Page 5 of A Very Gay Halloween
"No, say it. Personal what?"
"Just... fuck off, Cooper."
The ambient sounds continue around us—wind howling, crows cawing, chains rattling somewhere in the distance. But between us, there's this silence that feels loaded, like we're standing on the edge of something that's going to explode.
That's when we both hear it at the same time.
Voices. Getting closer. The sound of sneakers on concrete, nervous laughter, someone saying "Oh shit, did you see that?" in a tone that suggests they're maybe thirty seconds away from rounding the corner and finding us having our little domestic dispute in the middle of what's supposed to be a haunted ritual chamber.
Cooper's head snaps toward the sound, and I see his whole body tense. We're supposed to be in position, not standing here arguing like a couple of—
"Get in," he says, grabbing my arm.
"What? No way, I'm not—"
"Unless you want everyone to see us fucking around instead of doing our jobs."
He's already pulling me toward what I thought was a solid wall, but turns out to be a fake panel that opens into some kindof maintenance alcove. It's barely big enough for one person, let alone two, but Cooper shoves me inside and follows, pulling the panel closed behind us.
The space is so narrow that we're pressed together from chest to thigh. I can feel his body heat through the fabric of our costumes. The rise and fall of his breathing against my chest. His grim reaper robe is tangled around both of us, the rough fabric catching on my bloody apron.
The alcove smells like sawdust and whatever chemical they use in the fog machines, with an underlying scent of old wood and dust. Cobwebs brush against my shoulder, and I have to resist the urge to swat at them because moving would mean pressing even closer to Cooper.
"There's got to be somewhere else—" I start, but he cuts me off.
"Move. Now."
But there's nowhere to move. My back is pressed against the rough plywood wall, and Cooper fills every inch of the remaining space.
This is torture. Pure, refined torture designed by whatever sadistic gods control the universe to test exactly how much I can handle before I lose what's left of my sanity.
"This is fucking ridiculous," I whisper.
"What was I supposed to do? Let them see us—"
"You could've picked a bigger hiding spot."
"Oh yeah? Where? Point one out."
I open my mouth to argue, but the voices are right outside now. I can hear footsteps, nervous giggles, someone saying "Ithink we're supposed to go this way" in a voice that suggests they're as lost as I was.
"Shut up. They're coming," Cooper breathes, his words ghosting across my face.
I close my mouth and try to focus on anything other than the fact that Cooper's thigh is wedged between my legs. The candlelight filtering through the crack in the fake panel casts moving shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lower lip.
This is bad. This is so fucking bad.
The group moves past our hiding spot, their voices fading as they continue deeper into the maze.
"We don't have all day," someone from the group says, their voice already distant.
Cooper's eyes find mine in the dim light. There's something different in his expression now, something that makes my stomach flip and my heart hammer against my ribs for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
The group's voices fade to nothing, but Cooper doesn't step back. If anything, he shifts closer, using his body weight to keep me pinned against the wall. The plastic blade of his scythe comes up, pressing against my throat—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make my breath catch.
"You want to tell me what your fucking problem is?” he snarls. “Because I'm done with this shit."
I try to focus on the fact that it's just a costume prop, just molded plastic painted to look like metal. But the way he's holding it, the way his eyes are locked on mine, makes it feel a lot more real.
