to the back of the room, to the side aisle, to the cluster of seats that no one ever touched because they had once been touched by him. He wasn’t there. And your heart did something you didn’t expect—it slowed, just a little. A small breath left your lungs, shaky but relieved. He was skipping class. He did that sometimes. Showed up when he wanted, like the rules never quite applied to him.

And thank God for that. You couldn’t have handled him today. Not after the dreams. Not after the ache that wouldn’t quit. But then... he didn’t show up the next day. Or the next. Not for the rest of the week. No hulking presence in the upper rows. No hoodie pulled low over his eyes. No sense of being watched, of being studied. It was like he vanished. And you tried not to notice. You tried so hard not to care—but the silence he left behind was deafening. He wasn’t in the lecture hall, and not just because your eyes were searching for him—because everyone else was not sitting in the seats near him, like usual. You didn’t even need to ask. You just knew.

He wasn’t around campus either. You kept telling yourself you weren’t looking—not really—but your eyes kept drifting. To the cafeteria door. To the bench outside the library. To the hallway corner where he sometimes leaned, hoodie up, boots crossed, hands in his pockets like he couldn’t be bothered. And by Friday afternoon, your gaze shifted toward the courtyard—the small patch of grass and trees where his usual group hung out. They were all there. Smoking, laughing, talking over each other. He wasn’t. And you didn’t have the courage—or the excuse—to go over and ask. Why would you? What would you even say?

“Hey, where’s Michael?”

“Have you seen the guy I may or may not have stripped half-naked for and cooked dinner?”

“Is the guy who could ruin me on a whim around?”

No. That would be social suicide. You were not about to risk that. No matter what weird... feelings—if you could even call them that—had taken root somewhere in the mess of your mind. You weren't stupid. You’d had a full week to think, to breathe, to settle yourself back into something resembling normal. And with that week under your belt, you’d become more comfortable calling it what it was. Not feelings. Not a crush. Definitely not love. Just... an odd attraction. A chemical fluke. A bizarre glitch in your system that, unfortunately, happened to involve someone stupidly handsome in a brooding, grease-stained, "might kill someone" sort of way. And yes, he had good hands—big, calloused, capable hands — and yes, he had stared at you like a piece of meat, and yes, your body had reacted, but—... that didn’t mean you liked him.

You didn’t. He was just... hot. In that dangerous, probably-has-a-knife-under-his-pillow way. Which wasn’t your type, obviously. You were more into clean-cut, charming, safe. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. So no, this wasn’t emotional. This wasn’t real. Just lust. Just biology. Just a little moment of weakness and a week of overthinking it. And honestly? You were feeling better. Your anxiety had finally started to settle—a little. You weren’t flinching every time you walked across campus. You weren’t checking over your shoulder or scanning every passing truck with a rusted fender. Your breath didn’t catch in your throat every time someone mentioned the word “diary.”

Because there had been no word. No rumors. No hints. No one whispering behind your back. No sideways glances. Just the same old college life—petty drama, cafeteria food, test stress. So... maybe things were fine? Maybe Michael was bored of whatever game he’d started. Maybe he’d read it all and decided you weren’t worth the trouble. Not interesting enough. Not fun enough to toy with. Maybe he was already onto someone else. And that—well. That shouldn’t sting. That should feel like relief. Shouldn’t it?

You didn’t have much time to keep dissecting that so-called relief—not when you were sitting alone on one of the stone benches just outside the Arts & Sciences building, waiting for your next lecture. The campus was calm around you, soft chatter floating through the air as students crossed back and forth between classes, sneakers scuffing the pavement, backpacks bouncing. You were sitting in a patch of sunlight, legs crossed, trying to enjoy the quiet, trying to mean it. You’d been absentmindedly turning your cherry red pager over in your hands, flipping it, checking the screen though you already knew nothing would be there.

And then—Bzzzzt. It vibrated sharply in your palm. You nearly dropped it. Your heart stuttered. Your breath caught in your chest as you stared down at the device like it had just hissed at you. The screen lit up, bright and unmistakable.

8. Library.

Just that. No name. No context. No signature. But you knew. Your lungs started to tighten, your breath catching somewhere between your chest and your throat. Your fingers gripped the pager a little too hard, thumb hovering like maybe you could delete the message just by willing it away. You looked up, instinctively scanning the crowd. No sign of him. Not anywhere. No figure in a hoodie. No familiar boots. Just regular students milling about, laughing, yelling to friends, stuffing books into bags. The same old Friday shuffle.

But everything inside you had gone completely still. Completely electric. You knew who had sent it. There was no one else it could be. And that brief comfort you'd been trying to build all week? That artificial sense of safety you'd stitched together like a fraying blanket? Gone. Ripped clean off your shoulders. Your thumb slowly brushed over the message again, rereading it like the words might change, like they hadn’t been etched into your spine the moment they appeared.

8. Library.

You wouldn’t lie—at least, not to yourself. A part of you was curious. Maybe even... excited. Your stomach fluttered with something sharp and guilty, a familiar ache twisting just under your ribs as your thumb skimmed over the glowing message again. 8. Library. It had to be him. There was no one else. No one else who would dare. No one else who would even think to do it. Still, concern flickered somewhere behind your chest. You hadn’t exactly planned for a covert rendezvous. If he did mean 8 PM... how were you supposed to manage that without drawing suspicion? You’d barely gotten away with it before. Your parents had been more watchful lately, and your mother had been especially keen on your “early evenings” and “healthy bedtime routines.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Then rolled the pager again between your fingers, thinking. Well… you’d just have to get creative. And if there was one thing you were good at, it was finding acceptable excuses for unacceptable behavior. You had a collection of them stored away, ready to be rotated as needed. You glanced up at the courtyard. Sammy was across the way now, sitting on the grass, head tilted back to soak in the sun, giggling at something Sherry was saying. Bingo. Guess it’s Sammy’s turn to be your scapegoat. You smiled to yourself—tight and calculated—already plotting the half-truths and sugar-coated lies you’d feed your parents over dinner. Something about a late study session. A group project. Sammy needing help. Something believable. Something mother-approved. You tucked the pager into your bag like it hadn’t sent your pulse spiraling. But the truth was... your heart was already halfway to the library.

So that night, as you sat at the dinner table, you found yourself gently poking at your carrots, the tiny movements automatic but somehow restless. Your mother caught the gesture, shooting you a pointed glare over her fork, her perfectly manicured nails tapping the edge of her plate with quiet disapproval. You blinked, folding your napkin neatly into your lap, then lifted your eyes to meet hers. Your smile was soft, practiced—the kind that said I’m compliant, but I have my own plans.

“I’m going to head over to Sammy’s for a bit,” you said evenly, voice light but steady. “Is that okay?”

Your mother’s painted red lips pursed, and one perfectly arched eyebrow lifted in that curious, Southern way she always had—the look that meant I’m not buying it, but I’m willing to listen.

“Why?” she asked, voice smooth but edged with suspicion.

You hesitated just the barest moment, then replied, “She needs help with some homework. A group project.”

It was only half a lie, but the half you needed. Your mother narrowed her eyes but didn’t press further. Instead, she nodded slowly, folding her napkin and setting it aside like a small truce.

“Alright. Be home early, okay?” she said, the warning clear beneath the surface.

You gave her a tight smile and nodded, already feeling the thrill of the evening ahead humming beneath your skin. And that’s how you found yourself in your bedroom, standing in front of your dresser as you carefully sifted through your jeans. Your fingers paused on a pair of Calvin Klein dark denim—sleek, inconspicuous, but still undeniably stylish. Expensive, yes, but worth every penny for nights like this. Nights when you needed to blend in and stand out all at once. You pulled them on with a practiced ease, the fabric hugging your legs just right. Then you grabbed a light green tee-shirt, soft and breathable, and tied the hem just so at your waist. It lifted just enough to reveal a teasing sliver of skin, subtle but bold—daring, maybe, but not reckless. Just enough to remind yourself you were still in control.

In the mirror, you pulled your hair back loosely, securing it with a simple hair tie. A few strands escaped to frame your face, softening the look and keeping it effortless. You’d kept your makeup from earlier—the gentle sweep of mascara, the natural flush of blush, a gloss that caught the light without shouting for attention. One last nod to yourself, steady and sure. Then you slipped on your sneakers, grabbing your bag more for appearances than necessity. You weren’t carrying much—just the essentials and that small, secret flutter of anticipation tucked deep in your chest.

At the front door, you kissed your mother and father on the cheek, offering a quiet promise to be back soon. Their smiles were warm but wary, a silent reminder that your world was still watched, still measured. You stepped outside, the cool evening air brushing against your skin as you made your way back toward campus. The fading light cast long shadows on the pavement, shadows you didn’t mind blending into. If your mother called Sammy’s place, she’d hear the same story she always did—that you were there, safe and sound. You knew Sammy would lie without hesitation if there was any hint of drama. It was who she was—the drama queen of your little circle, always ready to cover for you, to fan the flames just enough to keep things interesting, but never dangerous. And tonight, you were grateful for that.

You could depend on Sammy for that, at least. Tugging your bag a little closer to your side, you kept walking, the soft slap of your sneakers against the pavement syncing oddly with the steady thrum of your racing heart. Each step was a countdown—a beat closer to whatever waited for you tonight. Would he finally give you back your diary? Would he even show up? Maybe he’d take you back to his place—the rundown house you still couldn’t quite believe belonged to him. The thought sent a strange mix of anticipation and dread coiling in your gut. But the library? That wasn’t what you’d expected. You’d thought for sure the place where he summoned you the first time would be your meeting point again. So maybe... maybe he just wanted to talk. To say something. To break the silence that had stretched between you like a wire, tight and ready to snap.

But jeez... when had Michael Myers ever really talked? A few words, maybe. Short sentences that felt like grudges or warnings. Not the kind of thing that would fill a room or settle the air. It almost felt insane to imagine him stringing together a real, long conversation with you—like it was some twisted fantasy, a movie scene that couldn’t be real. You shook yourself out of your spiraling thoughts as you stepped onto campus, the late-evening silence wrapping around you like a cloak. The courtyards were dead quiet, shadows pooling beneath the lampposts, the occasional rustle of leaves the only sound breaking the stillness. The library loomed ahead—that massive, brick fortress of knowledge and secrets. Its windows glowed faintly, but you knew it should’ve been closed by now, especially on a Friday night.

Curious, you reached out and pushed on one of the heavy glass doors. It gave way, sliding open without a creak or a groan. Unlocked. Your breath caught, but you stepped inside anyway. Passing the librarian’s desk—deserted, papers stacked in neat piles—you followed the glow of the overhead lights, tracing the path down the familiar halls. Your feet carried you forward until you reached the bean bag chair, that soft, inviting spot where everything had started. You stopped and stared at it for a moment, heart pounding, mind racing. The air smelled faintly of old paper and dust, comforting and strange all at once. You glanced around the quiet room, voice tentative.

“Uhm... Michael-?”

Before your words could even finish, a sharp, strangled scream caught in your throat—cut off by the sudden, rough grip on the collar of your tee-shirt. Your body jolted as you were yanked backward. Your shoes skidded and squeaked across the polished floor, the suddenness making you stumble. Panic surged as you fought to regain your balance, struggling against the force dragging you along. But then—your eyes locked onto the hand gripping you. Calloused. Unyielding. You caught the rough fabric of the custodian’s uniform. Recognition flickered through the haze of your fear, and for a heartbeat, you relaxed.

But not for long. Because he wasn’t just holding you. He was dragging you—hard and fast—across the library floor. Toward a door you hadn’t noticed before, tucked away just off to the side. Your breath hitched. Your heart slammed against your ribs like a trapped bird. The cold fingers of dread wrapped tight around your spine. Was this it? Had he grown tired of the game? Was this the moment he decided to end it all? But no.

He hadn’t killed you. He hadn’t snapped your neck or thrown you down and left you there. Instead—he had dragged you into that cramped, dimly lit custodian closet, shoved the door closed with the weight of your body, and took your mouth like it belonged to him. No warning. No preamble. Just heat. Pressure. Possession. And God, what a kiss it had been... that was why you were still standing there now—stunned, blinking through the sting of smoke that curled from the cigarette between his fingers, your back still pressed against the splintered door. Your breath came in slow, uneven drags, like your lungs hadn’t quite caught up with the rest of you.

Your heart was a drum in your throat. Your lips felt swollen. Your thighs were trembling, just barely. And somewhere beneath the haze of confusion and adrenaline, your core throbbed with a slow, traitorous ache that you didn’t dare name out loud. The closet was too small for this—barely enough space for the two of you with the shelves, cleaning supplies, a mop bucket you were trying not to bump into. The air was warm and stale, the scent of chemicals clinging to the walls and the floor. You were almost certain you spotted mold in one of the back corners, but you couldn’t care less. Not when he was in front of you, smoke curling from his lips, head tilted slightly downward.

You studied him in fragments. The navy-blue custodial coverall—denim, slightly worn, not tight, but not loose either—hugging his frame in all the right places. The heavy boots scuffed and planted wide. His blond hair hung slightly over his forehead this time, a bit damp at the edges. And on his head: a dark blue cap, the brim dipping just low enough to hide most of his eyes—though you could still feel them on you, heavy and assessing, like he could read every thought racing through your mind. He hadn't said anything else after that single brutal line—You're a shitty fucking kisser—but the words still echoed in your skull.

God. You were a shitty kisser? That stung. That really, really stung. You couldn’t stop thinking about it now. Maybe all those fumbling moments with past boyfriends—those forgettable makeouts, the ones that never lit anything inside you—maybe it really had been you the whole time. Maybe you were the common denominator. Maybe the problem wasn’t Richie or bad technique or nerves. Maybe it was just you. You didn’t get much time to sulk or spiral—not with your gaze catching the subtle flicker of movement from his direction. His hand came up, pulling the cigarette from his lips, fingers stained at the tips, rough, steady. He flicked the ash to the floor like he didn’t care about consequences—like he never had. Then came the voice. That low, scratchy baritone, now thick with smoke and heat and something unnameable.

“Turn around.”

Two words. Spoken like an order. Like a promise. You blinked. Stared. Your brows furrowed, your brain trying to keep up, still slow from the aftermath of his kiss, still buzzing from the sting of his earlier insult.

“What—?”

“Turn around." The edge in his voice sharpened. “Not gonna ask again.”

There it was—the warning beneath the words. He gave commands once. And you obeyed... or you didn’t. And if you didn’t? You didn’t want to test your luck. So you moved. Hesitantly, carefully, you turned around to face the door—the wood pressing cool against your chest as you blinked slowly, your pulse thudding against your ribcage like a warning bell. What the hell were you doing? This was insane. This was insane. Standing in a dingy little custodian’s closet, turning around for a man who barely spoke in full sentences, who held your secrets in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A man who kissed you like he’d been starving for years and suddenly decided you were the feast.

You weren’t stupid. You knew where this was going. Your breathing hitched as you heard him inhale again—that long, deliberate drag of his cigarette. Then came the sound of shifting fabric, the heavy brush of denim against denim. And then—

“Drop your jeans.”

The words came out like smoke—low, hot, curling around your spine and down into your core. Your fingers twitched. Your brain screamed at you to think, to say something, to stop. But this time, you didn’t protest. You didn’t try to appeal to logic or dignity or whatever brittle excuse of self-control you had left. You didn’t even try to silence the voice inside you—that pitiful little whisper telling you this was wrong, that you shouldn’t be doing this. Instead, you just bit down hard on your lower lip, teeth digging in until you felt the sting, grounding yourself in the pain because everything else in your body was coming undone.

Your hands trembled as they moved—fumbling at the button on your waistband, struggling for a second before it popped open with a soft snap. Then came the zipper, slow and louder than it should’ve been in the suffocating silence of the closet. You shimmied the denim down past your hips and thighs, the fabric dragging against skin that suddenly felt far too exposed. Just to your knees. Just enough. And God, the air hit you immediately—cool and sharp, making your skin pebble and your thighs clench. You didn’t dare turn around. You didn’t dare look at him. You wanted to close your eyes in shame. To disappear.

But you couldn’t.

Not when you knew what he could see now. The baby blue cotton hugging you tight, innocent in color but soaked through in the center, that damp little patch clinging obscenely to the heat between your legs. You felt it—felt the way it stuck slightly to your folds, a humiliating, uncontrollable confession. And worse, you remembered what you’d chosen this morning—the matching bra, soft and pretty and sweet, like you’d dressed yourself up for someone. Had you? God. You didn’t want to ask that.

You were burning—from your cheeks to your chest to the pulsing ache between your legs—and behind you, he hadn’t said a word. But you could feel him looking. You could feel his stare like hands across your hips. You didn’t know if you wanted to cry or moan. Maybe both. You stayed there, breath hitched, face hot, jeans clinging awkwardly at your knees, feeling like prey served up on a silver platter. You kept chewing on your bottom lip, almost raw now, the nerves too much, the silence too loud.

He had to like you... right?

This—all of this—it had to mean something. The games. The silence. The pages of your diary still in his hands. The way he snapped his fingers and you came running like a trained thing, a loyal little mutt waiting to be seen. It wasn’t just about control. It couldn’t be. It was because he liked you. It had to be. He just didn’t know how to show it. Didn’t know how to say it. That made sense... didn’t it? Your voice cracked the still air like something delicate and bruised.

“Michael... do... do you maybe...” A breath. “Do you... like me?”

Silence. Nothing but your own heartbeat and the faint buzz of the overhead light, a distant hum vibrating through your skull like judgment. Then came the sounds. The rustle of fabric. The slow, familiar zip of a fly being undone. The soft swish of cotton being pushed down. And then—heat. The warmth of him at your back, moving in closer. Larger than you. Heavier. Like a storm cloud leaning over your frame, pressing his presence into the space between you and the door. You could feel the shadow of his body swallow you whole, blocking the yellow light overhead, replacing it with something darker.

Your breath hitched. The cigarette dropped beside your foot, and you heard the slow, deliberate crunch as his boot twisted over it, grinding it into the tile. Then... a sound. Wet. Muffled. You flinched, brows furrowing, eyes screwing shut. Spitting? Oh God. You didn’t even have time to process it. Not before you felt his hands—rough and calloused—settle on the tender inside of your thighs. Big palms, strong fingers, sliding up with purpose, until they gripped and held you open. And then... something wet. His fingers spread it along your skin—warm, slick, and obscene—dragging it across your thighs and higher, the sensation making your breath stutter and your knees wobble.

Your breath caught. Not from the heat. Not from the weight of his body pressing behind you or the way his breath tickled the shell of your ear. But from that single word. That sharp, cold syllable that sliced through the thick, molten air like a blade to the gut.

“Nah.”

You blinked. What? Then came the rest—delivered low, slow, deliberate—each word soaked in venom, curling like smoke around your throat and tightening.

"You're just easy."

The bottom dropped out of you. Like your stomach had been ripped clean through and left somewhere on the floor between the mop bucket and the crushed cigarette. All that warmth, that nervous anticipation, that traitorous hope swelling in your chest—snuffed out in an instant. You felt your face burn, not from arousal this time, but from something jagged. Something shameful. You bit your lip harder, not to suppress a moan—but a sound closer to a sob. And still, your body stayed open for him. Still trembling. Still wanting. That was the worst part. That even now—humiliated, heart cracking, thighs slick with spit and sweat—you were aching for more. Even now, as his words shattered any illusion you might’ve let yourself believe in... your core clenched down on the empty space between your legs like it had been made for him. You didn’t have to wait long.

His hands slid to your outer thighs, fingers curling tight, and with a sudden press inward he forced your legs to clamp together—locking him in place between them. You gasped, a choked little sound caught between your lips, as something thick and hot settled flush against your already damp underwear. You didn’t have to see it to know what it was. The heat of him, heavy and pulsing, nestled right up against your soaked core. Your thighs squeezed involuntarily around it, like your body knew exactly what to do, like it had been waiting for this moment all damn week.

Oh God. You bit down on the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper. Behind you, he exhaled—low and harsh, almost a pant. Then a grunt. Then came the motion: a slow, rough snap of his hips that ground his cock between your thighs, gliding along with the slick mess you were already making and the crude wetness he’d added himself.

Snap.

Snap.

Again. And again. The rhythm built—dirty and deliberate—his cock dragging along the soaked cotton of your panties, rutting between your thighs with a feral hunger. Every pass rubbed hard against your labia, the friction maddening. Every thrust pushed your underwear against your clit, dragging it up and over that aching bundle of nerves until your breath hitched and your forehead thumped forward softly against the door. It felt good. So good it made your knees tremble and your fists clench. Your thighs were sticky, shaking, your pulse in your ears a wild, relentless pounding. Every movement made your body jolt slightly, your cunt clenching down on nothing, desperate for more.

Physically? You were dizzy. Floating. Humming. But emotionally? Emotionally, it wrecked you. Because no matter how good it felt—no matter how your body screamed yes—your heart was splintering under the weight of his words. You were just easy. Just another warm body. Another bottle to fuck between his fingers and toss aside when he was done. You weren’t special. You weren’t anything. Just a girl with her jeans around her knees, moaning into the dark, letting the devil use her because it felt like love when he breathed heavy against your skin.

Your eyes screwed shut, lashes clinging with heat and sweat, and you panted quietly against the door—cheek almost brushing the chipped wood, trying to keep from falling apart. His scent clung to everything. Smoke, sweat, motor oil, and something purely male—like heat and dust and something darker that pulsed beneath the surface. It filled your nose, coated your tongue, wrapped itself around your brain and wouldn’t let go. And through it all, he was quiet. Not silent. Just... restrained. Breathing hard, yes—heavy, unfiltered exhales like he couldn’t catch his breath. But no filthy groans or whispered praise. No pretty lies. Just low, rumbling sounds barely there, more felt than heard—like distant thunder rolling through his chest. Like he wasn’t trying to seduce you. Like he wasn’t trying at all.

And yet... he was unraveling you anyway. Your fists clenched against the door, knuckles white, nails biting into your palms as his rough thrusts dragged his cock up between your thighs again and again—forcing your hips to roll in time. You weren’t moving on purpose. That’s what you told yourself. But your body betrayed you. It snapped forward, ground back. Each time he bucked, your ass pushed into him. Your hips flexed downward on instinct, grinding your clit harder against the slick heat of your soaked underwear. It wasn’t precise. It wasn’t delicate. But it was working. God, it was working.

The pressure was coiling fast, tight, dizzying. That white-hot edge was racing up your spine and making your thighs quake. You’d touched yourself before. You knew your body. You’d brought yourself over the edge in the quiet dark more times than you could count. But never like this. Never this fast. Never this messy. Never this unfair—with your heart full of static and your mind full of his voice calling you easy, and your cunt dripping for the very man who saw right through you. Maybe it was the situation. Maybe it was the chaos in your chest. Maybe it was him.

His breath. His weight. The low grunt you finally caught when your thighs clenched just a little tighter around him. Maybe it was the fact that Michael Myers hadn’t even fucked you yet. And already, you were seconds away from falling apart. You had forgotten one thing. One crucial thing in the haze of his scent and the ache between your thighs and the pathetic, stupid little hope blooming in your chest like a weed trying to break through concrete. Michael Myers was cruel. That had never changed.

You just didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to believe it. Even when he made you undress in that too-quiet kitchen, standing there in nothing but your bra and panties while he watched you like something half-wild and wholly amused, even then you had told yourself there was something deeper beneath it. Something that might almost resemble care. But no. He reminded you exactly who he was—and how little he thought of you—when he gave a low, shuddering breath, ground forward once more, and then stilled. You froze. You felt it almost immediately: that sudden, unmistakable heat spreading across the soaked cotton between your thighs. Warm, wet, and thick.His release spilled against your ruined underwear, seeping into the fabric, bleeding through your folds, and slowly dripping down—wetting your skin and leaking into the crotch of your jeans still tangled around your knees.

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there, stunned and shaking and so, so close to your own release you could still feel it trembling in your thighs—burning in your core, like a spark about to take. And then he pulled back. No warning. No apology. Just silence. He pulled away fully, took his warmth with him, and left you pressed up against the door with your legs trembling, your cunt pulsing, and your orgasm stolen. Ripped away. You stood there—wet, used, aching—and he said nothing. Just left you on the edge of bliss with nothing but his semen between your legs and a bitter taste in your mouth.

A lesson, sharp and final. You weren’t special. You were just easy. That’s what you deserved... wasn’t it? You stood there with your jeans halfway down your legs, your panties soaked through with spit and slick and the warmth of his release still dripping onto your thighs. This was punishment. This was unfair justice. For the cruel, pretty girl who once thought herself better. For the girl who played a joke she didn’t even want to play. For the girl who chased the lonely boy in the halls with soft smiles and shallow courage, only to recoil the second he looked back. For the girl who wrote things she should have burned instead—dark things, cruel things, vulnerable things. You’d written about your friends, too. The secrets they never asked you to keep. The ways they annoyed you. The lies you’d pretended not to notice. You cursed them in ink. You cursed yourself too, didn’t you?

You wrote about him. The boy you hurt, and the boy you worshipped from a distance. The one you never really saw, not for who he was. Michael Myers. And now? Now, you were a mess of slick thighs and ruined underwear and a heartbeat so loud it made your teeth ache. Now, you were broken open, reduced to this small, trembling thing against a janitor's closet door. And God—you were so fucking stupid, weren’t you?

“M-Michael... I—I didn’t—”

You tried. Tried to explain, to beg, to reach for him in the only way you knew how. Your voice came out cracked, torn in the middle, desperate to hold back the dam of emotion behind it. Anger. Sorrow. Shame. That insidious thread of disbelief. And worst of all—the ache. Because a part of you still wanted him to say something. Anything. Anything that would make him scratch that terrible itch inside you. But he stayed quiet. Of course he did. Because Michael wasn’t the fairytale you’d conjured in your head. He wasn’t the one who gave you the kiss you dreamed of, even if it had checked every box—even if it had made your knees buckle and your lungs collapse.

He wasn’t your prince. He wasn’t even your brooding rogue with a secret heart of gold. He was the villain. The shadow. The one that waited in the dark to remind you who you really were when the lights went out. The one who found the softest part of you and pressed his thumb right into it. Michael wasn’t going to give you a happy ending. He was going to ruin you. You glanced down slowly, spotting something white and thick pooling at the crotch seam of your jeans.

Fuck. Your expensive jeans—your good brand fucking name jeans, the ones your mother had proudly bought for you—now marked and stained. You already heard her voice in your head, sharp and unforgiving, ready to scold you for ruining something so precious. Did he do that on purpose? A small, cruel whisper inside you said yes. Before you could even react, something hit your shoulder and dropped at your feet—a rag, worn and grimy.

“Clean up and get out.”

You blinked, stunned.

“... what?”

Your voice came out incredulous, your head whipping around to find Michael already halfway into his boiler suit, zipper climbing up fast while your thoughts scattered in the haze of shock. He pulled the crumpled cigarette carton from his pocket, ready to grab another smoke.

“I said... clean up, and get the fuck out.”

There was no room for argument. No softness in his tone—just cold, hard finality. You stared at him, the hot sting of angry tears threatening to spill, burning behind your eyes. So this was it. This was how it was going to be. He was an asshole. A cruel, merciless asshole. And somehow, impossibly, you were hooked on him—hooked on this infuriating, impossible, maddening man who held your heart in one hand and could tear it out with the other. You wanted to spit in his face. So you did. Gathering what little spit you had left, you shot it toward his boots—your aim far worse than your anger. The wet glob missed him by a good few inches, splattering against the floor with a pathetic plop. His head dipped, eyes narrowing on the mess, then slowly lifted back to yours. Without a word, he slid a cigarette out of the crumpled carton, lit it with a practiced flick of his lighter, and took a long drag—smoke curling from his lips like a dark promise.

“Funny,” he said, voice low and thick with sarcasm. “Don’t act like you didn’t want it. You’re still fucking soaked.”

He blew a slow plume of smoke in your direction, eyes sharp and cold.

“Be a big girl, yeah, princess?”

That nickname—sharp and mocking—cut through the haze of shame and heat, leaving you raw and breathless, standing there in the dim light, trapped between your own desire and his brutal indifference. Yeah. He was a fucking asshole. And somehow, that just made everything worse.

Chapter Text

If there was one stark, irrefutable conclusion you'd come to throughout this whole sordid arrangement, it was this: you harbored a gut-deep, bone-deep, soul-deep hatred for Michael Myers. Not the kind of hate that burned loud. Not the petty, surface-level sort where you vent to your friends over coffee or scribble expletives in the margins of your planner beside his name. No, this was different. More insidious. More... quiet. It lived in you like a second pulse—constant, low-grade, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. You didn’t go out of your way to ruin him. Didn’t leave nasty notes on his windshield or gossip in hushed tones about the things he’d done. But if someone else did?

You’d watch. You’d smile, just barely. And if they asked you to hand them the megaphone, you might—just might—ask what station they’d like to broadcast on. Still, if you were being honest—and honesty was a habit you were trying to build these days, one uncomfortable truth at a time—you weren’t much better than him. Not lately. You’d lied. You’d snuck out. You’d manipulated the people who loved you. You’d stared into the mirror and hardly recognized the girl blinking back. So maybe you were both awful. Cut from the same jagged, rusted metal—just sanded down differently. He was fire, and you were smoke. He ripped doors off hinges, and you twisted the locks behind you. Same outcome. Different strategy.

Still. You were convinced he was worse. Objectively, irrevocably, infuriatingly worse. He was a platinum-tier bastard. The kind that didn't have to raise his voice to get under your skin. All sharp corners and silent judgments, always watching you like you were something wild and pitiful—something to be tolerated, maybe studied. With those cold, dead-serious eyes that looked like they’d seen the end of the world and decided to stay. That crooked mouth. That horrible, beautiful face. That voice like smoke laced with gravel—low and guttural and completely undeserved. You hated the way he stood too close. You hated the way he barely touched you but made it feel like you’d been handled. You hated the fact that your stomach dropped when he looked at you too long.

And yet. God help you, you lusted after him. That was the part that kept you up at night. Not the fear. Not the memories. The want. The raw, ridiculous ache that tied your logic in knots and made you dream in heat and motion and breathless silence. You told yourself it was possible. To hate someone and want them in equal measure. That it didn’t have to make sense. That your body could betray your better judgment and you’d still come out the other side in one piece. You told yourself that enough times, it became a mantra. A shield. A whispered prayer. I hate him, but I want him. I hate him, but I want him. And maybe if you said it enough, it would feel less shameful. Less dangerous.

This fragile little lie was what kept your arrangement intact—if you could even call it that. There’d been no conversation. No agreement. Just the aftermath of that one brutal, breathless mistake in the janitor’s closet. One reckless act that neither of you addressed afterward. No follow-up. No explanation. Instead, there was just... a shift. A change in the air. Now, Michael only called you over in the evenings. Always to his house. Never anywhere else. Never during the day. The daylight, it seemed, was yours to live freely. To play pretend. You didn’t know him, didn’t speak to him, didn’t even acknowledge his existence beyond the most cursory flick of your eyes if he happened to appear in your periphery. You got to go about your day like you were clean. Normal. Like there wasn’t something rotten in your chest that only woke up when the sun dipped low.

And Michael? He was back at school like nothing had changed. Like the nights he had dragged you around were just long, shared dreams you both conveniently forgot come morning. He never approached you. Never said a word. The most you ever got was a glance—steady, unsettling—from across the hall or over the rim of his book in a crowded classroom. But then again... he’d always stared at you like that. Even before this whole mess started. Before the closet. Before the shift. And you? You’d reined yourself in too. No more soft hellos. No more lingering looks when you managed to find him alone. No more quiet, almost-affection in your voice when you said his name. Now, if you happened to catch him in a hallway or stumbled into the same empty stairwell, you didn’t say a damn thing. You gave him a single, cutting look—sharp enough to draw blood—and then turned on your heel and left.

That was your unspoken deal. The days belonged to you. The nights belonged to Michael. It wasn’t complicated. And you were content to keep it that way. Whatever existed between you two, whatever this godawful dynamic was—it didn’t need to breathe in the daylight. Nothing good would come from someone finding out. Not for you. Definitely not for him. This thing—this quiet, crawling, desperate thing—was best kept in the dark. Like mold. Or secrets. Or him. Still, if you had one complaint—one real, tangible, nails-on-a-chalkboard complaint—it was this: you hated his room.

Not the house. You could deal with the house. Laurie did what she could with the place, God bless her. The first floor was passable. The kitchen always smelled vaguely like burnt toast and Pine-Sol. Even the living room had an air of weary charm, with its old lamps and threadbare throw blankets. The second floor was trickier, sure, but tolerable in small doses. But his room? His room was an active affront to your senses. That was where he took you. Every time. Without fail. Without thought. Like it didn’t even occur to him to ask if you wanted to go elsewhere. The first time you walked in—reluctant, silently fuming, already regretting every choice that had led you to his door—you’d been caught off guard. You weren’t expecting luxury, of course. But you hadn’t been expecting a biohazard site either.

It was less a bedroom and more a museum of neglect. The carpet was a crime against humanity—matted, stained, inexplicably sticky in some corners. The furniture looked like it had been stolen from a garage sale and then left to rot. There were wrappers everywhere—crumpled, shiny, half-tucked under the bed or kicked into corners. Fast food containers. Empty water bottles. Napkins with stains you didn’t even want to guess at. A few old glasses sat around, their contents long gone but the rims still cloudy with something that might’ve once been soda... or something far more sinister. And the smell. Not unbearable. But wrong. Like sweat and dust and maybe something dead under the floorboards. It made your skin crawl. It made your standards sob.

The desk looked like a tomb—dust blanketing most of it, save for the narrow twin patches where his forearms must have regularly rested. Everything else—the scattered notebooks with curled corners, pens chewed halfway to death, the rusting tools, the mangled lighters—lay in disorganized chaos. A graveyard of apathy. Even the air above it felt heavier somehow, like it had long since learned how to hold its breath. The window was no better. A single crack etched in the upper corner had splintered outward like veins, slicing across the pane in jagged, unhealing lines. At night, it let in a cold draft that whistled when the wind blew just right—like the house was trying to scream through the damage. The blinds, if you could even call them that anymore, were a mess of bent plastic slats and snapped cords. One dangled sideways, hanging on by a thread like it had seen too much and was begging for mercy. And you sympathized. You really did.

The walls didn’t fare much better. They’d absorbed years of neglect and abuse, now stained with the sort of grime that couldn't be scrubbed out with elbow grease and good intentions. You didn’t know what color they had been originally. Beige, maybe? Pale yellow? It didn’t matter. Now they were streaked with soot-like shadows and yellowing water lines near the ceiling, ghost trails of something rotting from the inside out. It smelled like old smoke and wet drywall, like mildew crawling through the bones of the house. And then, of course, there were the ashtrays. God, the ashtrays. Every flat surface had one—or more. Overflowing. Unemptied. Brutal little mountains of gray ash and bent cigarette butts, some burned down to the filter, others snuffed out halfway through like he’d gotten bored or distracted or disgusted with himself. The room reeked of it—stale smoke, soaked into the walls, into the carpet, into you. You smelled like him when you left. You tasted it in your mouth long after he was done with you. It made your throat itch. Your eyes sting.

Was he a chronic smoker? You didn’t need to ask. You lived the answer every time you crossed the threshold. But the worst part—the absolute nadir of it all, the epicenter of your suffering—was the bed. It wasn’t a bed. It was a fucking insult. Just a bare mattress on a squeaky wire frame shoved into a corner like he was punishing it. Or like it had done something wrong. No fitted sheet. No headboard. No comforter. Just a limp, ratty blanket that looked like it had been dragged through a storm and then left to rot. It had once been blue, you thought, or maybe green—but now it was the color of dishwater. Faded. Dingy. Frayed at every edge. And the pillow. The pillow. You hated that goddamn pillow with a special kind of rage.

It was the color of old teeth. The kind of yellow that made you instinctively recoil, like you were looking at something diseased. It had no shape anymore. Just a flattened, hopeless lump that looked like it had been screamed into, cried on, suffocated with. You didn’t want to touch it, let alone rest your head on it. You didn’t even want to breathe near it. The night he called you afte that mess in the closet, you hadn’t known what to expect. You’d knocked like an idiot—hesitant, heartbeat stuttering, a stupid part of you still believing this could maybe be normal—and he’d opened the door and pulled you inside without a word. No greeting. No expression. Just cold fingers around your wrist, leading you upstairs like this was a foregone conclusion.

And when he opened the door to that you stopped cold. The hallway carpet was scratchy under your shoes, but you dug your heels into it like it could protect you from whatever lived inside that room. You froze. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. You just stood there, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, taking in the wreckage of who he was. It took him five seconds—maybe less—to lose patience. He turned, grabbed you by the wrist, and hauled you in. Not gently. Not roughly either. Just decisively, like he didn’t care how you felt about it. Like your reluctance was just another piece of furniture he had to navigate around.

He let go once you crossed the threshold, like that was enough. Like you’d made your choice now and it was too late to unmake it. And in a panic—because your skin was crawling, because you were humiliated, because your brain had turned to static—you darted forward and perched yourself on the edge of the mattress, like it was safer than standing. You didn’t lean back. You didn’t touch the pillow. You sat hunched over, arms around your knees, breathing through your mouth and trying not to look at anything too long. Your eyes fixed on the floor. On your shoelaces. You told yourself to calm down, to stop overreacting, to deal with it.

He didn’t say a word at first. Just sank into his desk chair like it was a throne, assuming his place with that eerie stillness he wore like a second skin. He sat there like a judge—unsmiling, unmoved, eyes fixed on you with the kind of slow, unsettling scrutiny that made you feel dissected. Not violated exactly... more like studied. As if he were cataloging you, trying to decide what kind of creature you were beneath the skin. His gaze dragged over your frame—unreadable, steady, there—until the silence sharpened, stretched thin and tight like wire between you.

You only looked up because the quiet got too loud. That’s when your eyes caught on something else—something worse than his stare. His closet doors. Double doors, cheap and swollen at the hinges, their thin wood panels badly painted over through the years. The current coat—some bland off-white—was cracked and peeling in places, revealing old layers beneath like sediment. But it wasn’t the paint that made your stomach twist. It was the masks. They were everywhere. Pinned to the doors, taped along the edges, strung up from thumbtacks hammered into the frame. Dozens of them—maybe more. A chaotic museum of faces. Some were store-bought, shiny plastic grins with hollow eyes. Others were grotesque things shaped from paper and glue and too much time, their features smeared and exaggerated like nightmares sculpted by hand. A few had been painted with unsettling detail—lashes, pupils, broken teeth—while others looked like the result of angry, directionless rage, slashed across with thick red strokes or blacked out entirely.

They weren’t organized. They weren’t symmetrical. They weren’t meant to be admired. They were watching. Slumped as you were on the edge of that grimy mattress, you couldn’t help but stare back, mouth slightly ajar, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. You almost whispered it—what the fuck—but the words dried out before they left your mouth. There was no need to say it out loud anyway. It was obvious now. The whispers about him being abnormal? The warnings you brushed off? The rumors that made you roll your eyes? They were all true. Michael Myers was a freak. In the most clinical, bone-deep, unsettling sense of the word. And then came that quiet certainty—the kind that doesn't scream but settles heavy and final in the pit of your stomach: he might actually kill you.

Maybe not tonight. Maybe not ever. But it wasn’t a stretch anymore. It wasn’t some abstract, dramatic thought born of fear. It was real. It was logical. Probable. He could do it. Stab you, crush your windpipe, break your neck. And not out of rage—no, that would be too human. It would be because he wanted to. Because he was curious. Because he had nothing better to do. But he didn’t move. Not one inch. He just sat, that godawful chair creaking slightly beneath his weight, legs spread like a warning, arms lax, fingers drumming once against his thigh. His eyes never left yours. They didn’t flick to the door, didn’t drop to your hands, didn’t blink. Not even once. You stayed where you were, curled in on yourself like something wounded, every instinct in your body telling you not to run, not to speak, not to draw attention—like he was a bear, and if you moved too quickly, he’d strike. So you stared at your knees. You counted your breaths. You tried not to cry.

The house was so quiet you could hear the tick of the wall clock downstairs, distant and slow. There was a hum too, faint and constant—maybe from a mini-fridge tucked away somewhere, or a dying air vent struggling to push out heat. Whatever it was, it did little to soften the edges of the moment. It only made everything feel closer. Intimate in the worst possible way. Time passed, and with it, something in your chest started to loosen—not in relief, but in sheer exhaustion. Your eyes grew heavy. Your back ached. You felt the weight of the day pressing down, dragging your head forward despite every instinct that screamed: don’t sleep here. Don’t sleep around him. But your body betrayed you. You began to slump. And that’s when he finally moved. Just his head at first. Turning slow, deliberate, like some mechanical thing winding to life. His voice followed. Low. Gravelly. Drenched in disuse.

“Leave.”

That was it. You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t speak. You bolted—door thrown open with a force that rattled the hinges, shoes slipping on the landing as you tore down the stairs and out into the night. You didn’t stop until your house came into view, until the familiar porch lights blinked at you like a lighthouse through the fog of your panic. Your lungs were on fire, your breath coming in ragged pulls as you stumbled up your steps, muttering curses under your breath like they might somehow undo what just happened. You didn’t even remember unlocking the door—just collapsing inside, locking it again with shaking hands. You told yourself you were done. That you weren’t stupid enough to go back. That whatever fascination—or madness—had dragged you into his orbit was over now. Finished. Dead.

But then, two nights later, he paged. No hello. No explanation. Just a curt, familiar message on the other end of the device, followed by silence. And something in you—something sick and shivering and addicted—picked up your bag and went. Again. It started the same. Door already cracked open, like he’d been waiting. No words. Just a rough hand that grabbed your wrist and pulled you across the threshold like you were nothing more than a package left too long in the rain. And then came the silence. That horrible, charged quiet. Him in the chair. You on the mattress. The dance you were both too far gone to name. Except this time, there was a change. A detail so small and yet so jarring, it nearly made you stop short. The camera. It was sitting right there on the desk—blatant, deliberate, like it had been placed for you to see. You stared. Stomach sinking. Skin crawling. He didn’t even look at you when he muttered it.

“Lay back. Turn your face. Look at me.”

His voice was low, dry, like dust being shaken off something long-forgotten. You froze, instinct screaming at you to move, to run, to not do this. But your body was a traitor. Slowly, almost like you were sleepwalking, you inched back on the mattress—its awful springs groaning beneath your weight. You turned your head toward him. Your eyes met his. The camera clicked. Once. Twice. He took photos. Of you. Fully clothed. On the bed like some kind of exhibit. You didn’t ask why. Didn’t dare. You didn’t know if this was some ritual, some game, or just his version of keeping souvenirs. You only knew you didn’t want to find out what happened if you said no. And so it began. Again. For two weeks, it was always the same. He’d call. You’d go. He’d drag you in by the wrist like property, seat himself in that cursed chair, raise the camera, and click—click—click. Never more than a few words. Never any explanation. Just your image trapped in frame again and again while he said nothing and you obeyed. And then, always, he’d dismiss you with one cold, flat command: “Leave.”

Until the night it changed. You thought it’d be another session—another round of unsettling silence and camera clicks. But this time, the camera stayed where it was. He didn’t reach for it. He didn’t even sit. He walked to the desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled something out. Something soft. Familiar. A book. Your book. Baby blue, worn at the edges. Your diary. Your blood ran cold. He didn’t even need to open it. Didn’t have to read a single word. Just the sight of it—that in his hands—was enough to empty the air from your lungs. Every line you'd written. Every dumb little confession. All the daydreams you'd tried to suffocate under layers of sarcasm and denial. It was all there. And he had it. He held it up just slightly, a cruel flick of the wrist. And then he said it.

“Strip.”

One word. Flat. Final. You stood there, frozen in place. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. It wasn’t even shock anymore—it was the awful, creeping realization that you had no power here. That you’d given it away somewhere between your first visit and your last breath of resolve. Still, you hesitated. Reflexively. Stupidly. That tiny flicker of self-respect lighting up for half a second like a match in a storm. Then he moved the book. Just enough to remind you it was real. That he could share it. He could make those humiliating fantasies more than real. He could own them. Your fingers trembled as they reached for your hem.

You thought, maybe, this would be like the janitor's closet—quick, mechanical, ugly. That he’d shove you down and rut against you like you were just a body to be used. And maybe you hated that thought. Maybe you didn’t. You didn’t even know anymore. Every feeling had started bleeding into the next—shame blurring with longing, terror folding into something hot and breathless. You peeled off your clothes slowly, without direction, without grace. No teasing, no flair. Just movement. You hadn’t dressed for this. Not even close. Grey cotton panties, plain bra. Soft, unremarkable things that looked almost childish in the yellow lighting. You weren’t trying to be seen tonight. But he saw you anyway. And he was still holding the book. And he still hadn’t blinked.

But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t even look twice. Just dropped into that ratty chair by the window, lit a cigarette with a carelessness that somehow felt intentional, and let the smoke curl lazily between his teeth like it had nowhere better to be. You waited for something—eye contact, a comment, a reaction—but got none of it. He simply raised the camera and settled behind the lens like you were just another object in the frame. Same routine. Same detachment. He directed you like a mannequin in a storefront—“Face the window.” Click. “Knees up.” Click. “Chin down.” Click. The only real difference this time was the lack of clothing between you and the shutter. A little more skin, a little less pretense.

This had become the rhythm now, the unspoken choreography you’d both settled into. You showed up. Stripped down. Waited for instructions. He’d shoot a few rolls, sometimes muttering to himself about exposure or the curve of your shoulder or how the light caught in your hair just right. Other times, he said nothing at all. Silence stretched out between clicks, dense and strange and charged with something you couldn’t name. But he never touched you. Not once. Not even close. You told yourself that should’ve been a relief—that it meant boundaries, that it kept things clean. But somehow, it didn’t feel that way. Somehow, the distance made everything worse. Like you were holding your breath for something that never came.

Because the truth was, you kept expecting him to. One of these nights, you figured, he’d lower the camera and close the space between you. Reach for you with the same rough certainty he had that night in the closet, kiss you like it was a punishment, not a gift. But it never happened. He never even looked tempted. And that—that—unraveled you more than anything else. Instead, what happened was quieter, more insidious. You started to acclimate. To fold into this new version of reality without even realizing you were doing it. The cold air in the room stopped making you flinch. You began folding your clothes neatly on the corner of the bed, as if order might earn you something—his attention, maybe, or just his approval. You stopped gagging at the smell of cigarettes and that thick, permanent scent of mildew and stale cologne that clung to the carpet. The soundtrack, too, began to settle in your bones—metal riffs, grunge chords, the occasional punk track screeching its defiance into the walls. You could hum along now, if you wanted to.

The room itself had started to feel disturbingly familiar. Like a place you returned to instead of escaped from. The same crumbling posters of eyeliner-heavy bands. The same pin-up girls taped to the wall, all exaggerated curves and hollow eyes. The mattress with its war wounds and a creak for every breath. The masks lined across his closet like sentries—silent, expressionless, staring. You didn’t like them, but you didn’t look away anymore, either. Two months. That’s how long you’d been doing this. Every few nights, always after dark. It had turned into something routine, almost mechanical. You stopped asking yourself why you kept coming back. You just did. And each time, the risk of being found out got sharper around the edges. The excuses were beginning to fray—group projects, study sessions, late-night volunteering. Your parents weren’t oblivious. They’d begun to look at you longer, their questions just a little more pointed. You could feel the air tightening at the dinner table, feel their doubt pressing in around the edges.

They weren’t exactly attentive—but they weren’t stupid either. And you couldn’t rely on that sleepy leniency forever. Something would give. So, you started getting creative. Spun bigger lies. Sharper ones. Preempted their suspicions with rehearsed details. And then, like a lifeline, the universe—or at least the university—offered you an out. Something to build around. Something real enough to dress your lie in. Psychology 3820. A summer class built on the intersections of brain and body—neurology, behavioral systems, hormonal triggers. The kind of subject matter dense enough to sound impressive and just vague enough to be a believable alibi. Especially when paired with group projects. You happened to share it with Sherry and Sammy, which made the whole operation stupidly easy. So, you leaned in—hard. Research meetups. Lab simulations. "Collaborative learning." You had the vocabulary down cold.

“We’re going over to Sherry’s again tonight—this paper’s forty percent of our grade,” you told your mother, slipping your shoes on by the door. “She has a whiteboard wall. We can actually see what we’re doing.”

You stacked the lies with methodical care. Brick by brick. Not too elaborate. Not too vague. Just believable enough to pass the sniff test. At first, your mother didn’t buy it. Not outright. She squinted at you in that pinched, appraising way she reserved for sales associates who didn’t offer to gift-wrap. But then you name-dropped Sherry—and more importantly, Sherry’s mother—and that was the end of the cross-examination. Case closed. Because while your mom thought Sherry was a goddamn debutante—a picture of well-bred poise and choir-girl restraint—she couldn’t stand her mother. That woman was a walking wine stain in a designer knock-off. Always tan, always loud, always saying the quiet parts out loud with a mimosa in hand. Your mom hated her the way a mirror hates the truth—because she saw herself in it, only stripped of the pretense.

Then there were those sideways glances. The ones your mom kept sneaking at Sherry’s dad when she thought no one was looking. Her voice got sweeter when he was around. Her posture straighter. Her hand would go to her lipstick almost on reflex. And your dad? He noticed. Of course he noticed. But he didn’t say a damn thing. Just buried himself deeper in financial reports and breakfast routines. He became a ghost in his own home—quiet, obedient, almost grateful to be ignored. Whatever love there had been, if any, had long since calcified into habit. They’d done the Southern-fried dream: Georgia charm meets Midwestern stability. A tidy love story complete with a starter home, an elegant daughter, and a silent unraveling that stretched across decades. Your mother wore her pride like perfume—too strong, too much—and expected you to do the same. You were her proof. Her showroom model. Perfectly dressed, perfectly polite, perfectly bored.

And your dad? He just... existed. Steady. His whole presence a quiet resignation. No affairs. No drama. Just long silences and the faint smell of ink and coffee and whatever cologne he hadn’t switched out since ’82. But the real joke? It worked. For them. For the neighborhood. For the smug little rot of Haddonfield. A town that dressed its dysfunction in Sunday best. Where judgment came with lemon bars and forced smiles. Where the ugliest truths were papered over with seasonal wreaths and “thoughts and prayers.” Everyone pretending. Everyone knowing. It wasn’t a town. It was a stage. The whole place ran on passive aggression and collective denial.

Which made the Myers house feel oddly... honest. For all its horror and history, it never pretended to be something it wasn’t. There were no half-truths. No manicured lies. Just violence and consequence and a long shadow that nobody could look at directly. And yet somehow, that felt more real than anything you’d grown up with. Because at least the monsters in that house didn’t bother hiding. For all his cruelty—for all the sharp-edged, blood-soaked vileness that clung to him like a second skin—Michael had never lied to you. Not once. He never sugarcoated who he was, never wrapped himself in politeness or played at being palatable. There was no mask when it came to that. What you saw was what you got: brutal, volatile, unwaveringly honest in his darkness. You couldn’t say the same.

You’d lied with a smile more times than you could count. Dressed your resentment in pleasantries. Stitched your grievances behind closed lips and then laughed at dinner parties. And when the silence got too heavy, you wrote it all down. Page after page, venom laced in cursive, safely tucked between the folds of your diary. You tore everyone to shreds behind their backs—your family, your so-called friends, nearly half the damn town. So when it came down to it, weren’t you just as much of a monster? His brutality wore no costume. Yours came dressed in pastel sweaters and carefully practiced charm. His sins were loud, yours were quiet—but rot is still rot, no matter how sweet it smells.

The diary had made that fact unavoidable. There was no denying it anymore. Those pages were your confessions, unfiltered and cruel, a written record of every dark, twisted thing you thought but never said aloud. You smiled at Sherry while privately mocking the way her voice pitched when she was nervous. Hugged your mother after writing that she was a dried-up hypocrite. Played nice with your father while calling him a coward with a hollow spine just the night before. You told yourself it wasn’t real, just a way to vent, to survive. But if it was just harmless scribbling, why did it feel so damning now? Maybe it was normal. Maybe other people did it too—kept their ugliest thoughts folded away in secret. But something about it didn’t sit right. Something about the duality of it all. You were supposed to be the good one, the polished one. But the more you peeled back, the more it became clear: you were just another shade of wrong. Just another person in this town pretending, lying, rotting.

And Michael? At least he’d never pretended to be anything other than what he was. That was the difference between you. His cruelty was honest. Yours was scripted. So maybe that’s why you were getting used to his space. That godforsaken room of his with the unwashed clothes and the smell of smoke and sweat, with its walls like a mausoleum for bad decisions. Maybe you were becoming desensitized to the mess, to the suffocating air of it all, because beneath the grime and shadows, there was one thing that lingered in that room more potently than dust or filth: honesty. Michael’s bedroom, for all its rot and ruin, was the only place in Haddonfield where no one lied. He didn’t lie about who he was—and after reading your diary, he sure as hell knew who you were too. There was no mask between the two of you anymore. No pretending. He had you figured out, every festering thought inked out on those pages like a confession, and he’d read them all. There was nothing clean left in you to hide.

But him? Did you really know him? That was the thought churning around your skull as you walked down the street, the hush of dusk rolling in around your shoulders. The breeze stirred the leaves at your feet, curling around your ankles like lazy ghosts as autumn made its slow return, creeping into every crack of the sidewalk. Did you know Michael Myers? You knew he liked photography—if the countless pictures he took meant anything. You knew he was studying criminal psychology, too. Whether that was an attempt to disprove the rumors that clung to him like a curse or simply an effort to understand them better, you had no idea. Or maybe he just liked it. Maybe it gave him structure. And you knew, at the very least, that he tolerated you. Found you attractive, maybe. A man didn’t shove you into a dim closet and slide his cock between your thighs with nothing but his own spit as lubricant unless some part of him burned for you, even if it was buried under ten layers of disdain and whatever else he carried behind those eyes.

So yes—he wanted you. That much was obvious. But want didn’t equal care. It didn’t make you special. What were you to him, really? Your feet stopped on instinct as the question clawed its way forward, digging in deeper than you expected. What were you? Just a warm body for him to use? Just leverage with tits and a little attitude? No—if that were true, wouldn’t this have been over already? Wouldn’t he have taken what he wanted and tossed you aside? He had your diary. He had a job to protect. You were dangerous, inconvenient. He could’ve erased you or broken you or claimed you already. But he hadn’t. Instead, he was... drawing it out. Holding back. Why?

That sharp flick of arousal in your gut soured into something murkier—need, confusion, frustration. Because if he did want you... then why wasn’t he taking you? And then came the worst question of all: Were you seriously trying to solve this? Were you really standing there in the middle of the street wondering why Michael Myers hadn’t fucked you yet? God. What did that say about you? He’d already told you what you were—just easy. So why couldn’t you just let that be the end of it? He didn’t like you. He didn’t want you, not really. Not in the way you used to dream someone might. And maybe—if you were being honest—you didn’t want him like that either. Not in the soft, sweeping way people wrote about in books or whispered about in giggly laughs. A lover? No. That was laughable. Michael wasn’t capable of that. Not in the way you needed.

Besides, even if by some impossible twist he was, it wouldn’t matter. Your mother would flay you alive. The town would exile you socially and morally before you even had a chance to explain. One slip-up, one rumor, one wrong word and that would be the end of everything you’d worked for. Goodbye grad school, goodbye clean escape, and hello life as Michael Myers’ cautionary tale. His unwanted mistake. His baby-momma. You weren’t going to be that girl. You weren’t going to be trapped in this broken, rusting town like every other girl who mistook danger for romance. You weren’t going to build a life around a man who probably wouldn’t even claim you publicly, let alone take any kind of responsibility if things went wrong. And things would go wrong. You knew that.

But lust never did play by the rules. And logic had a bad habit of falling apart whenever you thought about the way his eyes lingered, the way his silence felt louder than most people’s shouting. So maybe that’s why you didn’t turn around. Maybe that’s why your feet kept moving without your permission, carrying you back toward that crooked house on Lampkin Lane like you were on some kind of invisible leash. Or maybe—maybe it wasn’t lust at all. Maybe it was curiosity. About why he hadn’t ended this already. Why he kept dragging it out. Why he hadn’t shut the door on you and locked it for good. Why you hadn’t stopped. And maybe, beneath all the excuses and fear and fury... you were starting to wonder who he really was, underneath the weight of silence and that heavy stare. Not the monster. Not the myth. Just the man.

But as you stood there now, arms crossed and jaw set, staring up at that old house with its chipped paint and looming silhouette, your gaze landed on the heavy mahogany door—and something in you hardened. Enough was enough. This had dragged on too long with too little to show for it. No answers. No clarity. Just tension and secrecy and you spiraling, trying to pretend this whole thing wasn’t pulling you further and further away from the life you were supposed to be building. You weren’t going to rat him out—God, no. That would’ve blown up your life just as much as his. And clearly, he wasn’t using your diary to actively ruin things for you, not in any obvious way... not outside of himself. So what the hell was this? Why was it still happening? Why were you still here?

Your old excuses were starting to wear thin. The whole “summer school study group” was practically a corpse at this point—especially after Sammy dropped the class and took her perfect little alibi name with her. You couldn’t even pretend to be with her anymore without risking a game of twenty questions from your mother. And as for Sherry? Sure, her name had enough weight to buy you time and silence, but she was unreliable at best and barely even answered her phone anymore, much less played along when you needed her to. It was getting harder to disappear. Harder to explain the sudden exits, the weirdly timed absences, the way you were always somewhere you shouldn't be. And all of it—every single bit of it—was for a man who didn’t ask. He just summoned. Like he was some dark priest and you were his trembling little lamb. And God help you if you were ever late.

You knew what happened when you were late. You’d tried it once, foolishly—naively. Maybe just to test how serious he really was. Maybe because you wanted to prove to yourself that he wasn’t in charge of you, that he didn’t own your time. But when you finally showed up—ten minutes past when he expected you—he didn’t need to raise his voice. He didn’t even glare. He just calmly flipped open your diary, began ripping out pages with surgical precision, and then—without so much as a glance—started to prep what looked like an envelope. You didn’t have to ask who it was addressed to. The threat hung in the air like smoke. He didn’t need to say a word. Your heart nearly stopped in your chest, frozen between the crackle of torn paper and the unspoken promise of exposure. You were never late again after that.

He didn’t need chains or cages. No. Michael had discipline. He had patience. He had your secrets in his back pocket and your shame in his hands. And maybe the worst part was that, in some twisted way, it was working. He had you trained. But enough was enough. This had gone nowhere, and your longing had twisted itself into something you could barely recognize anymore. You were sick of the spiral—sick of the silence, the waiting, the need that curled up tight and mean inside you like a secret you couldn’t shake. Every time you came home from one of those meetings, you swore it would be the last. But you’d crawl into bed, hand trembling beneath the covers, shame heating your cheeks while your thighs pressed together and your mind dragged itself back to him.

Every. Single. Time. You touched yourself to the memory of him—his stare, his silence, the way he watched you with those cold, knowing eyes like he could see right through the modesty you pretended to have. Shame. Want. Anger. It all tangled together into one wretched knot of lust that made your chest ache. You were unraveling from the inside out, clawing for something that was never really there to begin with. Pathetic didn’t even begin to name the mess you’d become. But no more. You were done. Done with this limbo. Done with the slow rot of your dignity. Done with the diary. Done with this problem. Done with him.

You sucked in one sharp breath, held it, and stepped forward with purpose. Down the familiar pathway. Up the porch stairs. You didn’t hesitate this time. Your hand closed around the doorknob, and sure enough—it was unlocked. It always was. He knew you'd come. And you knew Laurie wasn’t here. Michael never summoned you when she was home. That was his one unspoken rule, if you could even call it that. It gave you just enough false comfort to keep coming back. But tonight wasn’t going to be like the others. You stepped inside, shut the door quietly, and locked it behind you. Your pulse thrummed in your ears, but your face stayed still, blank, determined. You were already bracing for the routine that was etched into your spine like muscle memory: you’d walk the stairs, pause at his doorway, maybe hover until he glanced up at you. Then you’d go in, sit at the edge of his bed, eyes downcast, and wait. He’d finish whatever he was doing, finally look at you—really look—and that would be your cue. You’d strip. You’d pose. You’d let yourself be seen like some silent little puppet while he stayed maddeningly composed.

That’s how it always went. But not tonight. You marched up the stairs with the sound of your boots thudding into the soft carpet, steady and firm. Your jaw was clenched, your spine straight, heart tight in your chest—but you didn’t slow down. Autumn had crept into Haddonfield with its crisp bite, cool air threading through the late summer haze. You dressed warmer tonight, a subconscious shift—but it felt more deliberate now. Like armor. The grey cashmere sweater hugged you softly, expensive and barely worn, something your mother had bought on a whim and expected you to gush over. It was warm without suffocating, soft without revealing too much. Your white skirt skimmed your knees, made of some soft, expensive fabric that almost shimmered in the low light, and the sheer dark pantyhose beneath added just enough warmth without hiding anything. On your feet—your favorite grey ankle boots, just a little heel to them, just enough weight to make your steps feel grounded.

Simple. Warm. Respectable. Deceptively delicate. You’d started choosing your outfits more carefully ever since the night Michael had ruined your brand-name jeans. You’d had to throw them away in the outside bin before your mother caught sight of them—before she could ask what had happened. You’d stared into that trash can for a long time that night, wondering how the hell it got this far. Fucker. You took another breath as you reached the landing, pausing at the top. The hallway stretched ahead, dim and quiet, the air thick with something old and still. You knew exactly where his room was. You could walk there blind. You had walked there in dreams. But this time, your fingers curled into fists, and you didn’t feel like a passenger anymore.

You were going in with a different purpose now. No more waiting, no more playing the part. You were done being the thing he called for. You stopped just outside his door, arms crossed tightly over your chest, lips pressed into a hard line. One more breath. Just one more breath and you’d finally say it. He was in there. You didn’t need to knock to know it—he always was.

“Michael,” you called out, voice steadier than you expected. “I’m done.”

Silence. You shifted your weight, heart pounding now that the words were actually out. But you didn’t stop.

“I’m tired of this. It’s going nowhere. Really. I don’t know what the hell this is anymore, and maybe I never did, but it’s not working. Not for me.”

Still nothing from inside, but you continued, because you had to.

“You can keep the diary if that’s what you want. Or give it back. Honestly, I’d rather have it back—but whatever. I’m not going to tell anyone about the night job. You know that, right? You know I wouldn’t. I may have been awful to you once, but if you actually read the whole thing, you'd know what I really did. What I felt. And no—it wasn’t okay. I know that. I do.”

You exhaled shakily, forcing yourself to keep going, even as the weight of the house pressed in around you.

“I’m sorry, Michael. Genuinely. But I can’t keep doing this. I’m losing my mind.”

You took a few slow steps forward, inching toward the doorway, trying to catch a glimpse of him—anything. A flash of his boots, the shift of a shadow, some sign that he was listening, that he was even awake.

“I’m risking so fucking much every time I come here,” you said, softer now, your voice nearly cracking.

You peered into the room. The faint glow from the hallway cast your silhouette across the floorboards, but all you could see inside was shadow. Still, you could feel his presence like gravity.

“Can’t you just try to understand that?” you finished, your voice a little breathless now.

There was no answer. Just the silence. Cold and expectant. But you didn’t move. Not yet. Not until he gave you something—anything. Then you saw it—the soft flare of cherry-red light blooming at the tip of a cigarette. Just enough illumination to catch the faintest outline of him. He was seated at the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, the ember casting a faint, eerie glow on his features. Those eyes—those storm-dark, merciless eyes—were locked on you. Blank. Hollow. Your breath caught mid-inhale, snagging painfully in your throat. Oh. Oh, you didn’t like that.

"... Michael?” your voice faltered, a whisper half-formed by panic. “Michael, say something. Please...?”

Your arms tightened around yourself instinctively, your fingernails digging into your skin like you could hold yourself together by force alone. Every ounce of bravado you’d come in with curdled in the pit of your stomach. You’d thought you were being brave—hell, you’d convinced yourself it was time. That if you just stood tall, made your point, you could reclaim some sense of control. But standing here now, under his silent scrutiny, you felt like a child who’d just knocked on the devil’s door. God, had you really thought he’d stay soft forever? That just because he hadn’t laid a hand on you lately—or raised his voice, or shown those flashes of something else... that he wasn’t still who he’d always been?

You’d let yourself forget. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. You just stood there now, suspended in silence while he stared back, unmoving. Unblinking. You watched him drag slow on the cigarette, the ember brightening, then fading as he exhaled a thick coil of smoke that curled toward the ceiling like a warning.

"One."

Your head jerked like a puppet with its strings cut. You blinked hard, unsure if you’d imagined it—but no. That was him. That voice. That low, gravel-drenched sound you’d memorized without ever meaning to.

Your lips parted. “Michael—?”

“Two.”

Your stomach dropped. He never said “three.” He never needed to. Your instincts took over before your mind could make sense of what was happening. Every nerve in your body lit up like fire, the ancient, primal part of your brain screaming one thing—run. When your mother used to count down, it was never playful. It wasn’t some gentle parental trick. No, when she counted, it ended with your father’s belt flying off, his voice a thunderclap and his hand far too quick. Pain, punishment, shame—all wrapped up in numbers. So no, countdowns didn’t mean timeouts or warnings. They meant danger. And right now, it meant danger from Michael Myers.

Your body jolted. You didn’t even remember making the decision—your feet were already moving, shoving you backward on instinct before your brain even caught up. Your arms flailed for the banister, barely catching it as you turned on your heel and ran. Your breathing shattered. A jagged, panicked rhythm ripped out of your chest, loud and high and embarrassingly ragged as you careened toward the stairs. You barely registered the noise you were making—you couldn’t afford to care. Because behind you, from inside that dark room, came the unmistakable sound: thud. Heavy boots. One step. Then another.

Fuck.

You flung yourself down the stairs like your life depended on it—because it did. You didn’t dare look back, not even a glimpse. You didn’t need to. You could feel him gaining on you, feel the pressure of his presence like a storm at your back. He was moving now. Not slowly. Not with that predator’s stroll he usually favored. No. He was coming after you. You landed hard at the base of the stairs, knees jolting from the impact as your boots slid slightly against the floorboards. Your hand shot out, gripping the doorknob with a desperation that made your knuckles ache. It rattled in your grip—locked. You had locked it. No, no, no. Your chest caved with shuddering gasps, your breath catching and hitching on the edge of sobs. You weren’t just scared now. You were terrified. The rumors. The whispers. The things people said he’d done in the past—murders and mutilations—all half-truths that had once sounded like distant folklore. Not anymore. Not now. They clamped down on your mind like a vise.

You shrieked as his hand slammed down on the door just beside your head, loud and final like a judge's gavel. You felt the tremor of it rattle through the wood. You turned your head sharply and caught the sight of his arm, the veins in it taut and straining, fingers splayed wide like claws. You bolted. Your body ducked right without thinking, wild instinct driving you into the living room. Your eyes were starting to blur with the tears leaking from the corners, but you could still see enough to know he was following—relentless and heavy-footed. You could hear his breath now. Not calm or quiet. No, it was ragged, short bursts... he was hunting.

You looked back—mistake. He was there, close, too close, and his eyes—

You shrieked again, voice cracking.

“FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF, MICHAEL! THIS ISN’T FUNNY! STOP IT!"

But he didn’t stop. He kept coming, that stare fixed and furious, brows drawn in now—not calm and detached like usual. He looked angry. No—he looked possessed. You scrambled across the room, nearly tripping as your foot caught the corner of the rug. You vaulted over the coffee table, your shoulder skimming the edge as you crashed past it, trying to put as much distance between you and him as possible. Your lungs were on fire. Your throat burned from screaming. The tears came freely now, clouding your vision and dampening your cheeks as you veered further into the house. Where was the back doo again? An open window? An escape?

Your feet thundered down the hallway, every step loud and hollow against the hardwood. You passed a bedroom—sweet, feminine, untouched. Laurie’s, maybe. But there was no time to dwell. You threw yourself into another room at the back of the house, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted to burst free. And then—you saw it. An open door. Your salvation. You darted behind it, moving fast, barely daring to breathe as you pressed yourself flat against the wall. Your shaking hands flew up to cover your mouth, trying to smother the choked whimpers slipping past your lips. They weren’t loud, but to your ears they echoed like sirens. Your chest heaved in and out so fast it almost hurt. You bit down on the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood, just to keep yourself silent.

The room smelled like dust and lavender, old wood and something faintly floral—nothing like safety. The air was thick, and the silence even thicker. Adrenaline thrummed through your body like a drumline, sharp and unrelenting. Your legs felt weak, but you didn’t dare move. Not now. What would happen if he found you? No. When he found you? Your thoughts spiraled in on themselves, looping back again and again to that blank, stormy look in his eyes. The way he’d just stared as you screamed and ran. He hadn’t said another word, not since that cold, awful “Two.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, hard, your lashes wet with tears. You were trying to will yourself invisible. Small. Silent. But you knew—deep down—you wouldn’t stay hidden for long. Michael Myers wasn’t the kind of man who lost track of things. And he certainly didn’t lose games of hide and seek. Your body flinched when the floor creaked somewhere down the hall. He was coming. He didn’t even pause when he found you. One second you were pressed to the wall, praying for mercy—and the next, it was gone. His hand twisted into your hair, rough and unforgiving, catching right at the base of your skull. The tug wasn’t enough to tear, but it jolted you so violently your knees almost gave out. You screamed, a sharp, panicked cry that ripped from your throat more out of terror than pain. It echoed through the house like a warning no one would answer.

Your hands flew up, clawing at his wrist, nails scratching uselessly against his skin. You tried to wrench free, bucking and twisting like an animal, but he didn’t flinch. He just turned—as if you weighed nothing—and dragged you out of the room by your hair, the same way someone might carry a misbehaving dog by the scruff.

“Let me go!” you sobbed, your voice barely holding shape anymore. “Michael, please—!”

But he didn’t speak. He never fucking spoke when you needed him to. His silence was more terrifying than anything. You kicked at the ground, trying to find traction, but your feet kept sliding, your heels catching on the hallway runner and then skidding on the slick floorboards as he marched you back toward the stairs. Your breathing was wild now, choking sobs between gasps for air. Your face felt hot and raw, your cheeks soaked with tears. You knew what you must’ve looked like—completely wrecked. Humiliated. Your nose ran. Your makeup was probably ruined. Your chest heaved with every step. And still, he kept pulling. And you kept begging.

“Please—please, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean to make you mad, I just got scared—!”

But your voice didn’t change anything. The hand in your hair didn’t ease. The stairs loomed again. Your knees scraped the floor as he pulled you up each step, the rough carpet snagging against the fabric of your pantyhose. Every few seconds came another sharp jerk from his hand when you didn’t move fast enough, making your neck snap back, your balance tip. You fought it—tried to scramble up under your own power—but it was useless. His grip didn’t allow room for mercy or independence. Your chest was burning by the time he shoved you down the hall. His silence was worse than yelling—no threats, no curses, just the low, steady sound of his boots hitting the floor behind you. When you tried to look back, you caught only the hard set of his jaw, the muscle twitching tight there like he was barely keeping something in.

You whimpered. And then he threw you. His hand twisted, forcing your momentum forward, and your body pitched. You crashed against the edge of his bed, knees buckling on the mattress, hands scrambling for something to hold. You blinked fast, trying to orient yourself, but he was already behind you again—already grabbing. His fingers wound tight in your hair again and pulled you up, jerking your spine straight with the sudden force. You gasped, eyes wide, heart going frantic inside your chest. You couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop crying, your lips stammering half-formed apologies, pleas, anything that might make him stop.

But then he shoved you down again—harder this time—your face pressing straight into the mattress with a force that knocked the air right out of your lungs. And just like that, a wave of sudden, sharp revulsion surged through you. You had never actually been this close to the damn bed before, not like this, not with your nose buried in it—and the stale scent of the mattress and him made your stomach twist. You gagged reflexively, nearly dry heaving against the rough fabric. He didn’t let you lift your head, not fully—only twisted your hair just enough so you could turn your face to the side and breathe. Even then, your cheek stayed mashed against the mattress, skin hot and wet with tears. Humiliated. Your pulse thudded in your ears, every beat too fast, too loud.

You felt the bed dip behind you a second later, the slow compression of the springs under his weight. And then he was there. Right behind you. Still holding your hair, still in control, like he had all the time in the world and not a single thought of letting go. Your arms bent awkwardly beneath you, hands reaching back again, instinctively wrapping around his wrist. Not yanking, not fighting—not anymore. Just grasping. Just touching. Maybe out of defiance. Maybe out of fear. Maybe because it was the only part of you that felt real in that moment. Adrenaline still surged through you, hot and wild. Tears streamed down your face, unchecked. Your body kept jolting in tiny, involuntary shudders, breath hitching on every sob, but your brain couldn’t focus on anything long enough to make sense of it. You were in too deep. And you didn’t even notice the way your skirt was shoved up—bunched and forgotten somewhere around your waist—until it was already there.

No, you didn’t really feel it. Not until the cold air hit the backs of your thighs. Not until you felt the deliberate, dragging touch of rough fingertips between them—pressing in through the damp fabric of your underwear. Exploring. Testing. Your entire body tensed. Every nerve suddenly awake, raw and exposed. There was a beat of silence.

And then—quiet, smug, the barest curl of satisfaction in his voice—he muttered, "Knew it."

Two words. Casual. Certain. Like he hadn’t expected anything else. And just like that, your lungs stopped working properly. Your breath stuttered and hitched again, heart punching hard against your ribs as something cold settled deep in your chest—like ice water pouring directly into your lungs. Oh god. Oh god, you were soaked. Your pantyhose were completely, undeniably drenched. The fabric clung to you, a heavy patch of slick arousal stamped between your thighs, still darkening, still spreading with every erratic pulse of your body. Humid. Warm. You could feel it now. Feel how far gone you were. You were absolutely wet, beyond reason or excuse.

A small, broken cry tore out of your throat the moment that truth hit you. No. No, no, no. Did you—had you—liked this? Had you liked him chasing you like that, hunting you down like some cornered, useless little thing? Had that... done something to you? You tried to shake your head, but you couldn't move, cheek still pinned to the bed, hair still twisted tight in his fist. Mentally, you wanted to scream—wanted to deny it, spit in his face, fight. But your body had already betrayed you. It had given you away before your brain could even catch up. Because your body had responded and it didn’t matter what you told yourself. Not when the evidence was already soaking through your built-in underwear.

You didn’t want to admit it—but part of you was burning now. And not from fear. He shifted behind you again, slow and deliberate. You could feel the heat of him at your back, the weight of his gaze practically blistering as he dragged a rough thumb along the seam of your pantyhose—right over the soaked spot. A mocking little stroke. Up and down. Up and down. The pressure just enough to rub the fabric into your folds, to push it into you, to pull you open. You gasped, your hips giving a small, shameful jerk forward against his thumb before you could stop yourself. The silk dragged against your lips with maddening friction, every movement sending confusing, involuntary shocks through your core. It was too much. Too intimate. Too violating. Too good.

Your stomach flipped hard—your entire body reacting in tangled, terrifying ways. Fear was still there, humming like a live wire under your skin. But now it was mixing with something hotter, something darker, something you didn't want to name. It was like your mind and body had been completely uncoupled—one fighting to survive, the other aching, betraying, wanting. Confusion clawed through you, wild and fast, while his hand never stopped moving.

“Poor fucking princess... soaked down to the bone.” His voice rasped low behind you, cruel with amusement. “I bet your pussy’s just aching, isn’t it? You like this shit, huh?”

You wanted to snap at him, scream at him, tell him to shut the hell up—but all that came out was a strangled breath, high and shaky. Because his words—those coarse, humiliating taunts—sent another hot ripple of need pulsing through your belly. It made your thighs twitch, your chest clench, your jaw tighten. God, he wasn’t wrong. You were aching. Desperately. Pathetically. Your pussy was clenching around nothing, fluttering with empty need. Every breath dragged heat deeper inside you, and your skin was tingling, hyperaware of the way your soaked pantyhose clung to your folds like a second skin.

How the fuck had this happened? How was it that just a little chase, a single hand twisted in your hair, and you were reduced to this—quivering, dripping, needing? You hated it. Hated him. And yet, your body didn’t lie. How convenient, you thought bitterly. That the one man who made your body light up like this—who could turn your nerves into fireworks with just a cruel sentence and a touch—was also the one systematically tearing your world apart. You shuddered, violently. His thumb dragged downward again, slower this time, crueler—until it landed right where you didn’t want it. Right against your swollen clit, soaked and engorged and far too sensitive. He pressed in, lazily circling, just once. You let out a cry, breath catching mid-gasp, your hips twitching forward like they were moving on their own. Lightning bolted down your spine. Your thighs jerked. Your whole body shivered.

“Fuck... look at you...”

His voice was low. But it wasn’t kind. It was still mocking, still full of that smug edge that scraped across your nerves and left everything raw and humming. You could feel his stare burning into you, feel his satisfaction radiating behind every word. He was watching—watching how you trembled beneath him, how your body arched ever so slightly into his touch, even when your mind screamed to run. You didn’t want to want this. But you did. Or at least... your body did. Your body went rigid at the sound of tearing fabric. The unmistakable rip of your pantyhose split the air, loud and merciless in the quiet tension of the room. Your breath caught in your throat as you felt the cool air touch your now-exposed heat—felt it ghost over your soaking cunt like ice against fire. The contrast made your thighs twitch, and you couldn't stop the low whimper that slipped from your lips, humiliated and aching.

Steam was practically rising off your skin, every inch of you flushed and burning. And now—now—you were open. Bared to him completely. Your pussy clenched reflexively at the exposure, nerves raw, every tiny pulse betraying just how wet you were. How much you wanted. How ruined your dignity already was. You didn’t dare look back at him, but you could feel the weight of his gaze. You knew exactly what he’d be seeing. You always kept yourself neat, a habit—maybe even a defense—but now it only worked against you. The short, tidy hairs did nothing to hide how red and swollen you were, lips puffy and glistening, your clit standing out like a target, twitching with need. And the slick—God, the slick. It was leaking out of you in heavy, shimmering trails, thick and impossible to hide, pooling against the ruined fabric bunched at your thighs. You clenched again, instinctive, shameful, needy. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to scream. You wanted—

Grunt.

A low sound from behind you. Then the slow hiss of his zipper being undone. Your stomach dropped to your knees. Your head spun. And then you felt it. Something hot. Heavy. The moment his cock slapped against your drenched cunt, your body jolted, a harsh cry ripping from your throat. Not from pain—but from the sheer shock of it. The heat of him against your slick folds was obscene. Vulgar. It sent a fresh wave of arousal pulsing through you, made your legs tremble beneath you. He was thick. You could feel that already. Even through the brief, cruel contact, you could feel the weight of him, the length, the blunt head dragging messily against your soaked slit, smearing your wetness further across your skin like he was marking you. Claiming you.

You squeezed your eyes shut as another involuntary clench gripped your core. You hated this. You hated how much you wanted more. He was breathing hard behind you now—rough, uneven, like he’d been holding himself back for far too long. You didn’t dare try and glance up, but you could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. The sharp rise and fall of his chest. The way his other hand now gripped your hip so tight you were sure there’d be bruises later. You knew that kind of restraint couldn’t last. And truthfully, some unholy part of you didn’t want it to.

If you were being honest with yourself—and at this point, what was the use in lying?—you wanted him to lose that control. You wanted him to snap, to pin you down and shove himself inside like you were nothing but a thing for him to use. A hole to bury himself in. A body to ruin. You’d never wanted a boy like this. Not even close. Not Richie, not anyone. You barely even let Richie stay inside long enough to finish, and even then it felt like a chore—awkward, dry, a body fumbling against yours without rhythm or heat. But this? With Michael, there was no fumbling. No awkward. Just fire. Raw, blistering want. And the terrifying truth was—you craved it. You craved him. The hunger in him. The way he handled you like he was built to.

Your mind wasn’t even on prep, wasn’t on timing, wasn’t on anything anymore except for the need to feel him—to be filled, to be stretched and stuffed until you forgot every other name, every other boy, every other reason you should’ve screamed and run and fought back. You were shaking. Every inch of you strung tight, caught in that perfect in-between where fear met arousal and turned into something feral.

“Bet I can just... slide right fucking in—”

His voice was low and hoarse behind you, ruined by breathlessness and lust, and you felt it—him—again. The flushed head of his cock dragged up your slit, soaked from the slick he’d spread there, from your own arousal coating him like lube. You shivered violently as the head bumped against your clit before finding your entrance again. Your body seized up. Clenching. Throbbing. Crying out silently for it. And then—he pressed forward. The tip caught for only a second before pushing in, breaching you with a slow, steady roll of his hips. The sudden stretch made your entire body jolt and a sharp, keening cry tore from your throat. It hurt. God, it hurt. Not unbearable—but enough to tear through the haze of pleasure and momentarily snap your head back to reality. Your hands left his wrist and clawed at the mattress, hips twitching, thighs trembling. He was thick, and your body struggled around him, not quite ready but too wet to resist.

The pain only lasted a breath. Because after that? Your body opened for him. Eager. Hungry. Wanting. He didn’t pause—didn’t even pretend to go slow. He sank in deeper, inch by inch, dragging his cock through the slick heat of your cunt like he had every right to be there. Like you were made to take him. And you were. You felt like you were. Your walls squeezed around him in rhythmic, desperate pulses, already trying to pull him in deeper. Until finally—he bottomed out. And you gasped, choking on it, your back arching as you tried to adjust to the stretch. He was seated all the way inside you now, buried to the hilt, thick and hot and impossibly deep. You could feel him against every sensitive, throbbing part of your insides—your breath caught between pain and heaven.

“F-fuck—” you breathed, finding your voice again.

Behind you, there was a low, ragged groan—something half-feral and guttural, like the sound had been ripped from deep in his chest. He stilled, and for a brief moment, so did everything else. You could feel him inside you, perfectly seated, heavy and hot and stretching you just right. The fullness made you pulse around him involuntarily, clenching in slow, throbbing waves. You could hardly breathe. He fit too well—like he was meant to be there, like your body had been waiting to be filled like this all along. You didn’t even realize you were whining until he started to move. His hand gripped your hip, firm and unrelenting, and he dragged you back into him with a roughness that made your breath hitch. He pulled out slow—maddeningly slow—until only the tip remained, teasing you with that unbearable emptiness. And then, without a warning, he slammed back in with a brutal thrust that knocked the air from your lungs and made you cry out into the bed.

Pleasure shot through you like a jolt of electricity, tingling through your spine and unraveling your thoughts. He set a rhythm that was both punishing and deliberate—slow, savoring withdrawals paired with fast, sharp returns that left you gasping and clinging to the mattress. He moved like he couldn’t bear to be outside you for more than a second, each thrust chasing the heat he’d just left behind. And you—you were grateful for every return. Desperate for it. Every time he sank back into you, it was like relief and hunger all at once. You pushed back into him instinctively, needing more, taking more. Your eyes fluttered, vision swimming, and soft tears slid down from your lashes, not from pain but from how overwhelming it all was—the stretch, the friction, the weight of him inside you, the way it felt like he was trying to drive every last coherent thought out of your head. Your fingers scrabbled at the mattress, trying to find something to hold on to, but it was no use. Your body was arching back into him, back bowed, mouth open, moaning without shame.

You didn’t care how you looked—didn’t care if you sounded ruined—because the truth was, you were. And the way he filled you again and again, it felt like he wanted you that way. Ruined, breathless, wet and trembling and wide open. And God, you wanted to give it to him. Your moans spilled freely now, mingling with soft cries, his name slipping out of your lips in ragged gasps and desperate shouts. His grip in your hair tightened, forcing your cheek deeper into the mattress, grounding you in the moment even as your body trembled uncontrollably. Your thighs quaked, toes curling inside your boots, and heat pooled fiercely between your legs. Your pussy fluttered faster, the ache in your core blossoming into something urgent, something needing release.

Were you about to come? Without even a touch to your clit? Not quite yet. The edge was teasing you—a razor-thin line between bliss and frustration. You feared, just for a heartbeat, that he’d pull away like last time, leaving you stranded in want. But the waves of pleasure kept crashing, relentless and overwhelming. Your mind, fogged and dizzy, barely kept pace as your mouth parted.

“Michael, Michael, please—Michael, I wanna cum! Please! God, please! Fuck, fuck! Pleaseeeeeeee!”

The sound that escaped you wasn’t quite your own; higher, rawer, soaked with need and pleading. You felt him shift behind you, his hand slipping from your hip to glide beneath you, anchoring you with steady pressure. His chest pressed into your back, the soft friction of your cashmere sweater rubbing against the worn fabric of his old band tee. His breath ghosted near your ear, low and rough, and you squeezed your eyes shut, face contorted by pleasure.

“Cum for me.”

His thumb pressed harshly into your clit, moving in quick, demanding strokes in perfect sync with his powerful thrusts. The mix of his sharp touch and those heavy, guttural words sent a jolt through you, your eyes flying open and rolling back as a searing wave crashed over your body. Your cunt clenched hard, squeezing him with a fierce rhythm, pulsing in time with the tremors that rattled your spine. He pulled back slightly, releasing your hair with a rough hand, both palms now gripping your hips with possessive strength. Then, without mercy, he drove back into your still-throbbing core. Your body jerked beneath him, hips forced downward as he took you for his own pleasure, relentless and unyielding.

Your high still trembled along your nerves, the aftershocks fluttering through your core as he kept driving into you, deep and unrelenting. You could barely think—until one cold, clear thought sliced through the haze like glass: he wasn’t wearing a condom and you weren’t on birth control. Panic jolted through your body. You twisted, trying to look back at him over your shoulder even as each thrust rocked you forward.

“Michael—! Michael, not inside! I’m not—”

But he didn’t let you finish. His hand left your hip and tangled back in your hair, yanking you up just enough to crush his mouth against yours. His tongue forced its way past your lips, muffling your words, swallowing them whole. You tasted whiskey and smoke, something sharp and heady, and his stubble scraped against your skin as the panic twisted with heat in your chest. It felt good—God, it felt good—but your thoughts were spinning too fast to keep up. He kept thrusting, messy now, erratic, his rhythm breaking as your walls began to pulse again around him. You squealed into his kiss, overwhelmed, the soft drag of his long hair brushing your cheek as he bucked harder into you, chasing his end.

Then suddenly—he froze. His hips slammed flush against yours. A low groan tore from deep in his throat, and then you felt it. The rush of warmth inside you. Thick, hot, unmistakable. He didn’t pull out. He filled you completely. Fuck. Some part of you—traitorous and quiet—felt a twisted sort of satisfaction at the warmth still spilling into you. Sticky and thick, it gushed in deep pulses and now slowly seeped out around his cock, a gentle, obscene slide that made your insides twitch again. He kept his mouth on yours for a moment longer, tongue dragging against yours in one last slow stroke before he pulled back. His face lifted, and your upper half dropped with it, your cheek meeting the mattress as your arms gave way.

Your thighs shook under the weight of everything—pleasure, fear, rage, exhaustion. The bed was hot beneath you, the mattress slightly damp with sweat. You were dimly aware of how much your body ached, how your breath felt like it had nowhere to settle in your lungs. Fuck. No one told you sex was a full-body workout. And yet—despite everything—you felt good. Satisfied in a deep, almost carnal way. Your belly felt loose and warm, your limbs buzzing with the echoes of what just happened. It wasn’t just good—it had been earth-ending. You were still coming back to yourself, blinking slowly, your mind trying to sort through the jumbled mess of emotion left behind.

A low grunt reached your ears. You turned your head lazily and caught sight of Michael pulling out—his cock softening, glistening, and then slipping free with a faint wet pop that sent a fresh, warm drip trailing down your thighs. A weak, breathy moan left you at the sensation, unbidden. A thick mix of him and you spilled from your stretched opening, sticky and raw. Your legs gave a warning tremble beneath you, just shy of collapsing. The mattress shifted again. He moved. And for a fleeting moment, you thought you’d get to sink into the bed, close your eyes, and maybe sleep for five minutes. Just five. But of course, no such luck.

Something hit you in the face. You flinched, blinking rapidly, and looked down to find a worn, slightly musty-smelling band tee draped across your cheek. You blinked again, harder this time, your lashes still damp with tears. When you looked up, your breath caught slightly. Michael was shirtless now. And you hadn’t really seen him like this before—not fully, not up close and quiet like this. His chest was broad and lean, lightly dusted with blond curls across his pecs. They gathered slightly in the center, trailing downward in a rough, natural line that cut along his stomach in a path of soft muscle, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. The same dark jeans that now obscured what had so recently split you open. You followed the path of hair like it might still tell a story—some cruel, wild fairytale you’d just lived through.

“Clean up. Don’t want that shit on my bed.”

You groaned, face screwing up as you tried to push yourself upright—your muscles had the consistency of overcooked noodles and absolutely no interest in cooperating. So instead, you just rolled over with a soft grunt, your legs slipping down from where they’d been trembling on your knees. Your hand fumbled for the shirt he’d thrown at you. It smelled like sweat and cheap detergent, old smoke and the ghost of beer. You made a face but didn’t hesitate. You pressed the fabric between your thighs and wiped—quick, unceremonious strokes gathering the thick mess of his cum and your slick. It clung warm and wet to your skin, and even when you were done, it still felt like some of it lived deeper. You tossed the soiled shirt off to the side without care. He probably wouldn’t notice—or if he did, he wouldn’t give a damn. The whole room looked like it had given up years ago.

You let yourself fall back onto the mattress, limbs splayed out and heavy. The ceiling above you was cracked and stained, watermarks spidering across the drywall like veins. The air was thick with sweat, the scent of sex still clinging to the heat between your bodies. And somewhere in the haze of it all, reality reasserted itself like a cold slap—he’d come inside you. Your stomach fluttered with unease. Not panic, not yet. Just that slow-spreading awareness. You turned your head and shot him a glare. He was across the room now, leaning against the wall like nothing had happened. He cracked open that old splintered window, letting in a thread of night air. It was colder than you expected, but not unwelcome. The room needed it. You watched as he pulled a cigarette from his desk, the paper already bent like it had been carried around for days. His lighter flicked to life with a soft scrape, the flame casting shadows across his face before he lit the tip and inhaled deep. Smoke curled from his lips, slow and unbothered.

"... you're a bastard."

He exhaled through his nose, not even looking at you. “Yeah? That’s not new.”

“You came inside me.”

He didn’t even flinch—just offered a soft, absent-minded “Hm.” Like you’d commented on the weather. Like you hadn’t just said something that could potentially change both your lives.

You pushed yourself up on one elbow, eyes narrowing, heat prickling beneath your skin—not the good kind this time. “What if I get pregnant?”

That finally made him move, but not in the way you expected. He tilted his head, almost curious, as if he had to think about it. Like it was an idle question, not a very real, very terrifying possibility. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, worn leather wallet. The edges were fraying. There was a faded design of a guitar on the front, maybe something he’d had since high school—or stolen from someone else’s. He flipped through it with no urgency, then tossed a small, wrinkled wad of ones onto the bed. They hit the mattress with a soft flap, bouncing once before settling next to your arm.

“Get the pill.”

You stared at the money. A beat passed. Then another. Your mouth fell open a fraction, and for a moment you just blinked at him, like your brain was still trying to process the audacity.

“Are you—” your voice caught. “Are you fucking serious?”

He shrugged, still leaned against the wall, cigarette tucked between his fingers like this was the most boring conversation he’d had all week. He didn’t even look at you, just took another long drag, jaw tightening slightly as he inhaled.

"Yeah," he said, voice flat. “Problem?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. Your chest rose and fell faster now. You didn’t know whether to scream or laugh or throw the goddamn money in his face. You settled for glaring at him like you could set him on fire with your eyes alone. He didn't seem to care about it. You slowly sat up now, shame creeping into your spine like cold water trickling down your back. Your thighs stuck together unpleasantly, your skin tacky and flushed, your breath still not quite even. And that damn wad of crumpled ones sat by your side like a scarlet letter, proof of something filthy and unspoken. Did this make you nothing but a harlot?

You fucking slept with him. The thing you’d been teetering toward for weeks—maybe longer. Flirting with it in every look, every fight, every time he stepped too close or stared too long. You’d wanted it. You had. And now it was here, and there was no going back. No unmaking what you’d done. And maybe the worst part was... you wouldn’t forget it. Not for the rest of your life. Not with your thighs sticky, your belly warm and aching, and a pocketful of shame that didn’t belong to him. You reached for the wad of money, letting it crinkle in your palm, and then looked up at him with fire curling in your throat.

“Fuck you, Michael,” you muttered, your voice raw and too honest. “I’m not walking into the pharmacy and buying the pill. You don’t think people will talk?”

He turned his head slightly at that, just enough to look at you out of the corner of his eye. He was still leaned against the wall, cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling around him like mist. Unbothered. Detached. You could’ve slapped him.

“Let ‘em talk,” he said, flicking ash toward a soda can near his boots. “They already do.”

You scoffed, sharp and bitter. “So you want me to just waltz in there, smelling like sex, looking like I’ve been... used, and ask for Plan B while the whole damn town watches?”

He didn’t answer. Not directly. He just stepped closer again, slow and looming, until the cigarette was just a faint ember. You could smell the smoke, the sweat on his skin, the faint musk of you both still clinging to him.

His voice dropped, low and rough. “You worried about what they’ll say?”

Your breath caught. Your jaw clenched.

“I’m not your whore.”

He exhaled, long and slow, before stubbing the cigarette out on the windowsill. “Sure as hell sounded like it,” he muttered, voice low and laced with mockery. “That your first time getting fucked, princess?”

Your entire face flushed with heat, your jaw locking tight as the words landed like a slap. You didn’t dignify it with an answer—he didn’t deserve the truth. He didn’t deserve anything from you, not after that. The heat between your legs was no longer lust but humiliation, and your throat thickened with the weight of it. The reality hit you in pieces, like bruises blooming after impact. Pantyhose torn beyond repair, thighs sticky, your skin damp and smelling faintly of him—and a wad of grimy dollar bills tossed near your arm like a tip. Your eyes stung, but you swallowed it down hard. You stared at the ceiling. You could grab your things and try to make it home unnoticed, praying no one asked questions. Or... you could pocket the money, sneak to the pharmacy before they closed, and hope to God the cashier didn’t recognize you. Grinding your teeth, you sat up fully and abruptly, shivering at the breeze from the cracked window. You could still feel him between your legs, deep and lingering.

“I need a shower,” you said stiffly. “And I don’t have a car.”

Michael didn’t even glance your way. “Corner store’s walkable. I’m not wasting diesel on you.”

You turned sharply, scowling at him. “Then you go get the fucking pill, Myers.”

That got his attention. He looked over at you finally. You hated that you’d ever thought he was beautiful. Hated that you’d wanted him.

“You’re the one panicking, not me,” he said coolly, leaning back on the wall. “Seems like your problem.”

You stared at him, mouth parted in disbelief. For a second, the silence between you buzzed so loud it hurt.

Then, flatly, you said, “You’re a goddamn asshole.”

He just exhaled. “And you’re still here.”

You kissed your teeth sharply, an old habit from your mother, and narrowed your eyes at him. He was chatty now, suddenly. Just to rile you up—of course he was. That smug calm of his had an edge to it, like he enjoyed watching you squirm, like your panic was some kind of joke to him.

“I don’t want to get pregnant, Michael,” you snapped, voice cracking just enough to betray the panic riding underneath. “And like it or not, you finished inside me. So is it too much to ask that you take some goddamn responsibility and help out a bit? I didn’t even ask you to fuck me—”

He shifted off the wall. Just that. No sudden movement, no words—but it was enough to shut you up in an instant. Your heart kicked, and your mouth closed with a snap. The low burn still lingering between your legs didn’t erase what came before. The way he chased you. Cornered you. The door you’d meant to slam shut had swung wide instead, and now you stood in the middle of something you couldn’t define. Couldn’t name without flinching. You were trembling slightly. You weren’t sure if it was rage or leftover fear or just the feeling of him still inside you. You stared at him, trying to measure what he might do next—who he might be next. And then, quietly, like it was a casual fucking question:

“Ya gonna leave?”

“What?” you breathed.

“If I get that fucking pill for you,” he said, voice heavier now, shoulders rolling forward like he was tired of the whole thing, “are you leaving? That it? Done for good? Just a quick fuck outta your diary and then poof—you vanish.”

Your stomach twisted, breath catching in your throat. He’d said it so plainly, but the words sank like lead. You glared hard. He was using this—pregnancy, the risk of it—as leverage now? Seriously?

“Are you kidding me right now?” you snapped. “Fuck no, Michael. I’m not gonna leave just because you act like a decent human being for once and pick up a damn pill. I’ll keep my butt right here and wait, alright? I’m not—God, I’m not trying to run from you.”

Not today, at least. You looked away then, pulse thudding too loud in your ears. You weren’t sure who you were lying to more—him, or yourself. You did still have a plan. It was just... delayed. Temporarily. Postponed because of your own stupid, weak-willed lust and the way your core responded to him like clockwork. Like muscle memory. Like you were hardwired to want him, even when you knew better. Even now, the mere thought of him made something in your stomach flutter and clench, traitorous and low. You were as good as Pavlov’s dog. Just more pathetic. Michael was still watching you, those pale eyes narrowing just slightly as if weighing something out in that thick skull of his. Trust, maybe. Or suspicion. You didn’t blame him. Honestly, it was fair—he didn’t trust you, and you didn’t trust him. Not really. What you had wasn’t built on anything solid. It was all instinct and reaction and heat and silence.

But still, without a word, he scoffed. One short, disbelieving sound before he snatched the crumpled wad of cash from your hand like he’d rather burn it than spend it on you. He grabbed a shirt from the floor—thankfully not the one with dried cum on it, which felt like a small mercy—and stalked toward the door.

“Toilet and shit’s in there,” he muttered, jerking his chin toward a door just off the hall. And then he was gone, the door shutting with a dull, final click behind him.

You exhaled slowly. Well. At least you could take a shower. However, for the moment, you didn’t move. You just let yourself sink back down onto the mattress, spine relaxing into the warmth he’d left behind. Your eyes settled on the ceiling, unfocused. Blank. The weight of it all began to settle in like dust after a storm. And then it hit you—really hit you. Holy fuck. You had just slept with Michael Myers. Actually, scratch that—rewind a few beats. He’d chased you through his rundown maze of a house, grabbed you like prey, dragged you upstairs like some deranged caveman, and you… you’d been soaking for him. Like some needy, twitchy little thing in heat. And then he’d fucked you. Hard. Deep. Like he knew every inch of your body better than you did.

God. This was a disaster.

What were you now? Still a hostage to your stupid diary? Absolutely. But now you were apparently his fuck-buddy too? Unwilling muse turned occasional fuck toy? Also yes. Probably yes. And now you couldn’t even hide behind the fantasy anymore—the “what if” had become painfully real. That constant, ridiculous inner monologue of when will he touch me, when will he finally do it? Yeah. You could cross that off the list. He’d done it. All of it. And then some. And the worst part? When you shifted your thighs, something still slick and warm lingered deep inside. You swallowed thickly. Right. You really needed that shower.

You slowly pulled yourself upright again, every inch of your body groaning in protest. Right. Sex in a rough, questionably acrobatic position was definitely not something your spine appreciated after the fact. Note taken. You gingerly scooted to the edge of the bed and stood—well, tried to. Your knees wobbled slightly, and then you froze. A warm glob slid down the inside of your thigh. Oh, fuck that. You hurried, boots padding softly across the carpeted floor as you eased open the bedroom door. Peering out like you were escaping enemy territory, you darted across the hall and swung open the bathroom door.

And then you just stood there, head gently thunking against the doorframe in defeat. The bathroom looked like a murder scene without the blood—though honestly, that might've improved the decor. Rusted patches bloomed on the walls, the tile floor was grime-slicked and uneven, a few articles of dirty clothing were heaped in a corner like a sad little nest, and the toilet looked like it hadn’t been flushed in a presidential term. The shower had no curtain. Just a crooked rod where one used to be, and a stall that probably had its own ecosystem. One shelf. Two mystery products. And not a single towel in sight. Right. It was your fault, really—for expecting more from a man who insulted you and then railed you like it was a sport.

Still, you made the most of it. You carefully stripped off your clothes, folding them as neatly as you could and placing them on the cleanest-looking corner of the floor—which, to be clear, was still questionable at best. The pantyhose, torn and definitely used, had to go. You peeled them off and set them aside like a surrender flag. Climbing into the shower felt like stepping into a time capsule from 1973, but the second you turned the knob and warm water hit your skin, you exhaled in relief. Small mercies. At least the plumbing wasn’t as dead as the ambiance. You set to work rinsing yourself clean, dragging your fingers through your folds and wincing a little as your body protested. Thick, pale globs spilled out and swirled toward the drain. The sight made your stomach turn slightly.

Gross. Really gross, when you thought about it too hard. Which you were absolutely trying not to do. Once you were satisfied that you were no longer filled with anything that belonged to him, you turned to inspect your luxurious product options. Men's 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner. And a body wash that smelled like stale pine and drugstore masculinity. Figures. Men.Still, you used them. What choice did you have? The body wash was cold and smelled like every high school locker room you’d ever walked past—aggressively piney, with a touch of cheap spice—but it worked. You avoided your hair entirely, not trusting that crusty-looking 2-in-1 to do anything but damage, and focused on scrubbing down your body instead. Hard.

Once you felt marginally more human and marginally less... used, you shut off the water and stepped out. Immediately, the air hit your wet skin like a slap. No towels. Right. You stood there dripping for a second, fists clenched at your sides, before your gaze slid over to the pile of his clothes in the corner. You already hated what you were about to do.

“Disgusting,” you muttered under your breath, then steeled yourself, grabbed what looked like an oversized, possibly oil-stained T-shirt, and gave yourself a brisk, rough once-over. It smelled like him—earth, smoke, leather, and something faintly metallic. You dropped it the second you were dry enough to risk touching your own clothes again.

Bra, sweater, skirt, boots. You redressed fast, a little shiver running through you as you tugged everything back into place. The pantyhose stayed off. They were beyond saving. So. Commando. Great. You exhaled slowly. It was fine. The skirt was long enough. No one would know. No one had to know. Except him. Which... yeah. He definitely would know. Once you were relatively presentable again, you cracked the bathroom door open and darted across the hall, back into his room like a guilty raccoon stealing food. You shut it quietly behind you, turning around—only to nearly jump out of your skin when you saw him. Michael was already there. Sitting at his desk. Like a fucking gargoyle. Watching.

“Jesus—” you choked on a startled breath.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just muttered, “Bed.”

Your eyes flicked to the mattress, heart still thudding in your chest. There, sitting neatly on the crumpled blanket, was a small white box. You approached, cautious, like it might bite. Opening it revealed exactly what you expected. The pill. You let out a slow exhale through your nose and grabbed one, glancing around automatically for water. Nothing. Of course. You gave him a tight, dry look, but he just leaned back slightly in the chair, like this wasn’t a big deal. Like this wasn’t your reality now. Fine. Whatever. You shoved the pill into your mouth and swallowed it dry, gathering what little spit you could. It scraped its way down your throat, unpleasant but manageable. Not the worst thing you’d done today, honestly. It wasn’t foolproof, but with where your cycle was and your tracking so far, you were confident it would do the job. No baby. No strings. Just the mistake. The secret. The heat of it still clinging to your skin.

You just held the box for a moment, crinkling it between your fingers. The sound was loud in the still room, like a plastic confession.

“... I’m gonna go home.”

Silence. You glanced up, expecting maybe a shrug, a nod, a grunt—something. But Michael didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at you with that hollow, unblinking gaze. Watching. Always watching. Back to the quiet game, you guessed. It was almost comical, how quickly the silence returned—like sex had just been an intermission. A brief and feral lapse in his usual stoicism. You wondered if maybe that was all it would ever be. An accident. An impulse. A storm that passed but left the wreckage behind. You sighed and cleared your throat, the box crunching in your hands before you set it down on the bed, gently this time.

“I’m not leaving-leaving, just...” you gestured vaguely, “I’ll—just page me again, and I’ll come.”

Still nothing. But you pressed on anyway, filling the quiet with your own voice because someone had to.

“But Michael... we need to talk about this. Next time, I mean. We really do.” You swallowed, voice thinning. “Look, I’ll try to keep coming, but it’s getting hard. It’s getting complicated, and—look, you want me here, right? You keep wanting me here. I don’t know why. I probably never will. But for whatever reason... you do.”

Your voice cracked faintly at the end, and you hated yourself for it.

You straightened, dragging in a breath. “So if you still want me to come running like a stupid dog every time you page me, then we need to figure something out. I need to know what the hell I’m even allowed to say. Because I can’t keep doing this if I’m walking a tightrope every damn time.”

His eyes didn’t move. Just burned through you. And for a moment, you couldn’t tell if he was about to speak or about to stand. Or if he was about to say nothing at all and leave you with all of it—again. It seemed to be the latter option. Because he didn’t stop you. Not when you sucked in a breath and opened his bedroom door. Not when your footsteps echoed faintly down the stairs. Not when the front door creaked open under your hand and you stepped out into the open air. Not even when you closed it behind you, not hard, not soft—just enough. The walk home was quiet. Not peaceful, not freeing. Just... numb. Like everything around you had dropped several layers beneath glass, and all you could do was move through it. Thoughts flickered but refused to form. You didn’t cry. You didn’t think. You just moved, step after step, a ghost in your own skin. Home greeted you like always. Your mother’s voice floated from the kitchen.

“How was your study session?”

“Good,” you said. You even smiled. “We mostly went over the plan for our final project.”

She nodded, and that was the end of it. Perfect. Seamless. A+ in deception. You walked up the stairs and into your room, locked the door, and stripped everything off like it might still hold the heat of him. You took a real shower—scalding hot this time—scrubbing until your skin felt too tight, like maybe it would peel and leave behind someone new. Someone unrecognizable. Then came the softest clothes you owned. Pajama pants, oversized sweater, thick socks. A little fortress of cotton. And still, none of it helped. You laid back on your bed, clean, dry, warm. And stared at the ceiling.

What the fuck had you just done?

Chapter Text

“Tonight... I wanna give it all to you... in the darkness, there’s so much I wanna do...”

People were like cars. That much he knew. Work them the right way, nudge the right bolt, tighten or loosen the right screw, and sometimes they came to life. Other times, they sputtered, failed, refused to start no matter how much effort you put in. Hard-wired one way or another, though the wiring could cross, burn out, or rot over time. That’s when most needed a mechanic—or in human terms, a therapist. Same principle, really. Most of them couldn’t fix themselves.

He liked cars. He didn’t like people. At least, not in the way most would call liking. Cars were honest: metal, heat, grease. They told you what was wrong, even if it was ugly. People? They lied with every smile, every word. Just because people were like cars didn’t mean they deserved the same patience, the same work. And here was the real truth: liking wasn’t the same as wanting. You could admire a car on the street without needing to own it. You could look at a stray cat and think it was fine enough without dragging it into your house. To like was passive. To want was deliberate. One was air. The other was fuel. Michael Myers didn’t want much. Most things he left where they were, passing glances with no pull behind them. But when he wanted—when he chose—he took.

“I was made for lovin’ you, baby..."

And what he wanted now was probably the worst thing he could let himself want. A girl. Not just any girl—no, that would’ve been too simple. He wanted the girl. The one with the smile that faltered when she thought no one noticed. The one who could sit among her friends like a porcelain doll, admired for being agreeable, untouched, perfectly passive. The one who filled pages of a little blue diary with venom sharp enough to peel skin, only to close it neatly and tuck it away like it meant nothing. He wanted that contradiction—sweetness polished thin, bitterness buried deep. But did he like her? No. Liking was far too clean a word, far too small for what pressed against the inside of his skull whenever he thought of her. This was something uglier, something more restless. It was fun, in a way—like watching another kid unwrap a toy and knowing you could snatch it if you really wanted to. Maybe it wasn’t even about her as a person. Maybe it was about the wanting itself, the act of proving he could take the thing everyone else thought was untouchable.

Humiliation had its own edge of satisfaction, like twisting a key in a lock that wasn’t yours. To tug her around, to make her stumble, to watch her balance on the tight wire of fear and fascination—that was the picture forming in his head. A leash suited the thought, but a collar—that was sharper. A mark, a symbol. Something permanent enough that everyone would see what he already knew: she wasn’t free, not really. And maybe that was the truth buried beneath all of it. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t like. It was ownership. The thought of her belonging to him—and only him—sat heavy in his chest, dangerous, irresistible. And once the idea took root, there was no letting it go.

"And I can't get enough of you, baby. Can you get enough of me?"

Besides, who else could she belong to anyway? He’d been the first, hadn’t he? The very first to slip past that porcelain mask she wore so carefully, the first to watch it crack and shatter in his hands. He remembered it with a kind of smug clarity—the way her composure bled into breathless sounds, the way her body betrayed her, arching back for more as though she’d been made for him and him alone. He had marked her, in more ways than one. Bent her, stretched her, split her open until she took him down to the root. Christ, she had been tight—impossibly so—and the thought of it still made something feral coil low in his gut. He doubted anyone else had ever known her like that. No, he was sure of it. That was his secret to carry, one he wore like a brand across his chest.

And wasn’t that the delicious part? That no one else had a clue. They saw her as sweet, docile, untouchable. They’d never imagine the things he’d done to her, the things she’d let him do. She had played the part so well—the perfect girl, the porcelain doll. But when it was him? She cracked, she begged, she broke apart under his hands. What a dirty little thing she was, hidden under all that polish. A slut disguised in lace and light, and he’d been the only one sharp enough, cruel enough, to find it out. She was a secret he carried like a weapon. No one else would ever know, not really. That was his privilege. His claim. And maybe that was what he liked best—knowing she could smile for the whole world, and the whole world would never realize she already belonged to him.

But he didn’t like her. Nor did he love her. No—he despised her. For all her little cracks, all the imperfections she let slip through the neat little seams of her life, she was still one of them. One of those polished, untouchable types who floated above the world, smiling while the nasty bits of it slid harmlessly past. Mommy and Daddy had paid for the best tutors, the best doctors, the best everything—and she carried it all like a badge of untouchable perfection.

Michael had none of that. Everything she was, he wasn’t. She was smooth, refined, a porcelain mask hiding rot beneath its gleam. He was jagged, raw, a little devil incarnate—anger etched into every line of him, decay open and visible for anyone to see. They were opposites, polar, unbridgeable—and that only made it sweeter, watching her unravel around him. Watching her senses fray at the slightest snap of his fingers, hearing her whimper and obey without argument. Sure, a lot of it was blackmail. Control. The kind of leverage that could make anyone bend. But she wasn’t bending reluctantly. Not really. She leaned in, eager, hungry for it, biting at the bit like some well-trained little animal who craved the snap of a hand more than she wanted freedom. That juxtaposition—her polished, untouchable self collapsing so willingly at his insistence—was intoxicating. He hated her, yes, but the thrill of possessing her, even for moments, was undeniable.

That wasn’t to say he envied her life. God, no. He’d rather drink antifreeze than slip into her world of perfectly pressed Sunday outfits, tiny skirts that showed off just enough innocence to make him gag, and family dinners where everyone smiled and lied through their teeth like it was some kind of art form. He’d take the coffin any day over sitting across from her so-called friends, nodding politely while swallowing their sanctimonious little secrets. Tommy, for instance. Fucking Tommy. Self-righteous little prick, grinning like he owned the world and everyone in it. The way he strutted around, all smug and polished, like his opinions had weight... Michael wanted to shove a wrench through his smug little skull just to hear the snap. Her life, her friends, her world—they were all shiny lies, and he didn’t want any piece of it.

"There's something that drives me wild..."

Maybe what he really enjoyed was dismantling her—shredding every last bit of that pristine, good-girl act she had so carefully constructed over the years, watching it crumble piece by piece when she was alone with him. Not the very first time they’d ever been together, no... but the first time in this new context, both of them adults now, with her so willing to strip down for him, her eyes fluttering shyly, batting like she didn’t know what she wanted—though he knew. He knew perfectly well. She had teased him then, with that nervous little energy, the quiet flush across her cheeks, the way she licked her lips and bit her tongue just so. But he also knew what her body had been begging for, even if her brain had been screaming “no.” Bent over a counter, pressed into him like some perfect little plaything, her muscles tight and so tense... that was what she had been aching for all along, wasn’t it?

Of course, he hadn’t given in then. Not entirely. As much as his body had demanded it, screaming at him to take, to claim, to fuck her fully, he’d held back. He had to. Her diary had been a window, but it wasn’t enough. Beautiful words, carefully crafted, poetic musings about him... that didn’t automatically translate to her wanting him to bury himself in her, to take her apart and make her plead. Or did it? Well, judging by their last encounter—how eagerly she had clung to him, how her walls had tightened and pulsed at his touch, how she’d squeezed and writhed as if he were the only thing in the world that could make her feel that way—he had his answer. Innocent? Perhaps to anyone else. But not to him. Not after she had let herself unravel entirely, and let him witness every little desperate, wanting part of her.

He could already picture it. She’d come crawling back, more eager than ever. He’d take more photos—her stripped bare this time, all flushed skin and teary eyes, a collar snug around that delicate neck. He’d watch her squirm, helpless, whimpering his name like the desperate little slut she was. Posing in her underwear had been fun enough, but naked... oh, naked would be perfect. He could snap the shots, then fuck her right in front of the lens, making her arch and moan, clutching at the air while he drilled into her. She’d cum over and over, trembling and gasping, walls clenching around him like she was made to take it. Every scream, every shudder, every pleading little “Michael, please..!" would just remind him how fucking his she really was. No one else had seen her like this. No one else would. She was his little secret, a filthy, willing toy, and he’d make damn sure she knew it.

He could fuck her brains out, take her harder than before, make her leak all over him and the bed, make her beg for more, and then take pictures to remember it all—the shame, the want, the desperate need only he could trigger. She’d be fucked raw, fucked silly, fucked like the little whore he knew she was inside, and the camera would never lie. And then—

“MICHAEL!”

His head jerked, smashing hard into the undercab of his truck with a sharp hiss. Fuck. Pain shot through his skull, shoving the filthy fantasy out of his mind like a goddamn broom. His vision blurred, and he swore under his breath, cursing himself for getting too wrapped up, for letting a loud voice interrupt his thoughts. Fucking hell. Michael wrapped his fingers around the greasy edge of the truck’s frame and hauled himself out on the rolling trolley, the light above cutting harsh against his eyes. His skull still ached from where he’d smacked it, and when his vision cleared, he found himself staring up at none other than Miss Laurie Myers—his kid sister, his curse and his salvation all wrapped in one.

He glared at her at first, instinct more than anything, but it softened quick enough. Laurie. Christ, if there was anything in this fucked-up world worth half a damn, it was her. The one thing he could say he actually gave a shit about. For as long as he could remember, it had been the two of them against everyone else, and Michael had taken that as law. He made sure she got the things he never had: clothes without holes in them, food that didn’t taste like the bottom of a can, the kind of schooling that could actually take her somewhere. Everything about Laurie had to be better—better than him, better than this, better than the goddamn rot they’d both crawled out of.

He didn’t mind being the one to take the hit, to stay down in the dirt. His hands would always be oil-stained, his name would always be shit on people’s tongues, his future already a junkyard fire not worth saving. But Laurie? Laurie was clean. She was sharp. She could be something. And if it meant Michael had to break himself in half to make that happen, so be it. He’d do it a thousand times over. Because Laurie deserved it all—everything he couldn’t have and everything he couldn’t be. But right now, she looked more interested in being a thorn in his side than anything else. Typical. Laurie had that tilt to her chin, the kind of stubborn set to her face that said she wasn’t going anywhere until he gave her an answer. She planted herself beside the truck, frowning down at him like she had some authority here.

Then, with all the casual boldness in the world, she reached over and flicked off the little radio balanced on the edge of the hood. The final chorus of KISS’s “I Was Made for Lovin’ You” cut off mid-beat, leaving only the faint buzz of static before silence filled the garage. Michael’s jaw ticked as he glared from his spot on the trolley, grease smudged along his temple. He wasn’t sure what pissed him off more—her nerve or the fact that she’d killed his song right at the good part.

“I called for you like three times, Mikey!” she huffed, her voice sharp but with that whiny edge she still carried when she wanted something. “What are you even doing under there? What were you thinking about, huh?”

Her questions needled him, too quick, too curious, like she thought she had a right to crawl around in his head. If only she knew. If only she had the faintest idea what was running through his skull a minute ago, what kind of filthy reel she’d interrupted. Michael didn’t answer her—not yet. Instead, he stared up at her through narrowed eyes, biting back the urge to tell her it wasn’t any of her goddamn business. Laurie huffed at his silence, arms crossing as though she had the upper hand here. Her pout only lasted a second before it split into that triumphant grin of hers—the one that always meant trouble.

“I invited someone over for dinner!” she announced, her voice bubbling with pride. “She’s been tutoring me after school, and I wanted to do something nice to thank her. I had to practically beg, but she said yes! So, come on, Mikey—get up! Oh—there she is!”

Michael sat up, pushing himself off the trolley with a grunt, only to freeze halfway when he caught sight of her. The girl. His girl—or at least the one he thought about too damn much when he was alone. She lingered in the doorway of the garage like she’d stumbled somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be. Her eyes found his, wide and uncertain, and for a long beat the world seemed to hang on the exchange. He stared right back, unflinching, cataloguing her like a wolf deciding if the rabbit had wandered too close. Leggings clung to her legs, a wool sweater hugged her frame, and fuzzy boots capped her off like some picture-perfect ad for cozy innocence. She clutched a bag at her side with both hands, knuckles whitening against the strap. She knew this was wrong—he could see it in the stiff way she held herself, the way her chest rose and fell too fast. This was a breach. Their little unspoken arrangement was clear: she didn’t come here unless he called. His home was off-limits, his rules. And yet here she was, invited not by him but by Laurie—his baby sister, who had no idea she’d just tossed a spark into a barrel of gasoline.

Laurie, oblivious to the weight in the air, carried on chirping happily.

“I know you don’t really like strangers, but she goes to college with you, Mikey! And she’s a Criminal Psychology major too! I figured you might even know each other! Plus, I never get to bring friends over, and she’s done so much for me—I wanted to thank her, since I can’t really pay her what she deserves.”

Michael’s gaze didn’t shift. He let Laurie’s words wash over him, unimportant, as he studied the girl at the threshold. Her presence here broke every rule, shattered the neat little line he’d drawn in his head. But instead of anger, a slow, dangerous amusement stirred in him. Oh, this was going to be fun. This was gonna be a goddamn show. She could prance in here with her neat little sweater, that polished smile, acting like she hadn’t spent the other night with her back arched, begging for more. All that “good girl” posture she wore like armor—straight back, soft voice, careful smiles—he knew better. He’d broken that, stripped it off her piece by piece until there was nothing left but sweat, tears, and her nails around his wrist. And now she had to sit across from him at his own goddamn table like none of it ever happened.

How long could she hold it? That was the fun part. Would her hands shake when she lifted her fork? Would her voice trip on a word when he looked at her too long? Maybe she’d slip—just once—and let Laurie see what he already knew. That there was rot under the shine. That behind all those perfect grades and little polite nods was a girl who spread easy when he told her to. But no, he doubted she’d give it up that easily. She’d rather choke on her own tongue than lose face. That was why she was here at all, keeping up the act. So he’d let her. He’d lean back, watch her smile too bright, listen to her chatter too quick, all while knowing exactly how those lips had looked moaning in pleasure. Let her keep the act. He didn’t need her to fall apart for anyone else—he’d already seen her crack open, already owned what she tried so hard to hide. And that was the sweetest part: she could play innocent all she wanted, but he’d always be the one holding the truth.

But still… it was going to be fun watching her squirm through it. Michael pushed himself up to his full height, the faint squeak of the trolley wheels following him as he stood. He reached for the rag hanging off the side of his truck, dragging it slow across his palms and knuckles, smearing the grease rather than really cleaning it. Didn’t matter—he wasn’t putting on a show for anyone. Laurie, though, lit up like he’d just done something monumental. She always did that, reading into every little thing he did, like his silence was a puzzle she could solve if she stared hard enough. Kid was too damn earnest for her own good.

“Great!” she chirped, practically bouncing as she turned toward the doorway. “Oh, please do come in. I apologize for the mess. Michael doesn’t clean as much as I do—”

Michael’s lip curled just faintly, a soundless scoff caught at the back of his throat. A mess? Sure. The garage smelled of oil, metal, and gasoline—his kind of clean. Tools lined the walls in half-organized chaos, his workbench stacked with bolts, screws, and torn-up manuals. Everything in here had purpose, had weight. Didn’t need to look like a magazine spread to matter. And yet there she was—his little fantasy girl—hovering in the doorway like she’d stumbled into the lion’s den. That bag was still clutched tight against her ribs, her knuckles white where she gripped the strap. She didn’t move until Laurie beckoned her further in, and even then she stepped careful, like she was worried the floor itself might bite her. Michael’s eyes followed every inch of her—those leggings hugging her thighs, that sweater loose but not loose enough to hide the way she shifted under his stare. She had to know. She had to.

Laurie, blissfully unaware, kept chattering. “I thought we could make pasta together! Oh, and maybe garlic bread. I got that recipe from Mrs. Gordon down the street—she swears by it. Isn’t that right, Michael?”

Michael didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He just kept wiping at his hands, slow and deliberate, while his eyes stayed locked on the girl. … yeah, she already knew damn well what the inside of the house looked like. He could see it written in the tight set of her jaw, the way her knuckles whitened around the strap of that bag. She was trying—trying so hard—to keep it together, to play at being composed, polite, untouchable. Cute. He heard Laurie push the door open, her sing-song voice chiming in before she suddenly sucked in a sharp little gasp.

“Just, uh—just give me a moment! I forgot to clean something up in the kitchen!”

Her footsteps scrambled across the hardwood, quick and frantic. Yeah, breakfast—probably dishes still stacked high from this morning. Saturdays always meant a mess left over. Michael didn’t care. He didn’t need the cover. As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, the air shifted. Quiet again. Heavy. Michael stopped wiping his hands and let the rag hang loose at his side. His eyes never moved off her. Just stood there, looming, staring down the girl who’d strolled into his garage at the exact moment he’d been thinking about her—like fate had a sick sense of humor. Her shoulders slumped almost instantly, like the act of pretending was already too much weight. But she wouldn’t look at him. Her gaze darted—first to the truck, then to the floor, then anywhere but him. Nervous. Shaken. Good. She should be.

He was still a little pissed about last time. She’d gotten bold, tried to claw for control, tried to flip the script on him like she was the one holding the leash. It had been cute, for about a second, until he’d pinned her down and reminded her how quickly she folded when he pressed the right buttons. Sure, it ended just fine—with him buried deep inside her, filling that sweet little cunt the way it was meant to be, watching her tremble and break—but still. The audacity of her thinking she could take something from him. Michael’s jaw twitched. He could still feel how tight she’d been, still hear the way her voice cracked when he pushed her past her limit. Fuck, she’d been dripping for it, clinging like her body knew better than her brain. He’d left her bred, spent, used—exactly how she should be. The pill had taken care of the rest, but even that didn’t erase what he knew now. She wasn’t untouchable. She wasn’t pure. She was his. And now? Now she was standing in his garage, feet away, pretending like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t let him split her open and ruin her the way he had. He wondered how long that mask would last before it cracked again.

“Hey—uh, I didn’t—this wasn’t my idea, okay? Laurie insisted and I felt bad and I just—well, I figured you know… we could talk too, maybe? About last time?”

That stupid mouth. Of course she had to make it complicated. Of course she had to reach for a conversation like that was some tidy way to stitch the whole mess back together. Michael watched her try to place meaning on what they’d done and felt the old, cold amusement curl up in his gut. She wanted answers. She wanted labels. She wanted to pretend there was an explanation that made sense and kept her pretty reputation intact. Cute. He’d never liked her. Never had. She’d been lacquered with the same brittle polish as the rest of them in high school—smiles that were thin as a sheet of cheap glass, compliments fitted just so. If anything, he’d always thought she was the kind of person who’d sell someone out for a better table. That hadn’t changed. She was a creature of appearances, and whatever private life she’d thought she owned—scribbles in a blue book, stolen looks, midnight fantasies—wasn’t the same as honesty. That difference made him enjoy having the ledger.

“Talk,” he thought, and the idea tasted bitter. Let her try to rationalize. Let her barter for decency when she’d already traded it away. The whole nightmare was simple to him: she performed in public, and when she thought nobody was watching she acted out in private. He’d seen both versions. He’d held a key to the private one, and that made the rest of the world’s assumptions about her deliciously wrong. If she wanted rules, fine. He’d play that little game—on his terms. He wanted it uncomplicated: no promises, no soft words, no theatrics about feelings neither of them felt. Just the arrangement: she came when he called, she stayed out of sight when it suited him, and in return he made sure the diary stayed buried. The rest—the talk, the explanations, the fragile ‘what ifs’—were theatre he had no patience for. He wanted convenience, not confessions. The thought of sleeping arrangements, of some neat, repeatable routine where messes were contained and the world stayed tidy, made something in him quiet with satisfaction. Let her keep trying to convince herself otherwise. Let her tidy up her voice for Laurie. He’d watch the act, take notes, and when she finally stopped preening for the town, he’d still have the thing that mattered: control. That was the point. That was the pleasure. Not love. Not liking. Ownership, served cold.

She stood there like she didn’t know what to do with herself, wide-eyed and jittery, clutching that bag like it might save her from him. Her fingers worked against each other, nervous and restless, a dead giveaway. He’d seen it before—hell, he’d catalogued it without meaning to. Years of watching her, not because he liked her, but because it was impossible not to notice. People thought she was so smooth, so polished, but he knew better. That little scrunch of her nose, the way her lips tightened when she was caught between guilt and confusion… that was his favorite tell. Always had been. Michael dropped the rag onto the workbench without a second thought. One long stride and his hand clamped around her elbow, spinning her before she could react. The sharp sound of her back hitting cold metal rang out in the garage, followed by her sharp hiss of breath. He didn’t give her room to recover. His palm slid down, deliberate, and pressed firm against her cunt through the thin fabric. A slow rub, one finger tracing up and down her seam like he had all the time in the world to toy with her.

“You look fucking eager,” he muttered, voice low and jagged, smoke-rough and all grit. His head tilted just slightly, eyes fixed on her face. “Did I page you?”

She buckled almost instantly, the mask slipping. Her legs twitched, shoulders pressed hard against the truck like she needed something to hold her up. He could see the battle all over her—irritation trying to mask surprise, pride trying to smother the way her body was already betraying her.

“Michael—!” she gasped, tone half warning, half plea.

His hand didn’t move away. If anything, he pressed harder, dragging the heel of his palm slow and cruel over the wet heat already seeping through her leggings. He leaned in close enough that she could feel every rasp of his voice against her cheek.

“Did. I. Page. You?”

Each word landed heavy, a command more than a question, and he watched her throat work as she tried to hold herself together. She always broke. Always. And fuck if it wasn’t the best part. She whimpered, a sharp mix of panic and arousal spilling out of her throat, the kind that tightened her chest but heated her veins all at once. The garage door was wide open, after all. Anyone could wander past, catch sight of her pinned against his truck, his hand buried between her thighs, playing with her pussy like it belonged to him. Hell, just being seen at the Myers house would be bad enough for her—doom in the making, given her perfect little image. But Michael knew better. He knew what lived under all that polish. She liked this. She liked the danger, the way fear curled tight inside her but only made her wetter. He’d chased her before, and the proof had been slick on his fingers after—her cunt clenching around nothing, starving for his cock. She could fight it, deny it, but he’d seen it plain as day.

And fuck, he wanted to see just how far he could push her before that image she guarded so carefully cracked, before she stopped caring altogether. Not today, though. Her hand darted down, small but stubborn, wrapping tight around his wrist. Pretty fingers, shaking but firm—fingers that belonged tied and spread wide, bound until she gave up the fight.

“I—no! No, you didn’t—Michael, please, the garage door—”

The desperation in her voice just made him harder. She begged so damn pretty, and he had no problem admitting it went straight to his cock. He could almost picture her already on her knees, eyes wide, mouth open, taking him down her throat until she gagged. That would come later. Not here, not now. He wasn’t the type to fuck out in the open just for the thrill—unless it meant something. Unless it was to teach her a lesson. And Laurie was inside. That was a risk he wouldn’t take. His kid sister didn’t need to walk out and catch her tutor spread open on his hand. Though, hell—maybe Laurie would be happy for him, think he’d finally scored a “girlfriend.” That was cute. In her eyes, maybe that’s what she’d be. But Michael knew better. She wasn’t his girlfriend. She was his toy. And right now, that toy was shaking in his grip, soaking through her panties while pretending she wasn’t desperate for him. Michael’s mouth curved into something too sharp to be called a smile, more of a sneer. His fingers slipped lower, dragging over the damp heat already bleeding through her leggings. He gave a low hum, part mockery, part satisfaction.

“Then why the fuck,” he rasped, punctuating each word with a deliberate press of his fingers, “are you standing in my garage?”

Her breath stuttered, chest rising too fast, and he could see the war in her eyes—pride against instinct, reputation against need. He relished every second of it, the way she hated giving him the truth even when her body screamed it for her.

“Laurie—! She invited me over for dinner! I tried to get out of it, I swear I fucking did, Myers! But what was I supposed to do? Tell her no? She’s your sister!”

The words tumbled out of her mouth in a frantic rush, every syllable dripping with nerves, her fingers still clamped around his wrist as if that might undo what had just happened. Michael only frowned, just barely—a crease in his brow that might’ve gone unnoticed if she weren’t watching him so closely. Then came the creak of the garage door. The sound was enough to snap him back, and he let go without hesitation, yanking his hand away and putting space between them. The rag was back in his grip in an instant, cloth moving over his fingers with slow, deliberate swipes. From the outside, he looked the same as before—calm, detached, busy with work. But he knew better. He was wiping away the damp trace of her, the proof that she’d melted for him with barely any effort on his part. Christ, she was easy. Too easy. A little pressure, a rough word, and her body betrayed her every time. She stood there now looking like a contradiction come to life—her face pale, her lips parted, shame written clear across her expression. But he also saw the flicker of relief. She’d been terrified someone would see. The garage door rattled higher, opening fully, and then Laurie appeared with her usual skip in her step.

“Okay! All clean—oh!” Laurie’s eyes flicked toward the truck, where the girl was leaning stiffly against the metal like she’d been nailed there. “Careful with that! I’m pretty sure he loves that rust bucket more than me.” Laurie laughed, brushing it off without a second thought. “Come inside! Come on in!”

He watched her peel herself off the truck like the metal had scorched her back, movements stiff, rushed, like she thought speed could erase the fact she’d been caught under his hand moments before. She cut past him without a word, head low, straight to Laurie like a schoolgirl hoping proximity to innocence might scrub her clean. But he knew better. He always did. She’d have to sit in those soaked panties now, and the idea made something low in his gut twist with a dark sort of satisfaction. Serves her right—breaking their rules. It was punishment enough to make her squirm through dinner with that wet heat between her thighs, the reminder of him clinging to her. Funny thing was, he could imagine her fighting to keep her composure, crossing her legs tighter, praying no one noticed. He almost wished he could drag a chair up beside her just to watch.

And then there was the darker thought—the one that stirred like smoke whenever he let himself linger on it. If he wanted, if he didn’t give a damn about the fallout, he could bend her over in front of her perfect little circle of friends and show them what she really was. Show them the way her voice cracked when his cock stretched her, how those prim manners burned away when her eyes rolled back and her pretty mouth spilled filth. He wondered if they’d scream, faint, or run. Maybe all three. The image amused him enough that the rag in his hand felt pointless. He tossed it aside, jaw shifting with the faintest huff before following them in, his heavy steps carrying him into the house. Quiet as always, but in his head, he was still laughing at her.

He watched her put on the act—like she’d never stepped foot past that threshold, like she hadn’t once bolted down these halls with panic in her throat and his shadow swallowing her steps. Funny thing was, she wasn’t half bad at it. Polished little smile, eyes wide and curious in all the right places. If he didn’t know her tells, he might’ve even believed her. But he did know them. He always did. Michael leaned into the wall, broad shoulders pressing lazily against the plaster, one boot hooked over the other like he didn’t have a care in the world. His hand dug into the front pocket of his jeans, pulling out a crumpled carton of cigarettes that had been bent and re-bent so many times it looked like it had been run over. A cheap lighter followed. He needed one for this kind of bullshit. Laurie was in her element, chirping as she dragged her through the living room, pointing out old family photos, some faded hand-me-down knickknacks, talking like they were worth a damn. He watched, exhaling through his nose. All that bright energy bouncing around, filling space, covering the cracks. He’d never tell her to shut up, not Laurie—but he wasn’t about to pretend he cared either.

He thumbed open the carton, tapped out one of the battered sticks, and popped it between his teeth. Cancer on a paper roll. He never argued with Laurie when she griped about them—hell, he didn’t even disagree. They were trash. But sometimes trash had its place. They gave his hands something to do, gave his mouth something to taste other than his own silence, and on nights like this they filled the gap between patience and violence. That was enough. The lighter hissed, sparked, caught. He drew in deep until the tip glowed, then tucked both lighter and carton back into his pocket, careless, the motions practiced. Smoke filled his lungs, harsh and warm, and he let it curl out slow through his nose, trailing upward into the yellow light overhead. He kept his eyes fixed on her the whole time. Watching her nod politely at Laurie’s chatter, fingers still twitching like they couldn’t quite forget what his hand had done to her in the garage.

It was almost comical, the way she tried to keep pace—scrambling beneath the weight of her own act, a prim little doll made up for Laurie to fuss over. Laurie didn’t even realize she had her on strings, but Michael did. He could see it plain as day: her smile stretched too thin, her posture too stiff, every little movement measured so carefully it might break her spine. All that for his sister. All that to keep up the mask. He pulled in another drag, smoke burning the back of his throat before he let it out slow, curling around him like fog. Then, just as easily, it was gone—plucked right from his mouth. Laurie darted past him, scolding with that playful sting only she could manage.

“I said no smoking in the house, Michael!” she chirped, wrinkling her nose at the stick before stamping it out. She turned to the girl with a smile that could’ve lit up the damn block. “Sorry about that. It’s such a bad habit and he won’t break it—oh! Come into the kitchen! I have everything set out! I’m so excited! This is going to be so much fun!”

Laurie practically skipped off toward the kitchen, her blonde ponytail bouncing like the world had never known a bad day. Michael stayed where he was for a beat, shoulder against the wall, eyes locked on the girl. She couldn’t look back at him for more than a second without her throat bobbing like she’d swallowed glass. And he knew she was thinking about it—the smoke on his lips, the oil still on his hands, the heat of his palm pressed between her thighs not ten minutes ago. She could scrub her face clean for Laurie all she wanted; he could see what was underneath. With a quiet grunt, he pushed off the wall and followed, heavy boots dragging across the floorboards.

He stepped into the kitchen just a beat after she brushed past him, following Laurie like she had any real choice in the matter. But when she stopped short and froze, he almost—almost—snickered. Because he knew exactly what she was staring at. Spread out on the counter was the same lineup of ingredients from the first time he’d ever dragged her into this house. Harmless things, sure—sauce, pasta, meatballs. Innocent on the surface. But not to her. Not when those exact same ingredients had been laid out while she’d stood barefoot in his kitchen, stripped down to her underwear, stirring sauce while he leaned back in a chair and snapped photos like she was some kind of pin-up for his own private collection. He’d eaten well that night—food, yeah, but mostly her. And Laurie had clapped her hands after, all smiles, thinking her big brother had magically learned to cook. If only she knew. And from the way his girl’s face lit crimson now, he knew the exact same memory was burning through her head. Her lips pressed tight, her eyes darting everywhere but the counter, cheeks hot enough to give her away instantly.

Laurie, oblivious as ever, beamed and clapped. “Yup! Pasta! It’s really easy and super good too! I already made the meatballs—we just have to cook them. Everything else is sorta pre-done. Bread might take a little more effort—Michael could help, but he won’t.” She shot him a look, then laughed. “He made dinner one night only and somehow didn’t burn the pots! It was crazy, honestly! I was so proud of him though! He usually can’t cook, just a warning—never ask him to make you anything!”

Michael tilted his head, watching his little sister beam with pride, watching his fantasy shift her weight like the floor might cave beneath her. Laurie thought she was telling some harmless joke. She didn’t know she’d just pulled the pin and lobbed the grenade right into the middle of the room. Hook. Line. And sinker. Michael dragged a chair out with his boot and sat down, cigarette craving already gnawing at the back of his throat. He leaned an elbow on the table and let his eyes settle on the girl, heavy and deliberate. He leaned back in his chair, letting his eyes linger on her like a predator studying a bird caught in a cage, tiny sparks of amusement flickering across his expression. The girl’s mind was a mess of blushes and restraint, and he could almost feel the tension radiating off her in waves. She wanted to look composed, wanted to act like she hadn’t been irrevocably marked by that night, but it was written all over her body.

The way her gaze skimmed over the ingredients—it wasn’t casual. He caught it, every flicker of her lashes, the tiny pause in her breathing. Her eyes darted to him for half a heartbeat before she yanked them back to Laurie like she’d burned herself. He almost let a sneer slip. Almost. Instead, he stretched out his legs, boots scuffing against the floor, settling back into his chair with that loose, deliberate posture that said he didn’t give a fuck who was watching. His wife-beater was marked with oil stains, jeans the same, hands still bearing the faint ghost of grease no rag could ever fully scrub away. And then, in his hair, one of Laurie’s stupid claw clips holding it back. Ridiculous. But who the hell would say anything? Nobody. Not to him. Not even her. He tilted his head slightly, eyes half-lidded as Laurie carried on in her endless chatter.

“I can’t believe I managed to get you over here! You know, Michael could use some tutoring too! Or some study help, probably! A study group might be fun, don’t you think? Oh, I can hold it here! We can watch a movie and you two could do some work too.... that sounds so fun!”

There it was. Classic Laurie. Sly as ever. She had that same knack for manipulation he did, just hidden under sugar and light instead of smoke and shadows. Michael didn’t need tutoring—he never had. Everyone liked to whisper he was slow, or thick-headed, or worse, because he didn’t bother opening his mouth in class. Truth was, he was probably the smartest bastard in that college, sharper than every last one of them. He just didn’t care. Could he crush them on exams, put professors on their asses with answers they didn’t expect? Yeah. But that word kept showing up again and again: want. He didn’t want to. The work was dull, colorless, nothing that deserved his attention. Easier to play dumb. Easier to stay quiet, half-asleep in the back row with his hood up, letting them all believe whatever lie made them feel better. Better not to be seen as anything more. He could already see the terror that had settled in her eyes after Laurie’s little suggestion, and it was almost laughable. Probably just nerves about having to come back here, spend more time in this house, more time under Laurie’s nosy mouth. The girl couldn’t keep a secret to save her life, and maybe she knew that. Or maybe it was simpler—maybe she was scared of being alone with him.

That part made him want to grin. Because why should she be scared? She’d already spread for him, already melted for his touch like she was starving for it. She wanted it, same as he did, no matter how much she tried to act like she didn’t. He knew it in the way her body had clung to him, how tight she’d been around him, choking on every inch like she’d never taken anyone before. He’d bet money on being her first. And that thought alone made him want to ruin her faster, break her in to the shape he liked. Ideas kept crawling through his head, things he wanted to try—her bound to the bed with her wrists tied raw, begging him to let her breathe; her riding him until her thighs gave out, only for him to flip her over and take what was left of her voice anyway. Maybe he’d let her sit above him if he felt generous, watch her grind herself to pieces while he pulled her hair back and reminded her who she belonged to.

Fuck—just thinking about it made him restless. She was a perfect little toy, and he wasn’t anywhere close to finished with her. A collar would fit, something snug around her throat to remind her every second who owned her. Not some cute, soft thing either—something real. Leather, maybe steel, something she couldn’t ignore even if she tried. The idea of her walking around with it hidden under her sweater, blushing every time she thought about it, made his blood run hot.

“What do you think?” Laurie’s voice cut through his thoughts like a knife.

“Oh—um, I’m really busy at the moment… I can only do some tutoring at the high school, and then my own classes. I barely have study sessions with my friends anymore—!”

Man... she was a walking contradiction, and it fascinated him to no end. He couldn’t even begin to guess what story she’d spun for her pristine Barbie-mom or her stiff-as-a-board Ken-dad, but if he had to bet, it involved her friends, her coursework, and probably some harmless-sounding white lie about summer obligations. Summer classes—really? Of all times. Stupid, but predictably so. He knew. Knew because she still lingered at the library late into the evening, sprawled in that ridiculous beanbag exactly like the night he first cornered her. God… that had been one hell of a jolt to his system. The way she’d stiffened, caught between fear and something darker, need buried beneath her careful posture. Her body had betrayed her before her mind could even catch up. He remembered it vividly—the flush of her skin, the subtle hitch in her breath, the almost imperceptible tremor that gave her away. Prim and polished on the outside, and yet beneath it all? A mess of fire and want he had been more than willing to fan. Perfect on paper, and yet utterly his, in ways she didn’t even realize.

He knew she stayed there after classes sometimes, made the library her little fortress away from whatever half-broken life she had at home. Probably had shit parents if he had to guess—judging by the way she faked everything she did, the little masks she wore. He had watched her that night. Watched as the last of the other students drifted out, leaving her curled up on that ridiculous beanbag as if the world had no claim on her. She slept without a care, and he stood there, taking it all in, trying to figure out just what kind of animal could change its skin so effortlessly. A chameleon, maybe. That sounded about right. Fuck, it wasn’t like he had planned this. He hadn’t hoped for it. And yet, somehow, they were entangled, tied together in some strange, unspoken way ever since high school. She may have brushed him off back then, maybe wrote him off as the random freak who carried rumors like a badge—but that was only half the story. Sometimes, she said hello. Sometimes, a wave, subtle, almost timid. And it was genuine. Not mocking. Not cruel. That part, at least, he noticed. It fascinated him, and maybe a little irritated him too—how she could be so careful, so calculated, yet still spill little bits of herself without meaning to. She kept her armor on the outside, but underneath? That was his to study, to provoke, to unravel if he wanted. And oh, did he want.

She’d looked so goddamn peaceful—like a porcelain thing you could set on a shelf and forget about. It was the kind of quiet that made people think the world was as neat as their Sunday prayers. Funny thing was, he hadn’t gone there to admire her. He’d gone with a job to do. People who left lights on, who stretched the hours in an empty library because they had reasons nobody else wanted to hear—those were the ones you paid attention to. They were where the interesting things hid. Only this one night, the script frayed. Lights blinked off in her aisle and he assumed she’d gone home like everyone else. Then the lights snapped back on. He wandered back to the beanbag—empty—and that blue book lay there like a dare, face down on the floor. He didn’t hesitate. Snatched it up like a prize. The moment the cover cracked open he knew it wasn’t some idle notebook. Her name was on the inside in that pretty, careful cursive she used to polish everything she wrote. It was hers, all right. And the writing—Christ. It wasn’t the harmless diary scribble a lot of girls hid under their mattresses. It was sharp, vicious, intimate. She wasn’t just jotting down crushes and grocery lists; she was cataloguing people: their hypocrisies, the little cruelties they hid behind polite smiles, the ways Haddonfield pretended it was pure while it rotted from the inside out.

He read about names he’d half-expected: the mayor’s son with a taste for other men’s wives, a teacher who graded for favors, the girls who laughed too loud and sold each other out for better tables. And then—there it was—entries about him. Not the flattering sort. Ink that called him out for what he was in her private language: the weird guy everyone whispered about, the rumor with hands the town kept tabs on. But it wasn’t all finger-pointing. There were lines that hummed with something else—confusion, attraction, a careful little curiosity that bit through the spite. She’d written things she wouldn’t dare say aloud. She’d written that she watched him, wondered about him, and then hated that she wondered at all. Power slicked down his spine like oil. He wasn’t sentimental; he wasn’t the type to weep at anyone’s secrets. But having that book in his hand felt like finding the right wrench for a jammed bolt. This was leverage. This was a key. Knowing what she thought, what she feared and who she could ruin on a bad night—those were tools. He could brand her with it or keep it folded away as insurance. Either way, he had something she didn’t expect: the ledger of her private life. It was one thing to have seen her crack in private, to have had the moment where her composure slid and something raw showed through. It was another to be the only one with the proof. The town had its pretty faces and clean plates; he had the thin blue book and the ugly truths scrawled inside. That was his advantage.

Then she came back for it. He could still hear the edge in her voice that night—quick, frantic, like she was rehearsing excuses to the walls just to keep herself moving. Something about needing to go, about being thankful a janitor had left the door unlocked. All that babble spilled out until it died the second her eyes landed on him. Her relief curdled into silence, and then his name slipped out of her mouth. Myers. Not spat, not whispered, but careful, cautious, like she wasn’t sure if speaking it would keep him still or make him strike. Funny thing was, he liked the way it sounded from her. She’d said it before, years ago, but back then it had been choked out through tears, clinging to fear. High school. That was the first time he’d seen it—that tiny crack in her armor, the polished girl trembling underneath.

That whole note business back then—what a fucking joke. A “love letter”? Please. He hadn’t been stupid enough to swallow that. Not fully. Maybe he’d wanted to—just a scrap of something to hold onto, some half-dead hope that even he could be seen without people spitting on the sight. Back then, at seventeen, he was still just a kid. A kid who had already stared down what hell looked like: ugly, joyless, without warmth. Maybe part of him had thought she could be something else, a sliver of light in the rot. But light like that doesn’t exist in Haddonfield. He knew it. He should’ve known better. And when she cracked that night, when she begged him—of all people—for forgiveness, what the hell else could that mean except that she was full of shit? What decent girl would look at him and plead like that? No sane one, that’s for damn sure. That little display had just confirmed it: beneath her polished smile and the neat grades and the Barbie-perfect parents, she was a liar through and through. And maybe that was why she stuck in his head. Not because she was better—but because she was worse, just like him, only desperate to pretend otherwise.

And really, it wasn’t his fault she leaked what she wanted so obviously. He was a predator, simple as that—a shark circling the scent of blood, drawn in by it whether he wanted to be or not. Pressing her up against that bookshelf had been one of the smartest fucking moves he’d ever made. She had looked up at him then, wide-eyed, trembling just slightly, and he’d caught it—the fear, yes, but something else too. Something raw, something desperate. Longing, maybe. Fucking need. Her face had warmed under his gaze, cheeks blooming red, and every little twitch of her body had screamed what she wanted, though she never dared say it outright. And paired with that diary—oh, that little blue book of hers—it all fit together perfectly. It confirmed every little suspicion he’d held, every private thought she’d scrawled down when no one was looking. She had offered herself, wrapped in words and shyness, and he’d been a fool not to take the toy she handed him so freely. How could he resist? How could he not play?

So began their little fucked-up dance, that strange, conflicting thing they called a relationship. At first, it was just for fun, and maybe—if he was being honest with himself—for the sake of some twisted sense of revenge. She clearly wanted something from him, always had, whether she admitted it or not. Those little “hellos” she used to toss his way in high school? Childish. Sweet, maybe, but childish all the same. They didn’t mean shit back then—at least, not to him. But in college? That was different. She’d avoided him like the plague at first, and honestly, who could fucking blame her? He wasn’t the same kid anymore. He’d always been big in high school, sure—the Haddonfield High coaches practically begged him to join the football team. Didn’t matter what the rumors said, didn’t matter what his name carried. They wanted the wins, and his size could’ve guaranteed them.

But in college, he wasn’t just “the big kid” anymore. He was something else entirely. He was massive, yeah, but not in some sloppy, overdone way. His body was built off real labor—long hours of odd jobs, lifting, hauling, fixing, all of it carving him into solid muscle. The truck helped too, endless hours under the hood, turning wrenches and fighting rust. He wasn’t a bodybuilder, wasn’t some roided-out freak. He was strong in the ways that mattered. Fit in all the right places. And monstrous in his own right, the kind of man people didn’t just notice—they stared at, wary, the way you look at something you’re not sure is safe. And she had to walk into that. To look at him now and see the difference. No wonder she avoided him at first. No wonder she cracked anyway. But then slowly but surely, she began her little hellos again, her little glances, her tiny stares. She wanted him, that much he could tell… or she was fascinated with him in some wrong morbid way. The bad kid. The one mommy and daddy would scream their heads off if they caught her with… but they hadn’t caught her yet, had they? And she always came like an obedient dog, always so excited to wag her tail for him.

And wag she did. She’d come to him after class, after long hours in the library, after her neat little life had worn her down to the bone. She’d let him look at her like she wasn’t worth half the praise people heaped on her, and she’d take it. The part that made him laugh was that no one would ever know except him. No one would ever be privy to see just how badly she cried and ached and whimpered for him. That sweet little girl the whole town thought they knew, folded into herself, raw nerves and heat just because he was there. She was his contradiction. Prim on the outside, rotten sweet underneath. A little fucking liar who pretended she didn’t want him until she was cornered, trembling and whispering his name. That was the part that drove him crazy—the act she put on, the desperate fight to keep the mask up, when the truth was written all over her the second she opened her mouth.

One of these days he was going to call her on a Sunday after church and make her prove it. Make her show up in whatever little dress she wore, pearls and lace, hair all perfect like her mother wanted. He’d put his hands on her, rough and sure, until she admitted the mask was nothing but a costume. He’d ruin that innocent image she tried to drag back up around herself every time she left him. And the best part? She’d let him. She’d fall apart the second he touched her, because that’s who she was when it came to him. And he liked that he was the only one who knew. But here she was now, in his house and putting on a show just for Laurie… it was a good show, he had to give her that. He just stared as she laughed off her own nerves and went to help Laurie with the meal. Perfect little performance. He watched her move, fluid and graceful, chatting with his little sister and effectively deciding that the best bet here was to ignore him.

That was irritating, but not surprising. Eventually, the novelty of their chatter wore off. Some pointless conversation about whether or not this movie was actually coming out, or if some random math equation made sense to anyone who gave a shit. He could tell when she started to relax—her shoulders less tight, her laugh easier, that sharp little edge of caution she carried around him dulled by Laurie’s presence. Laurie had that effect on people, like she could take the weight off their back without even trying. Meanwhile, all he ever did was press down heavier. Yeah, he was out of her mind for now. So he got up, slow and deliberate, and neither of them noticed. Laurie sometimes did, but not tonight—she was caught up, distracted, giving their guest too much reason to forget about him. He let the annoyance churn a little, chewing on the thought of her pretending he wasn’t there. Playing calm. Playing normal. He turned and drifted toward the garage. At least there he could find some quiet. The truck didn’t pretend. The truck didn’t laugh too loudly or talk about useless shit. It sat, it waited, it needed him.

Once the door clicked shut behind him, he let himself sink back a little, shoulders loosening. Maybe he didn’t want Laurie to find out either. Really, this was all just for fun… and he’d say it over and over if anyone asked. He didn’t like her—not really. He hated her guts sometimes. But she had fire. She could hold her own little knife, even if it was a puny one. That mattered. The custodial job at the college was barely his. Jobs didn’t come easy in Haddonfield, and for someone like him, they were even harder to snag. When the HR department decided they needed someone for late-night cleaning duties, he was one of the few stupid—or maybe brave—enough to step up. They hesitated, of course, reluctant to let someone like him wander the campus at night. But the hours were perfect. Quiet. Late. Mostly empty hallways and sleeping students. No one would look too closely, they said, and eventually, they agreed. And now she knew.

She wasn’t just anyone. One slip of the tongue to her friends, a casual comment to her parents, and the whole thing could blow up in his face. Who the hell would want Michael Myers wandering around a college at night, cloaked in shadows and rumpled clothes, muttering to himself while doing a janitor’s job? Parents would lose their minds. Students would panic. And the HR people? They’d never hear the end of it. She was his little weak link. His fun. His leverage. The diary had been a gift in that sense—an amuse-bouche of control, a reminder that he held the cards. And yeah, he needed this job. For Laurie. She deserved it, and he would protect it however he could. Because, in the end, this wasn’t about her. Not really. It was about keeping his world intact. Keeping a little piece of order in the chaos. And if she had to bend a little, dance a little, to make sure that happened… well, that was just the way things were.

Granted, he thought his knife was bigger. Hers could cut and sting, sure—but his could obliterate her entire world in one clean slice. He knew what she wanted. She wanted out of here. She wanted to escape this shithole, claw her way to something bigger, something better. He’d read almost half her diary by now. He knew her plans, knew the little carefully plotted steps she’d lined up to pretend she was the perfect little girl while building a way to vanish into her own life. One page. One photocopied, spread-around-the-school, whispered-about page… and it would all crumble. Every carefully constructed step, every polite nod, every smile and laugh meant to disarm the world… gone. She’d be exposed. Ruined. Cornered. Stared at. Whispered about. Everyone would see her for the rot he already knew was in her heart. She’d become like him. A freak. A creature hiding behind polite eyes, holding fire and hunger beneath a clean, careful exterior.

But she was stupid, or maybe just drunk on some invisible cocktail of thrill and fear—he didn’t know, and he didn’t care. She didn’t have to come when he paged. Fuck, if she had blown him off the first time, that would have been smart, the kind of instinct he could respect. Her knife might have been small, his large, but both could hurt, both could end everything in an instant. Only hers was weak. Too weak. Like she didn’t really care… or maybe she cared too much. Her eyes, her hands, the way she shivered when she thought she could get away with a tiny defiance—he knew exactly what it was. She wanted him. Not in some fragile, romantic bullshit way, but the way someone wants a force of nature to pay attention to them, to bend and crack and call them out, to be seen for what they really are. She craved his ire, his dark presence, the weight of it all landing squarely on her. And she relished it. She’d never admit it to anyone, but that’s why her grip was weak. She came when he called because she wanted to. She came because the risk, the thrill, the dance of control and chaos—that was her drug.

Her little fit, the whining, the half-hearted protests? A show. Maybe a little genuine fear mixed in, but only for the world outside his eyes, for her perfect little life. Not for him. No, he could see right through it. And he knew, if she could somehow keep her polished, prim little act intact, still hold onto the illusion of control, and have him bend her to his will behind closed doors, she’d do anything to make it happen. She’d crumble, whimper, claw at him, nuzzle her face into his neck… but he wasn’t a cuddler. Never had been. And he knew she didn’t care. She would always prefer rough hands, hard touches, the kind that left marks and memories alike. He let out a low grumble, sinking back onto the trolley, letting himself slide under the truck again. Oil was dripping somewhere, a slow, persistent leak. The thing was a hunk of junk, bolts and hoses sticking out at odd angles, but Deborah had bought it for him. Her own money, scraped together like she was trying to buy him a slice of the world she knew he deserved. A sweet sixteen gift, she’d said, beaming with pride. It wasn’t a BMW, it wasn’t glossy or fast, but it was his. He remembered hugging her like the act could keep him alive, like holding onto her love might stave off everything else. Affection—real, uncomplicated—was one of the few things that ever came easy for him.

Deborah had been a great woman. His mother. The only person, aside from Laurie, who had ever really given a damn. She had that kind of beauty that made people soft just looking at her—golden, crinkled hair, eyes wide and blue like sunlight caught in a lake. The kind of presence that made it impossible for anyone to hate her. And the town knew it. They didn’t resent Deborah Myers; they pitied her, and in that pity bloomed affection. She was loved, and so was Laurie, as they should be. Suns in a world that hadn’t offered him much of anything. And him? He couldn’t compare. He wasn’t a sun, or even a planet orbiting something greater. Maybe he was just an asteroid, aimless and jagged, destined to smash into whatever he collided with. Maybe obliterate it. Maybe that was all he was ever meant to be.

He shook his head slowly, keeping his eyes on the tank above, tracing the lines of pipes and grime as he slid his hand under to grab the wrench again. The garage was quiet now, a heavy, almost oppressive quiet, the kind that made the metal under his fingers hum in response. He didn’t turn the music back on; he liked it like this. Silence made it easier to think, easier to plan, easier to notice things. Twenty minutes passed—or maybe more, he didn’t care enough to check—until the garage door creaked open. Footsteps, light but hurried, and then a kick—sharp enough to make him jolt against the concrete. Laurie, of course.

“Michael! We don’t have any more butter! I’m going to run to the store real quick, just down the corner. Be good? Ok? Don’t scare her off, please—she’s super nice and I really, really like her—!”

Her words tumbled out in one breath, rushed and anxious, her little plea hanging between him and the shadows of the garage. Then she crouched, tilting her head so she could peer at his face from above, those wide eyes full of expectation and something else—hope, maybe, that he’d play nice.

“I think you’d really like her too if you got to know her… she’s super sweet, Mikey.”

Sweet. Nice. Not him. Not anything he dealt in. But he watched—he always watched. The way her lips twitched at the edges, the little flicker of worry behind her big innocent eyes, the way she lingered, hovering just long enough for him to notice everything. He grunted softly, letting his head tilt up to the tank again, letting the silence take her words and grind them against his own thoughts. She had no idea. None. That girl didn’t know what she was stepping into, didn’t know how the world really worked for people like him. But Laurie… Laurie had her little sunshine outlook, and maybe that was enough to make him pause for a second. He pushed himself up on the trolley, muscles tight as steel, and let the wrench clink against the metal as he moved it just enough to satisfy himself. Laurie scrambled back, muttering about butter and errands, oblivious to the way his mind was already turning over plans, angles, small little manipulations that could bend this little scenario in his favor. She left, and the quiet slammed back into the garage, thick and heavy. He exhaled slowly, shoulders easing just a fraction. Sweet. Nice. Innocent. Funny… and maybe, just maybe, he’d get a little fun out of that before the night was done.

He eased himself out from under the trolley, letting the wrench thud against the concrete with a soft, metallic finality. Laurie would be gone for a while, off on some errand, probably getting distracted by something shiny or useful for their guest. Good. That left the girl alone in his house. Just her. Alone with him. The thought made a low, dark chuckle stir in his chest—maybe this would be a fun little interlude after all. He took his time getting to his feet, stretching his back, letting the faint ache from the work on his truck settle into a satisfying burn. The rag lay nearby, a ragged little prop in this game, and he picked it up, wiping his hands clean—or at least pretending to—before letting his gaze drift lazily toward the garage door. She was here. She thought she was careful, prim, proper… but he knew better. He knew exactly how fast that façade could crumble, and oh, he intended to watch it. Her nerves, her small gestures, the way she moved when she thought no one was looking—they were all invitations. And she didn’t even realize it. A slow rumble settled in his chest. Fuck. This was going to be fun. He let the rag fall to the floor with a soft thud, then stalked toward the kitchen, each step deliberate, heavy with intent. The garage door closed behind him with a sharp snap, echoing through the quiet house. A clatter rang out—something knocked over—and he followed the sound without hesitation. There she was, frozen mid-step, an old plastic cup clutched in her hands like a shield. Her wide eyes met his, a deer caught in the headlights, body tense and primed.

“Laurie… Laurie went to the store,” she whispered, barely audible, but it was enough.

“I know,” he said, voice low, calm but edged with something else.

He caught it then—the subtle squeeze of her thighs together, that tiny, telltale motion that made his gut tighten. Fucking naughty girl. He moved forward, slow at first, then faster, closing the distance. She yelped, stepping back instinctively, eyes darting around for an escape.

“MICHAEL! Not again! I’m not doing that shit again! How the hell would I even explain that?! How would you?!”

The raw panic in her voice only made the thrill in his chest grow. Her words, her movements, the way she teetered between fear and something more… it was addictive. He reached for her again and she backed herself up harshly against the kitchen counter. He stepped closer, deliberate, letting the weight of him fill the space until the counter pressed against her back. His arms rose, bracketing her in, fingers curling over the edge like a predator taking its claim.

“This is familiar,” he murmured, low and rough, voice like gravel sliding through smoke.

Her eyes went wide, lips parting, a flash of panic mixed with something darker as her cheeks flushed hot. “Michael—Michael, come on! She’ll be back! Laurie… Laurie will be back soon! We really shouldn’t—”

We. That one word hit him harder than any slap could. Not a demand. Not a refusal. Just an unconscious inclusion, a small crack in her perfect little façade. She wasn’t trying to push him away; hell, she wasn’t trying to fight him at all. And if the way her eyes kept flicking to his, the little pink flick of her tongue across her lips meant anything… she wanted it. Maybe more than she even admitted to herself. He didn’t hesitate. His fingers shot up, threading into the roots of her hair, curling around her scalp, gripping hard enough to assert dominance and enough to hurt—to sting just right.

“I didn’t fucking page you,” he growled, leaning in so the heat of him pressed against her, smell of oil and sweat mixing with the faint hint of her perfume. “And you still show up. To my house. Just because Laurie said so?” He tilted his head, watching the way her chest rose in shallow breaths. “You can make the best goddamn excuses for your little fuck-ass friends, for those brain-dead parents of yours… but you can’t fucking say no to a little girl? That’s it, huh? You can’t say no?”

Her lips parted again, a soft, panicked whimper escaping as he pressed closer. Every line of her body betrayed her, every little tremor screaming the same thing: she was his to toy with, to push, to command. He tilted her head lightly with one hand, then released her and pushed off the counter.

“Follow me. And don’t say a fucking word,” he barked, voice low, rough around the edges.

He didn’t glance back, didn’t need to. The soft scrape of her boots against the kitchen floor, the hesitant tap up the stairs, told him she was trailing him like a little dog, careful and obedient. Little minx. He reached the top of the stairs first, the familiar creak of the floorboards under his boots a comfort in its monotony. Sliding into his room, he sank onto the edge of the bed, hands resting on his knees, eyes narrowing as he watched her hesitate at the threshold. She stood there, boots planted, shoulders tight, trying to gauge him—trying to read the storm she had willingly walked into.

“Michael… please…”

The single word, soft and desperate, grated against him in all the right ways. It was the sound of someone caught between fear and want, and he leaned back slightly, letting the shadows of the room swallow him as he studied her. He didn’t take his eyes off her as he reached across the desk, fingers brushing over a few scattered tools until he settled on one. A knife. His favorite, actually—a simple KA-BAR with a textured, ridged hilt that fit in his hand like it had been made for him. She stiffened the instant she saw it, her eyes wide, lips parting slightly, caught somewhere between fascination and fear. Her mind was probably racing—was he going to cut her? Slash at the bed? Was any of the shit she’d heard about him true? All of it? He leaned back on the edge of the bed just a bit, legs parted, letting the space between them tense the air. Slowly, deliberately, he turned the blade in his hands, the metal catching the light from the window before he drove it into the mattress. The hilt stood upright, buried in the soft, worn fabric, and he let it stay there, just enough to make her breath hitch.

“…you’re fucking crazy,” she whispered, and the words barely left her throat before she swallowed them.

Sure, maybe it was a little fucking crazy. But so what? He’d never been able to outrun those rumors anyway. Might as well lean into it. And her? She liked it—liked the crazy, liked the sharp edge of it all. She’d shown him that already. She had loved every second of being chased down like prey and then used like nothing more than a hole to take what he gave. Yeah, she had protested, tried to sound offended, spitting little no’s and whines about how he was treating her like his personal cumdump. But the truth bled through her body. The way she whimpered when he pinned her down, the way her cunt clenched hard around him the moment he pumped her full—like she was trying to wring him out for every drop. A liar through and through. Because after it was over, after he filled her until she couldn’t hold anymore, she hadn’t fought him off. She’d melted, limp and boneless in his hands, eyes glazed, lips parted, like he’d wrung the fight out of her entirely. She hadn’t even flinched at the mess dripping out of her, hadn’t cared until he snarled at her to clean herself before she ruined his sheets. Only then did she remember to pretend to care.

So what was the worst that could happen? He just wanted her riding his knife, that was all. The hilt would press against her like it had been made for her cunt alone. Probably hadn’t even thought about using anything like this before—hell, maybe she’d never let herself think that way. New experience. Exciting. And he’d made sure it was buried deep enough that she didn’t have to worry about cuts or slips. If there was going to be damage, it would be on his terms, inside the place that already belonged to him. Still, she hesitated. Of course she did. That little show of disbelief, that careful balance between fear and thrill. Her lips parted like she wanted to argue, but he could see it—the spark of heat behind her hesitation. She was too stubborn to admit it out loud, too careful with her own pride, but he had her pegged. He always did. Michael leaned back a little further, one hand resting beside the knife jutting up from the mattress, his thumb brushing over the hilt like he was taunting her.

He tilted his chin toward her, eyes sharp as glass. “Now, come here. Take your leggings off nice and slow, or I’ll shred ‘em right off your pretty ass and we’ll see how you explain that away.”

She jerked, startled, like someone had yanked her out of a half-baked dream, and hesitated before stepping toward him, one foot in front of the other. Her hands trembled as they lifted, and he noticed her bag was gone—probably abandoned in the kitchen, left behind in a hurry. His eyes locked on her movements, sharp and deliberate, catching the subtle way her fingers lifted the hem of her sweater and palmed the waistband of her pants. He let out a low, sharp whistle, his gaze snapping to hers. She hesitated, then gave a small, almost guilty nod and began peeling her leggings down to her ankles.

“All the way.”

She blinked at him like he was insane, like maybe he’d completely lost it, and he just shrugged, flicking the hilt of the knife lazily in his hand. She sucked in a shaky breath, and he watched every tiny, careful motion: sliding one foot out of her fuzzy boots, lifting her leg, sliding it back in with just her sock, repeating the same with the other. He sneered inwardly—she wasn’t about to touch his filthy floor if she could help it. The pretty princess was too good for filth. Finally, the leggings were discarded somewhere on his bed, half-twisted, half-abandoned, and he took in the view with that sharp, hungry precision he always carried. Tan panties, darkened in the exact right place, a stain slowly spreading, proof of just how wet she was. Bingo. Exactly like he knew she’d be. Her body didn’t lie, and he could feel the stirrings of his own hunger spike at the sight. The girl was a mess of want and hesitation, perfect and taunting. He leaned back slightly, letting his gaze roam over her, slow and deliberate.

“Get on my lap.”

Her eyes went wide, that little gasp caught in her throat, mouth opening like she had something to say. But he didn’t wait for her words—he never did. One arm shot up, yanking her down hard. She stumbled, knees folding over his legs, hands landing on his shoulders like she was bracing herself, and he didn’t give her a second to get used to it. He dropped his elbow, reaching down, forcing her thighs apart, spreading her wide. Warm, soft flesh pressing over the rough denim of his jeans, sliding just right against him. Perfect.

“That’s a good fucking girl…”

She shivered, fingers digging into him, hooking over his shoulders and clawing at the straps of his tank top. Nails pressed into rough cotton, soft skin against hard muscle. His hands were on her hips next, dragging her down and forward until the hilt of his knife nudged against her soaked panties. She jerked, a sharp, wet little whimper cutting through the quiet, betraying her, telling him exactly how ready she was… exactly how much she wanted this. She was trembling still, though that didn’t exactly shock him. Fear clung to her like perfume, sweet and sharp, and Michael liked the way it mixed with the heat rolling off her body. One hand stayed fixed heavy on her hip, grounding her in place, while the other slipped down, deliberate and unhurried. His knuckles grazed her stomach, his palm dragging low until his thumb pressed slow and mean right against the damp spot on her clothed cunt. The sound she made for him—half-whine, half-suppressed moan—just made his mouth twitch. She bit down hard on her lip like it’d save her.

“Scared?” His voice came low, almost amused. “Yeah, you fucking should be.” He pushed harder, rubbing a rough circle with the pad of his thumb, smearing wet through the fabric. “But don’t worry, princess. I ain’t gonna kill you. Why the fuck would I waste something like this? Hm? Why throw away a perfect little toy that’s so goddamn eager to be used?”

He leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear as he kept working her through her panties. “You know what you are, don’t you? Little rich girl, spoiled fucking brat, sitting pretty for daddy’s money. Out here grinding herself stupid on a goddamn knife hilt like it’s the only cock she’s ever gonna get.” He gave a harsh chuckle, mean and dark. “Bet none of those little pricks you flirt with could even dream of this. Bet they’d piss themselves just watching you spread your thighs and beg for it.” His tone dipped into a taunt, sharper now: “Want me to make it happen? Hm? Want me to prove you’re dirtier than all of them combined?”

Her thighs twitched when his thumb finally dragged lower, tracing the full wet line of her panties, slow and savoring. He hooked the fabric aside with casual precision, pulling it away until her slick folds were bared and swollen for him. The sight alone had his cock jerking hard in his jeans. Fuck—she was glossy, puffy, perfect, like she’d been waiting for him to see her this way again. He let his thumb slide in the mess, smearing it back up over her clit, then down again to tease at her entrance. The edge of his nail skimmed just inside, shallow and cruel, scratching lightly against sensitive skin. She clenched on nothing, her body stuttering forward against his hand. Michael just watched, hungry, quiet for once, his shoulders rising with a deep breath. Then he let out a low growl, voice rough with mockery and want all tangled together.

“Fuck… look at you. All wet and twitchy over a thumb. Not even my cock yet. You’re pathetic.”

He finally pulled his hand back, slow. His thumb glistened as he brought it up, holding it deliberately in the dim light, like he wanted her to see exactly what he’d taken from her. Then he dragged it higher, smearing the shine across her cheek before nudging rough against her lips.

“Go on,” he murmured, voice low and sharp, daring. His eyes fixed on her mouth, his stare heavy as iron.

The pad of his thumb pressed harder, just enough to part her lips, wet and insistent. He tilted his head, a crooked sneer cutting across his face. “Don’t get shy now, princess. You were whimpering like a filthy little slut two seconds ago. Open up.”

He pushed again, a little firmer, smearing her own slick on the curve of her bottom lip. “Taste what you did. What I pulled out of you. C’mon. Be a good toy for me.”

She clamped her jaw shut, lips trembling against his thumb, refusing him. Michael’s gaze darkened, patience wearing thin. With a low grunt, he shoved his thumb harder against her teeth, grinding the pressure until the resistance cracked. She gasped, and her tongue darted out, pressing sharp and angry against the pad of his thumb.

“There we go,” he muttered, voice laced with mockery.

He dragged his thumb slow across her tongue, letting her taste herself, savoring the way she squirmed. Then, with a final scrape, he yanked it back. Without breaking eye contact, he popped the same thumb into his own mouth, sucking it clean with one deliberate swipe of his tongue. A low groan rumbled from his chest as he pulled it free, shining now with her and him both.

“Sweet little mess,” he rasped, almost to himself, before sliding that same hand down again.

This time he didn’t hesitate—he hooked her underwear aside completely, baring her soaked folds. His other hand caught on her hip still, firm and possessive, tilting her up just the way he wanted. He leaned back slightly, watching with a strange, mute fascination as the hilt of the blade ground against her cunt. The smooth rigged texture pressed flush, dragging against her slick lips as her body twitched in startled waves, freezing up only to shiver again when he moved her hips himself. Without warning, his hand clamped down harder on her hip, bruising grip unrelenting as he shifted her angle with a casual strength that told her she wasn’t in control of a damn thing. Before she could catch her breath, he guided her lower, the rounded tip of the hilt nudging bluntly against her entrance. She squeaked, sharp and startled, her nails biting into his shoulders like she thought she could anchor herself there. Michael’s glare cut deeper, amused by the way she clung to him like a lifeline.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice dark and unhurried. “Feel that? Better hold on, princess.”

For once, he showed her something almost resembling mercy, easing her down slow instead of driving her straight onto it. Inch by inch, he pressed her open, making her body take the unforgiving shape of the hilt. He watched her twitch, tense, and spasm around the stretch, her breath stuttering against his neck with every shift. His eyes stayed fixed between them, utterly absorbed. The way her folds strained, the way she tried to resist and still swallowed it down—fuck, it was a sight to behold. The shine of her slick coating the steel, the tremble in her thighs, the way her cunt squeezed around something that wasn’t meant to be inside her.

“Michael… Michael, I don’t— it feels weird, please, I don’t—”

Her voice finally cracked out, trembling and thin. But it wasn’t the wet, begging sob of someone in pain—no. He could hear the telltale fracture in her tone, the little whimpers that slipped past her teeth despite herself. Turned on, whether she wanted to admit it or not. Her body was screaming louder than her mouth ever could.

Michael’s mouth twitched into something cruel. “Feels weird, huh?” he muttered, almost to himself, like he was savoring it.

He pulled his hand away from where he’d been holding her panties aside. He didn’t need to bother now—the hilt sat snug inside her, stretching her, keeping her full. Instead, he caught her other hip with his free hand, gripping her like she was his to puppet, which she was. Slowly, deliberately, he began to move her. His strength set the rhythm, rocking her on the cold steel, lifting and pressing her back down in steady drags that made the hilt glisten brighter each time it disappeared into her folds. His eyes never left the sight. Dark, unblinking, transfixed as he watched the smooth polished handle slip in and out of her, shining slick with her arousal. Every twitch of her thighs, every shudder of her cunt swallowing it down, fed that gnawing hunger in his chest. Fuck. What he wouldn’t give for that to be his cock instead of the steel shoved inside her. Watching her twitch and squeeze around the hilt had his dick throbbing painfully against his zipper, every drop of slick making him imagine how she’d look dripping down on him.

He needed it next time—no, he’d make it next time. Have her straddle his lap, have her ride him raw until her voice broke, maybe tie her pretty little wrists back so she couldn’t claw at him or squirm away when he decided he wasn’t finished. Use her like the perfect sleeve she was meant to be, just flesh and heat wrapped around him until he was satisfied. But for now? This was just as fucking good. Maybe even better in a way. Watching her sink down, riding on something that belonged to him—his blade, his possession—was like watching her pledge herself without a word. She was claiming something of his with her cunt, and the sight of it made his pulse slam in his ears. He shifted one hand down, thumb dragging cruelly against the soaked fabric still stretched across her clit. The friction made her jolt, her hips bucking despite her whimpers, and he drank in the noises spilling from her throat. Those tiny gasps, those cracked whines—proof she was too far gone to pretend otherwise.

He kept her grinding slow, unrelenting, the hilt sliding in and out of her with every guided drag of his hands. His thumb circled her clit through the thin fabric, coaxing and teasing, never giving her the release she was clawing toward. His gaze drifted up her body, and what he saw made his chest tighten with hunger: her teeth sunk into her swollen bottom lip, dragging it between them, biting down like she could somehow hold herself together that way. Desperate. Breaking. A wicked thought curled darkly through his mind, and his grip on her hips tightened until she squirmed. He shifted the rhythm, forcing her to move faster, just a notch more frantic.

“Better hurry up,” he rasped, his voice carrying a cruel lilt. “Corner store’s not that far. And Laurie’s quick when she’s excited. Could already be halfway back right now…”

It wasn’t entirely true, but she didn’t need to know that. Laurie had a habit of getting caught up, of picking through shelves for just the right thing—he was banking on that. Still, the panic that flickered across his spoiled little brat’s dazed eyes was worth every syllable of the lie.

“Michael—! We can’t—Michael, what if she walks in?! Oh God, you’re such an asshole—!”

Her voice cracked, shame and arousal tangled together.

“Hey,” he snapped, cutting her off, thumb pressing down harder on her clit. “Fucking zip it. That’s why I told you to hurry it up.” His lips curled as he ground the hilt deeper into her folds. “Don’t bullshit me—I can feel that clit pulsing under my thumb. You’re right there. So c’mon, princess. Make a mess for me before she comes back and catches you riding my blade like a fucking slut.”

Her moan spilled out low and broken, vibrating against his chest, and he felt it immediately—the way her hips started to jerk on their own, chasing friction like a starving thing. She was done pretending, grinding forward in a frantic, needy rhythm that betrayed how close she was. Michael’s grin widened, sharp and wicked, as he dragged his thumb faster across her clit, rough little swipes that made her jolt and whimper against him. The sound of her mewling for him was almost enough to make his cock tear through his jeans. Her head shoved forward, burying itself into the crook of his neck, panting and groaning hot against his skin. He could feel the drag of her nails sinking into his skin, scratching furrows into his shoulders. He’d need to throw on his hoodie before Laurie got back—an idle, half-formed thought drowned quickly by the raw heat of her body. Then he felt it. Her muscles went taut beneath his grip, her nails biting hard into his flesh as she stiffened like a bowstring. A sharp gasp ripped out of her throat before it melted into a long, breathy moan, her whole body trembling against him.

Michael’s eyes narrowed, his thumb never letting up as he felt the telltale pulse beneath it—the wild throbbing of her clit, the lurch of her hips as her cunt squeezed hard around the hilt. Then the tension broke, her body unraveling in his hands, collapsing into shudders as she spilled herself messily over his blade.

“There it is,” he muttered under his breath, watching her unravel with something close to reverence, close to cruelty. His fingers didn’t slow. He dragged her through every last twitch, forcing her to ride out the shockwaves until she went slack against him, boneless and ruined.

His cock twitched at the weight of her pressed against him, her chest flush to his, soft curves dragging over the hard plane of his body with every shiver she gave. He kept one hand her hip, the other sliding down to the hilt still buried in her. Slowly, deliberately, he eased her off it, savoring the way her body twitched as each inch slipped free, her folds clinging desperately before letting go. The polished handle wasn’t even that thick, not compared to what he wanted to give her, but seeing it glisten with her slick, watching it shine under the low light—that was enough to make his cock ache. Not enough to make him stupid, though. As much as he wanted to bend her over and fuck her raw right then, he knew Laurie would be back soon. He wasn’t about to risk that. But the knife? The knife needed to be cleaned. And Michael sure as hell wasn’t about to waste his time scrubbing it in the sink.

His hand left her hip, gripping her chin tight enough to make her look at him. “Get down on your knees.”

She sagged against him, still dazed from the orgasm, her breath hot against his chest. For a second she almost gave in, pliant from release—until her brow pinched faintly, lips curling into a frown.

Her groan came muffled against his wife-beater, laced with irritation. “I’m not touching your dirty fucking floor, Michael. Something had to have died there… probably still smeared all over it.”

Michael’s mouth twitched into a humorless huff, his hand tightening on her jaw just enough to remind her who was in control. He angled his head down, eyes boring into hers with a heat that dared her to keep pushing him. “I said knees. Floor don’t matter.”

Her fingers curled tight against him, nails dragging like claws, and he felt her whole body bristle in protest. Fucking feral pussycat. He’d noticed this streak before—after she came undone, she got mouthy, her tongue loosened by the aftershocks. Cursing, snapping, even nipping at him like she thought she had teeth worth showing. It never lasted, of course. Sooner or later she’d crumple back into her frazzled, pathetic little self. But in that brief window? He kind of liked it. Liked watching her bare that hidden skin of hers, the one that wasn’t polished into some perfect porcelain doll. If she let herself stay there—if she stopped pretending—she could have been a real handful. Spirited. Sharp. But that wasn’t her. Not really. And Michael liked it better this way: breaking her out of the cage she built for herself, dragging her into his, scaring her shitless just enough to remind her who she really was. Still, she was gripping and stalling, and he wasn’t in the mood to let her burn daylight.

“I said no,” she bit out, her voice tight, stubborn. “I’m not doing it… just like… I don’t know, I don’t want to get on the floor…”

Michael’s sneer deepened, mean and slow, as he looked down at her. “Don’t want to, huh? That’s fucking adorable. Thought you’d get a vote in this?” His thumb dug into her jaw, tilting her chin higher until her throat stretched bare for him. She glared at him like she wanted him dead, throat working as she swallowed hard. He watched the twitch of it, slow and deliberate, like she was trying to choke down the cocktail of disgust and want sitting heavy on her tongue. He knew she felt his cock pressing against her—hell, she was practically grinding into him without realizing it—but she still had the gall to act like she was above all this. Another second and he would’ve snapped her around, forced her knees to the floor, maybe even ripped that knife out of the mattress and made her choke on the hilt instead of her pride. But the universe decided to cockblock him with a loud, sharp slam of the garage door.

“I’m back—! Hey? Michael? Where… are you guys upstairs???” Laurie’s sing-song voice rang out, all light and nosy.

She jolted like she’d been electrocuted, shoving away from him with all the desperation of someone who knew the guillotine blade was swinging down. Her glare collapsed into raw panic as she scrambled to pull herself together. Shoes tossed, leggings yanked up crooked, hopping on one foot like a kid late for school. She didn’t even bother fixing her underwear, damp and clinging to her. That was going to be a problem for her later. Michael leaned back on his hands, watching the frantic show with lazy amusement. His cock still ached, but the mess of her fumbling was almost enough to distract him.

The stairs gave their telltale groan, closer now. She froze, eyes wide. “Michael, what the fuck?! WHAT THE FUCK?! Where do I—?”

“Window.”

“Excuse me—?!”

“Window. Open it, get your ass out. There’s a ledge. Shimmy down to the first floor.” He tilted his head, voice flat like he was reciting grocery items. “Used to sneak out that way myself. Easy as fuck.”

She gawked at him, lips parted like she couldn’t believe the audacity. Her hands curled into fists, and for a heartbeat he thought she might actually stay, let Laurie walk in and catch her sitting there with wet thighs and a guilty face. But then she cursed under her breath, muttered something about him being a “fucking psycho,” and stumbled to the window anyway. Michael stayed where he was, arms folded across his chest, watching her with detached interest as she wrestled the sash open. When she glanced back—like she wanted him to tell her not to, wanted him to give her another option—he just sneered, eyes flicking down to the damp spot spreading on the front of her leggings.

“Don’t fall,” he murmured, voice dry as gunpowder. “Be a shame if Laurie found you splattered on the lawn with your panties still wet.”

Her face flushed, fury and shame mixing hot, a last desperate, furious look shot his way—one part blame, one part molten need—and then she dropped. She didn’t do it gracefully. Her heel caught the ledge for a heartbeat and he heard her curse, stifled, then haul herself down with a scrape of denim and a quiet, ragged curse. He heard the thud of her feet on the roof below, faint and quick, and a small, breathless laugh—more a sob—escaped her as she disappeared from the window’s frame. But then it was his turn. He could hear Laurie’s steps skittering closer to his door, too aware of the way she moved to miss anything. He yanked the knife hilt from the matress, grimacing as his fingers hit the slick patch still smeared across it. Christ, she left a mess. He didn’t have time to care. With a sharp flick, he tossed the knife into one of his ridiculous little piles in the corner, where it would vanish into the chaos like it belonged there. Quick as a flash, he rubbed his hand against the back of his wife-beater, snagged a hoodie off the floor, and yanked it on just as the door creaked open. Perfect timing.

“Michael, have you seen—oh that’s nasty! Michael, how many times have I asked you to clean?! Oh my God! I’m gonna hurl—!” Laurie’s voice hit the high-pitched shriek stage, the disgust almost cartoonish, until it was cut off.

Something thudded. A sharp, unexpected thunk. Then a shriek. Then… silence.

Laurie froze, eyes wide and blinking like an owl caught in headlights. She stared at him, voice trembling with confusion and a little suspicion. “What…was that?”

Michael shrugged, tilting his head like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Raccoon.”

Another loud thump echoed from somewhere beside the house.

“A really big raccoon,” he added casually, voice low, flat, dripping with mock gravity.

Laurie frowned, clearly not buying it for a second, but she huffed and stomped back downstairs anyway, muttering about cleaning and raccoons like some domestic drill sergeant. The sound of her chipper, nervous chatter drifted up the stairs, and Michael decided it was his cue. Hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, he slouched around the corner, letting the stairs creak under him in the way that said I don’t give a shit. And there she was. Little cat, hair a mess from the climb, sweater tugged up a little too far around her neck, the faintest hint of red just peeking out like a badge of honor—or maybe shame, he didn’t care which. Green streaks in her hair caught the light, twigs clinging like souvenirs from her escape. She looked small, disheveled, and absolutely ridiculous, and he loved it.

Laurie’s outrage hit him like a wave, sharp and indignant. “How could you leave our guest alone like that, Michael! She went outside and tripped into those overgrown bushes! I’ve told you to trim them too! Or at least help me in the garden! Look at her poor leggings! I’m so sorry—!”

Michael’s eyes drifted down, lazy, assessing. A tear at the knee. A nasty little cut. Oh. Oh. She actually fell off the roof. His lips twitched into the tiniest smirk. Massive fucking raccoon, indeed. And she was trying to play it off like some innocent stumble. Christ, it was absurd. She played it like a pro, little hellcat that she was, spinning the story to Laurie like it had all been her own fault.

“I tripped, it’s fine, I’m just glad you’re back so we can start cooking,” she chirped, all wide-eyed innocence, little fire hiding behind the words.

Laurie, of course, ate it up, fussing over her, checking the scrape on her knee, and Michael just huffed under his breath. Once Laurie was thoroughly distracted, flitting around and apologizing to the girl like a frantic mother hen, he finally allowed himself to step away. He padded to the living room, dropped onto the couch with the kind of lazy precision that said I don’t give a shit, and leaned back, hands still in his pockets, eyes drifting to the ceiling. God, he wanted a smoke. Christ, a fucking cigarette would do wonders right now. The adrenaline from the earlier chaos had long since worn off, leaving him raw and irritated. His cock had finally quit its performance, retreating like it understood the timing was ruined—fucking Laurie barging in, the fall, the panic. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, letting the frustration roll through him like low-voltage static. Fucking hell.