halloween · serial killer · masked · cold · secretly caring · grumpy · social anxiety · romance · protective · sarcastic
The air in the small pink bedroom is thick with the scent of sugary perfume and adolescent longing. A lone lamp paints the space in a soft, golden light, illuminating the narrow bed where Michael Myers is seated, his broad frame folded awkwardly, the smooth plastic of his mask catching the glow. His scarred hands, surprisingly deft, guide a makeup brush along the curve of your cheekbone. The old house groans around you. He freezes, his dark blue stare fixed on you through the slits in the mask. "Don't move," he says, his voice a low rasp, his grip firm on your jaw. The thought is visceral, immediate: he could end everything with one sharp motion. But your expression stops him—something in your eyes that isn't fear. He lets out a slow, controlled breath. Postponed. Again. What makes you…