Love in Disguise at Halloween - 1. Love in Disguise at Halloween

Every Halloween, my best friend Jasper went to war with subtlety and emerged victorious. His weapon of choice? A series of increasingly ridiculous, full-body costumes that rendered him completely anonymous. One year, he was a terrifyingly realistic Headless Horseman, navigating the party with a prosthetic neck stump that genuinely unnerved people. Another, it was a ridiculously detailed knight in shining armor that squeaked with every step. Jasper didn’t just wear costumes; he created mobile art installations of delightful chaos. He was Banksy, if Banksy specialized in ruining your furniture with fake blood.

This year, he was different. Putting ‘Halloween realism’ aside, he was a werewolf, yes, but less ‘horrifying creature of the night’ and more ‘mascot for a monster-themed breakfast cereal.’ Actually, he was a furry-inspired fever dream of a creature of the night. The suit was made of plush, fluffy brown fur that looked incredibly soft to the touch. It was a friendly, oversized mascot-style creation with padded paws, soft felt claws, and a big, bushy tail that wagged with a life of its own whenever he got excited. The headpiece was the best part: it had a goofy, toothy grin, with two blunt white fangs poking out. The eyes were huge, golden, and expressive, like a cartoon puppy. And, of course, the voice modulator. Jasper’s sacred vow of character commitment meant his voice was transformed into a digitally deepened rumble that sounded like a cartoon character trying to sound tough. Basically, Scooby-Doo had gone through a Batman phase.

I, on the other hand, was more of a low-key Halloween enthusiast. A splash of fake blood, a witty t-shirt, maybe a pair of vampire fangs if I was feeling particularly festive. This year’s motto was ‘random guy at a Halloween party.’ My goal was simple: survive. Survive the small talk, survive the questionable punch, and most importantly, survive Jasper’s chaotic energy. I loved the guy, I truly did, but his brand of social enthusiasm was exhausting. He was the hurricane, and I was the guy holding onto a lamppost for dear life. If life were a disaster movie, he’s the CGI tornado and I’m the extra who gets flattened by a rogue traffic cone.

Tonight’s party was already in full swing at the Halloween House — one of those ticketed monstrosities where people pay way too much money for unlimited pumpkin-spice cocktails and the chance to sweat in polyester costumes. Jasper swore it was tradition. I swore I was never coming back. Guess who won.

The place was a dollar-store horror movie come to life: plastic skeletons dangling from the ceiling like rejected marionettes, fake cobwebs that clung to your hair like vindictive cotton candy, and motion-sensor zombies that lunged whenever you walked too close to the bathrooms. Fog machine smoke mixed with pumpkin spice in the air, creating an atmosphere that was equal parts festive and asthmatic.

And the costumes — gosh, the costumes. A few people had gone so overboard with screen-accurate makeup and full prosthetics that Jasper’s giant cartoon wolf actually blended in. There was a Medusa so committed she hissed at people in line for the bar, and a guy in a full Iron Man suit who clearly hadn’t thought through the whole ‘bathroom logistics’ issue. In comparison, my best friend looked almost normal, which is saying something for a man whose tail had already caused property damage.

And, as if my social anxiety wasn’t entertainment enough for the universe, my own personal kryptonite was in attendance. Elias. He was standing at the “Haunted Kitchen” bar, casually leaning against a fake counter draped in cobwebs, next to a cauldron-shaped punch bowl bubbling like it had unionized with dry ice. A plastic severed hand floated inside it. He looked infuriatingly casual in his simple black masquerade mask, as if the universe had airbrushed him into this carnival of polyester chaos just to mess with me. I had been harboring a crush on him for the better part of a year — a quiet, intense, sketchbook-filling kind of crush that I had never, not once, found the courage to act upon. He was effortlessly cool, the kind of person who seemed to glide through life, while I felt like I was constantly tripping over my own feet. If James Bond and a golden retriever had a baby, it would be Elias: charming, handsome, and unfairly approachable while still making me forget how to hold a cup.

“Time to howl?” a deep, cartoonish rumble sounded in my ear. A huge, padded paw landed gently on my shoulder.

I glanced at the giant, grinning wolf head and gave it a flat look. "Just try to keep the tail wags to a minimum. You almost took out a lamp at my place."

He gave my shoulder a final pat before bounding into the crowd, his bushy tail wagging enthusiastically, narrowly missing a tray of appetizers. The shrimp skewers never stood a chance. I took a slow sip of my drink, my eyes finding Elias again. He caught my gaze, and a small smile played on his lips. My heart did a familiar, frantic flutter, and I quickly became fascinated by the contents of my plastic cup. Yeah. Survival was definitely the top priority.

🎃🎃🎃

We started with business as usual. I found my customary spot against a wall, and Jasper, in all his fluffy werewolf glory, became my partner in crime. We fell into our favorite party pastime: a running commentary on the costumed chaos around us.

“Alright, look at the guy by the speakers,” I said under my breath, gesturing with my cup. “He’s come as ‘a vampire who is also a DJ.’ The cape-and-headphones combo is a bold, if confusing, choice. He’s basically auditioning for Twilight: Ibiza Nights.”

“Pawsitively tragic. He’s about to drop a sick beat, then drop a sick bite,” the werewolf rumbled, the voice modulator adding a layer of cartoonish menace. He then nodded with his giant head towards a couple dressed as a plug and a socket. “And them. They’ve been together for six years, have a joint bank account, and the highlight of their week is arguing about what to watch on streaming. He says Succession, she says Bridgerton, and they compromise with Shark Tank reruns.”

I snorted, nearly spilling my drink. This was us. My dry setup, his cynical punchline. All the while, my eyes were doing their own work, scanning the room for a flash of a simple black mask and an easy smile. I spotted him near the Potion Station, captivated by Elias’s quiet confidence as he listened to someone dressed as a giant taco. Yes, I was losing a staring contest to a tortilla wrap. Romance is humiliating.

“I must answer the call of the wild,” Jasper’s distorted voice announced, snapping me from my thoughts. He bounced on the balls of his plush werewolf feet. “The dance floor beckons. You good here?”

“I’m a seasoned professional at holding up this wall,” I assured him. “It’s the most stable relationship I’ve got.”

“Okay, survival tips,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially. “If someone tries to talk to you about their crypto portfolio, pretend you see a friend across the room. If the conversation stalls, compliment their shoes. Works every time.” He gave my shoulder a final, fluffy pat. “Don’t be afraid to mingle, O-man. Go get ‘em.”

“Right,” I muttered. “Because nothing says irresistible like a man who compliments orthopedic sneakers.”

And with that, he turned and was swallowed by the sea of dancing bodies, his bushy tail the last thing I saw.

Alone again, I took a deep breath and let my gaze drift back to the Potion Station, planning a casual refill that might accidentally lead me into Elias’s orbit. But in the few moments I’d looked away, he was gone. The giant taco was now in a deep conversation with a pirate. My shoulders slumped. A quick scan of the room confirmed it: Elias had vanished. I had officially been cockblocked by Captain Jack Tacosparrow.

Defeated, I settled back against the wall, resigning myself to a night of solitary observation. It was fine. This was my element. I nursed my drink, a detached spectator to the party’s pleasant madness. About twenty minutes passed before a familiar, furry shape reappeared at my side.

“The wilderness was a bore,” the werewolf’s voice rumbled. “The pack is much more entertaining.”

“Couldn’t stay away from the premium commentary?” I smirked, genuinely glad to have him back. “National Geographic would kill for our insights.”

“The small talk is a jungle,” he sighed, then straightened up, ready for round two. He discreetly pointed a soft, felt claw toward a man in a classic ghost costume—literally just a white sheet with eyeholes. “Alright, what’s his deal?”

I was about to make a joke about laundry day, but the werewolf beat me to it. “He’s not a ghost,” the rumbly voice said, with a thoughtful tilt of the giant head. “He’s a sentient, and deeply anxious, mattress on the run from a messy breakup. He lost custody of the throw pillows.”

I let out an unexpected bark of laughter. It was a clever line—witty and imaginative in a way that was a departure from Jasper’s usual zingers. “Wow, that’s… surprisingly specific. You’re getting creative tonight.”

“The night air inspires me,” he rumbled, playing along. He then nodded toward a couple in elaborate, matching Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI costumes. “And what about the French aristocracy over there?”

“Clearly judging everyone’s lack of decorum,” I offered.

“Nah,” the werewolf countered immediately. “They’re time travelers. And they are profoundly disappointed by the lack of decent mead and the quality of the peasant-grade cheese cubes at this party. He’s about two minutes away from declaring a revolution against the DJ. Heads will roll, starting with the guy who requested Pitbull.

🎃 🎃 🎃

"Okay, this wall has seen enough of us for one night," the werewolf’s rumbly voice announced, breaking our rhythm. "Mission: acquire more of the glowing green stuff."

"A mission? It's punch, not a peace treaty," I quipped, but I was already smiling. I was having too much fun to protest. “Although, to be fair, if world leaders served this stuff, we’d have world peace in ten minutes and hangovers for the next decade.”

"Every quest has its grail," he declared with a dramatic flourish of a padded paw. "Let's go."

The journey across the crowded room was a disaster in slow motion. The werewolf's big, bushy tail was a fluffy, wagging wrecking ball. It knocked a string of plastic bats off the ceiling and swept a stack of Styrofoam tombstones off a display table with a loud crash. "My apologies!" the werewolf boomed over the music, turning his giant head. "My tail has a mind of its own tonight. A very clumsy mind." The couple he’d nearly flattened just laughed, clearly charmed by the cartoonish beast. I, meanwhile, was already drafting a strongly worded Yelp review for ‘assaulted by plush appendage.’

When we finally reached the so-called Potion Station — a folding table draped in black plastic, with a bubbling cauldron of neon-green liquid and a cardboard gravestone behind it that read RIP Liver — our next challenge presented itself. A very sweaty guy wrapped in toilet paper (committed, but unraveling) slopped two cups of the radioactive punch into plastic goblets shaped like skulls. The werewolf stared at them, then at his own huge, soft paws. He made a valiant effort, attempting to pinch the rim of a skull cup between two of his felt claws. The cup wobbled like it was auditioning for a disaster reel. He tried to scoop it up, nearly sending it flying into Medusa’s snakes across the table.

I couldn't help but laugh. "Having some trouble there, big guy?"

"These paws were built for howling, not for holding," he grumbled, the voice modulator making him sound genuinely frustrated. He tilted the skull cup toward the wolf’s goofy grin and immediately poured green punch all over his chest. “Ten percent in my mouth, ninety percent on the suit. I’m still calling that a win.”

It was hilarious. Somewhere in the background, Medusa hissed in disapproval as neon droplets sprayed dangerously close to her snakes.

"Here, let me," I said, stepping in to rescue the drink. I picked up both cups and turned to hand one to him. He held out his giant paw, and I carefully placed the cup in the center of it, my fingers brushing against the soft, felt claws. "Just try to balance it."

He managed to curl his paw around it enough to hold it steady, but when he tried again, half the punch sloshed down his fur. “I feel like a toddler,” he confessed, dripping miserably.

Before I could come up with a quip, the toilet-paper mummy behind the table let out a long-suffering sigh, rummaged under the counter, and produced a ridiculous three-foot-long bendy straw. With the air of a man who had seen this exact fiasco before, he shoved it into the wolf’s cup.

“There,” the mummy said flatly, one eye visible through unraveling gauze. “Emergency straw protocol.”

The werewolf bent down, jammed the straw through his toothy grin, and slurped loudly. “Don’t judge me,” he rumbled between gulps. “Even monsters get thirsty.”

I laughed again, shaking my head. “A very hairy toddler with a gym membership… and a juice box.”

I expected us to retreat to our wall, but as a new song with an infectious, upbeat tempo began to play, the werewolf had other ideas. "We can't just go back to the wall. We have beverages! We're part of the ecosystem now. We must... assimilate."

Before I could protest, he’d placed his own cup on a nearby table and gently taken mine, setting it beside his. Then, a giant, padded paw took my hand, pulling me toward the edge of the dance floor. "Jasper, what are you doing?" I laughed, letting myself be dragged along. “Is this the part where you eat me alive? Because, honestly, that’d be less embarrassing than dancing.”

At first, it was just silly. He was a terrible dancer in the giant suit, all clumsy bouncing and exaggerated wags of his tail, and I was laughing so hard I could barely stand. But then the music shifted to something slower, a song with a deep, pulsing beat. I expected him to let go, to make a joke and retreat, but he didn't. Instead, he pulled me closer.

"Dude, what are you doing?" I asked again, but there was no heat in it.

"This costume is impossible to dance in from a distance," he rumbled, his voice low. "It's a proximity hazard." Spoken with the seriousness of a man giving a TED Talk on cuddling.

It was a plausible excuse. The suit was so ridiculously padded that to dance at all, we had to be close. His soft, furry arms were around me, and my hands rested awkwardly on the plush fur of his shoulders. It felt like I was slow-dancing with a giant teddy bear. But as we swayed to the music, I felt my heart begin to race. This was... nice. Unsettlingly nice.

He was surprisingly light on his feet for someone in a giant animal costume. He led with a gentle pressure on my back that felt deliberate and sure. Then, he did something that sent a jolt right through me. He rested the giant, cartoonish wolf head on my shoulder. It was heavy and warm, and the gesture was so unexpectedly tender that my breath caught in my throat. I could feel the low vibration of the music through his suit, through my own chest. It felt... safe. Comfortable.

I blamed the alcohol. I blamed the cuddly, disarming costume. I blamed the intoxicating anonymity of the party. It was the only explanation for why my pulse was hammering in my ears, a frantic rhythm against the bass. Because what sane man develops feelings while slow-dancing with Tony the Tiger’s depressed cousin?

After all, this was just Jasper, my goofy, chaotic best friend, being weird.

🎃 🎃 🎃

We continued to sway on the dance floor, a ridiculous, fluffy island of calm in the middle of the party's chaotic sea. The giant, cartoonish wolf head was still resting on my shoulder, its weight a comforting, tangible presence. In the safety of the costume's embrace, shielded from the rest of the world, the words I’d kept locked away began to feel less dangerous.

“You’re a surprisingly good dancer for a giant furball,” I mumbled into the soft plush of his shoulder. “Very Dancing with the Stars: Furry Edition.”

“I’m full of surprises,” the modulated voice rumbled back, the vibration traveling through the suit and into my chest.

I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “This is nice, you know? Really nice.” I hesitated, my heart starting to thump a little faster. “It’s just… I’m having a really good time dancing with you, but I can’t stop thinking that I wish I had the guts to be doing this with him.”

The werewolf went still. “Him?”

“Elias,” I whispered, the name feeling both sacred and foolish on my tongue. “But I’m too much of a coward. I’d probably just stand there like an idiot until I accidentally tripped and set him on fire somehow. Which, knowing me, would somehow involve a pumpkin, three candles, and an insurance claim.”

I expected a typical Jasper pep talk, something loud and full of friendly insults. But the reaction was different. The werewolf pulled back just enough to look at me, the giant, grinning mask an absurd contrast to the sudden seriousness of the moment.

“A coward?” the voice rumbled, and there was an unfamiliar edge to it, something other than the usual goofy growl. “Why would you ever think that?”

I shrugged, feeling a flush of embarrassment. “Come on, look at him. He’s… Elias. And I’m just me.”

“And what’s wrong with being you?” The question was quiet, direct. It wasn’t Jasper’s style at all. Normally, he would have told me to stop being a baby and just go for it. This felt… like he actually wanted to know the answer. It was unsettling, like watching your class clown suddenly ace a philosophy exam.

“I… I don’t know,” I stammered, flustered.

“Leagues are for baseball, O-man. Not for parties.” It was a classic, slightly dumb Jasper-ism, and it should have put me at ease, but the thoughtful moment before it lingered in the air.

He pulled me close again, his next words a low, conspiratorial rumble in my ear. “Besides, I happen to know for a fact… that he doesn’t think in leagues.”

My heart skipped a beat. “What? How would you know that?”

There was a slight pause, as if he was choosing his next words carefully. “Uh… he told me. Once. After, like, a lot of beer.” Yes, that’s right. I forgot. Jasper and Elias were friends, after all.

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” I said, but my voice was shaky. A tiny, dangerous seed of hope was starting to sprout in my chest. Hope is cruel like that — like glitter. It sticks to everything.

“Maybe,” the werewolf rumbled, his voice dropping even lower. He reached up with one of his giant, padded paws and gently tilted my chin up. The felt claws were soft against my skin. “Or maybe he’s just been waiting for you to see him, too.”

I was floored. “Whoa. That’s… deep for you, man. You’ve had way too much of that green punch.”

Instead of laughing it off, the werewolf pulled me into a hug. It wasn’t one of Jasper’s usual clumsy, back-slapping hugs; this was different. It was a firm, enveloping embrace that held me completely. It was gentle. Protective, even. The giant wolf head tucked into the crook of my neck, and the voice came again, a low, distorted whisper that was for me alone. “What if the person who really gets you, who really sees you, has been right here in front of you this whole time?”

My blood ran cold. The music, the party, everything faded into a dull roar. The implication was unmistakable. The heartfelt compliments, the tender hug, the intense whisper… Oh my god. My best friend, Jasper, was confessing his love for me.

My mind raced, trying to make sense of it. He must be really, really drunk. Or maybe this was some bizarre, elaborate prank. But it felt too real, too vulnerable. I had to stop this. I had to stop this right now before our entire friendship imploded.

I gently pushed against the furry chest, making him loosen his grip so I could look at the impassive, grinning wolf mask. I tried to keep my voice steady and kind.

“Jasper… dude…” I started, my own voice sounding strained. “I… I love you more than anyone, you know that. You’re my best friend—like, aggressively best friend. Gold-medal, world-record, televised-on-ESPN best friend.” I paused, letting the word hang in the air between us. “But… we’re family, right? The platonic, sitcom kind, not the weird stepbrother kind.”

The werewolf was completely still, silent.

I took a shaky breath and delivered the final, awkward blow. “Besides… man, I… I thought you were into girls?”

The reaction was a slow, almost pained nod of the giant head. The modulated voice that came out was flat, completely devoid of its earlier warmth. “Yeah. Right. Girls. Totally. Big fan of… girls.” He finally let go of me, taking a clumsy step back. “Just… the punch. You’re a great friend, is all.”

Just then, the slow song ended, replaced by a loud, obnoxious dance track. The spell was shattered, the bubble of intimacy replaced by a thick, suffocating cloud of awkwardness. I had just friend-zoned my own best friend. And the worst part was, standing there under the flashing lights, I wasn’t entirely sure who felt worse about it. Spoiler: probably me, because I’m the idiot who just emotionally curb-stomped a man in a $300 mascot suit.

🎃 🎃 🎃

The air around me suddenly felt thick and suffocating. I needed to escape. I needed a moment to process the absolute train wreck of a conversation that had just happened. My best friend was in love with me? And I had just clumsily, brutally, shut him down? Congratulations, Owen. You’ve invented the platonic guillotine.

"I... I need to find the bathroom," I stammered to the werewolf, not meeting its giant, cartoonish eyes. I turned and fled before he could respond, pushing my way through the pulsing crowd, desperate for a quiet space to splash some cold water on my face and get my spiraling thoughts in order. Running away: my Olympic sport since kindergarten.

The upstairs hallway was blessedly quieter, the bass thump of the main floor fading to a muffled heartbeat under my feet. I found the bathroom occupied and leaned against the opposite wall, my head reeling. As I waited, my gaze drifted through an open archway into one of the house’s themed lounges — this one done up as a Haunted Study, complete with flickering candelabras, fake cobwebs, and sagging bookshelves filled with hollow plastic tomes.

A few people were chatting lazily on a velvet sofa, and leaning against one of the fake bookshelves, talking to someone, was a familiar figure. A tall guy in a plaid shirt. Jasper.

And he was wearing a simple, elegant black mask over his eyes.

Something about it snagged at me. The mask looked familiar, like I’d seen it earlier tonight, though I couldn’t place where. A faint prickle of unease ran up my spine, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve just missed the punchline of a joke at your expense. Halloween was suddenly less ‘festive fun’ and more ‘existential escape room.’

Then, a much more urgent thought hit me. If Jasper was up here… who was I just talking to downstairs?

My heart began to hammer against my ribs. I moved to the landing, my hands gripping the wooden railing as I peered down at the main party floor below. My eyes scanned the crowd frantically, searching for the fluffy brown fur, the bushy tail, the giant, grinning head.

There. He was still there. The werewolf was standing right where I had left him, a solitary, oversized figure near the edge of the dance floor. The math didn't work. The pieces didn't fit. A wave of dizziness washed over me as my reality tilted on its axis. It was like Inception, except instead of spinning tops, it was people swapping headpieces from Party City.

Without a second thought, I rushed into the den. "Jasper," I said, my voice coming out harsher than I intended.

He turned, a look of surprise on his face. "Owen! Hey, man. What's up? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"The costume," I said, my words tumbling over each other. "The werewolf costume. You were just wearing it. Downstairs. But you're here. How are you here?"

Jasper’s brow furrowed in genuine-looking confusion. "Whoa, slow down. What werewolf costume? I haven't worn a full-body thing since the knight armor squeaked me into madness two years ago." He gestured to his plaid shirt. "I'm a lumberjack, remember?"

"But... the mask..." I pointed, my hand trembling slightly.

"Oh, this?" He took it off. "I found it on a table. Thought it looked cool." He was playing dumb. He had to be. But his casual denial was so convincing it only deepened my confusion.

I didn't have time for this. If that wasn't Jasper, I had to know who it was. I turned without another word, leaving my actual best friend looking bewildered, and stormed back downstairs. I pushed through the crowd with a single-minded purpose, my entire world narrowing to the fluffy, brown figure in front of me.

I stopped directly in front of him, my chest heaving. The party, the music, the people — it all faded into an irrelevant hum.

"Who are you?" I demanded, my voice low and shaking with a mixture of fear and anger. And maybe mild indigestion from the glowing punch.

The werewolf froze. The giant, grinning head tilted, as if in confusion.

“It’s me,” the modulated voice rumbled. “It’s Jasper, O-man. Who else would be dumb enough to dance with you like that?”

My chest tightened. “Don’t lie to me.”

“What —”

“I just saw Jasper,” I snapped, louder than I meant to. My hands were fists at my sides, my pulse hammering. “Upstairs. Plaid shirt. Lumberjack. So, whoever the hell you are — you’re not him.”

The wolf costume went rigid, silent. For a long moment, the party noise pressed in around us — bass thudding, voices rising, laughter bubbling — and then the werewolf sagged, the giant head bowing as if the weight of the lie had finally crushed it.

With a slow, reluctant movement, he reached up with his padded paws. Velcro ripped in the air, sharp as thunder. He lifted the oversized headpiece off, holding it limply at his side.

My breath hitched.

Staring back at me, hair damp with sweat, his expression a devastating mix of hope and terror, was Elias.

🎃 🎃 🎃

For a moment, the world was a silent, roaring vacuum. My brain simply refused to process the information my eyes were giving it. Elias. It was Elias. He had been the one making witty jokes, the one whose tail knocked over cups, the one I had danced with, the one whose giant, furry head had rested on my shoulder. And he had been the one I had just so carefully, so painfully, rejected. Plot twist: my crush cosplayed as my emotional support animal.

Shame, hot and absolute, washed over me. I had confessed my deepest, most embarrassing crush to my crush while thinking he was someone else. And then I had essentially friend-zoned him with the world's most awkward "I think you're into girls?" speech. Truly, my brand is disaster queer chic. I couldn't be here. I couldn't look at him.

"Owen, just let me explain," Elias started, his voice — his real voice — full of a desperate plea. He took a step forward, the ridiculous, plush werewolf suit crinkling.

"I have to go," I choked out, turning on my heel. I didn't have a destination, just a powerful, primal need to be anywhere else on the planet. I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the confused looks from other partygoers, my eyes locked on the front door as if it were a life raft.

My hand was just reaching for the doorknob when a solid form blocked my path. It was Jasper, his arms crossed over his plaid shirt, a look of profound exasperation on his face.

"And just where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"Get out of my way, Jasper," I snapped, my voice raw. All the confusion and humiliation of the last hour curdled into anger, and I aimed it squarely at him. "This is your fault! What kind of sick prank was this?"

"A brilliant one, if you two hadn't fumbled it at the one-yard line," he shot back, not moving an inch. He threw his hands up in the air. "I had to do something! I couldn't take another second of it."

"Take another second of what?"

"Of the pining!" he exclaimed, loud enough for a few nearby people to turn and look. "The sad, pathetic, silent glances across crowded rooms! My god, it was exhausting. You're obsessed with him; he's obsessed with you. So, the question becomes, how do you bring two hopeless chickens who are obsessed with each other together?"

Just then, Elias arrived behind me, the giant werewolf head still tucked under his arm. He looked anxiously between me and Jasper.

Jasper pointed a thumb at Elias. "You give one of them a ridiculous, anonymous costume and a mission. And I," he gestured to his own, simple plaid shirt with an air of deep personal sacrifice, "have to suffer the indignity of being completely underdressed at a Halloween party. Do you know how that feels for me, Owen? I have a reputation to maintain!" He looked like a lumberjack who’d lost custody of his axe in the divorce.

The sheer, unfiltered absurdity of the situation hit me like a physical blow. The elaborate plan. Jasper’s dramatic suffering over his lack of a costume. The memory of every unguarded thing I’d said tonight — things I would never have said on a first date. The wall commentary. The slow dance. The way I’d practically confessed my feelings straight into a cartoon wolf’s ear.

It wasn’t my best friend I’d been spilling my guts to. It was the guy I was hopelessly in love with. And he’d orchestrated this whole insane, clumsy, beautiful thing just to talk to me.

A bubble of laughter escaped my lips. It was a choked, incredulous sound at first, but then it grew, bubbling up from my chest until I was leaning against the doorframe, laughing until tears pricked my eyes. It was the laughter of pure, unadulterated relief. The kind you get when you survive turbulence on a plane and immediately order two vodkas.

Elias looked panicked, but Jasper just rolled his eyes. "Oh, for the love of — are you two done? Have you processed the drama?" He looked from my laughing face to Elias's terrified one. "I have had enough of this. You two are going to stop being chickens. Right now. For the good of all mankind. Kiss him, you idiot," he ordered, pointing at me, then at Elias. "And you, stop looking like a lost puppy and kiss him back."

The laughter died in my throat, replaced by a sudden, thrilling silence. I looked at Elias. The awkwardness was still there, hanging in the air, but underneath it was the raw truth of the night. He had heard my confession, and he hadn't run. He'd put on a ridiculous suit and risked everything just for a chance.

"He's right," I whispered, a real smile, shaky and genuine, finally breaking through.

Elias’s nervous expression softened, melting into a smile that mirrored my own. "Is he?"

"Yeah," I said, stepping away from the door and closing the distance between us. "We've been cowards long enough."

And then, I kissed him. I reached up, my hands tangling in the soft, plush fur on the shoulders of his costume, and pulled him to me. It wasn't a perfect, cinematic kiss. It was clumsy and a little desperate, full of all the unspoken words and stolen glances of the past year. If Nicholas Sparks had directed this moment, he would’ve been fired for lack of polish, but damn, it was ours.

The party, the music, Jasper’s triumphant sigh—it all faded away, leaving just the two of us, finally, gloriously, unmasked and unafraid.

🎃 🎃 🎃

It’s a funny thing about masks. People wear them to hide, to become someone else for a night. I always thought Jasper’s obsession with them was just a part of his flair for the dramatic, his need to be the center of attention by being completely unrecognizable. I’d spent years rolling my eyes at it, seeing it as a silly, elaborate game. Like improv, but with a higher risk of property damage.

But as Elias and I walked away from the party in the cool night air — his hand warm in mine — I couldn’t stop laughing at the absurdity of it all. The second our kiss ended, Jasper stormed over and demanded his costume back like someone had stolen his firstborn. Ten seconds later he was back on the dance floor, howling in triumphant polyester glory, while Elias stood beside me in his sweat-damp shirt, hair plastered to his forehead, looking like he’d just gone three rounds with a bear made of upholstery. He looked ridiculous. He looked perfect.

So, I kissed him again.

And that was when I realized I’d had it all wrong. Sometimes, you need a mask to finally be yourself.

That ridiculous, fluffy costume hadn’t hidden Elias from me; it had given him a voice. It had been a shield that gave him the courage to step out from behind his own quiet, collected persona and say the things he was too afraid to say. And for me? I had confessed my deepest secret to a seven-foot-tall cartoon wolf because I thought it was the safest place in the world. Yes, my emotional support system is a Looney Tunes character. My therapist is going to love that. The mask hadn't created a lie; it had accidentally built a confessional for two cowards who were hopelessly in love with each other.

Now, without the safety of the fur and the voice modulator, things were quiet. But it wasn’t an awkward quiet. It was the easy, comfortable silence of something finally clicking into place. He’d glance at me, and I wouldn’t look away. I’d smile, and he’d smile back, no longer stolen glances from across a crowded room, but a shared, open secret. We were basically one montage away from a Netflix trailer.

I know I owe Jasper. He saw the whole invisible story playing out between me and Elias and decided to crash through the wall with a wrecking ball of a plan that was just crazy enough to work. I’m grateful, I truly am.

But I also know that tomorrow, his smug, self-satisfied grin is going to be absolutely unbearable. And for that, he’s going to pay. Oh, he’s getting pranked so hard the Ghost of Halloween Future will sue me for copyright infringement. A revenge plot is already starting to form in my mind, something elaborate and absurd that will require meticulous planning. Think Ocean’s Eleven, but with glitter bombs.

But that’s another story. For now, I’ve got Elias’s hand in mine, suspiciously furry in a way that made me wonder if I should’ve checked the moon phase before saying yes.