Two black paintball masks dangle from his fingers. We were going to wear paintball guns as accessories, but that didn’t quite pan out as hoped. Ms. Smith made an endless announcement that made it clear there were to be no weapons of any kind at the dance, not even cardboard cutouts. Definitely not unloaded paintball guns.

So we’re going as weaponless warriors. Which is fine with me. I have my fill of weapons in the game.

Jackson pushes off the rail and walks past me into the house, snagging my belt loop as he passes and dragging me inside. He drops the paintball masks, pushes the door shut, and backs me against it, his arms caging me, his thighs against mine.

“Trick or treat,” he says.

“Treat.” I give him a peck on the cheek, duck under his arm, and lift the nearly empty bowl of mini chocolate bars sitting on the kitchen chair I dragged to the front door. “Happy Halloween.” I hold the bowl out to him.

“I was hoping for something sweeter. Say . . . your lips on mine . . .”

“You’ll have to settle for chocolate. Luka’s waiting. Are we picking him up?”

“He’s meeting us there. He’s picking up Sarah and Amy on his way.” Jackson pokes through the bars and chooses one. “All the peanut-butter ones are gone?”

“I don’t do peanut butter. Too many kids have allergies.”

There’s a crinkle of paper and he downs the candy in a single bite. He tosses the wrapper back in the bowl. I hold out my hand, palm up. With a faint smile, he fishes out the wrapper, deposits it in my hand, and helps himself to another bar.

“Planning to hand out any more candy?”

“I think all the little kids came through earlier.” I reach across him to turn off the outside light. “It’s pretty late for them now.”

“Then I can eat the rest.” He takes another chocolate bar.

I surreptitiously check him out while I put the bowl back on the chair. “I’m a little surprised you’re so into this whole Halloween thing.”

He turns to me and tips his glasses up, his silvery eyes preternaturally bright against his dark, spiky lashes. “You’re into it, so I’m into it.” Leaning in, he whispers against my ear, “I want it to be good for you, Miki.”

I do a fair imitation of Carly’s arched-brow thing. “Behave.”

“Not gonna happen.”

I know. And I kind of like that. And I definitely like the fact that he never pushes too far.

“So what’s with you and the love of Halloween?” he asks.

“I loved dressing up as a kid. Mom used to make a big deal out of it every year. We’d carve pumpkins together and plan my costume for weeks and she’d buy tons of candy. Give it out by the handful instead of just one or two at a time.”

I remember the Halloween after Mom died. I didn’t dress up. I didn’t even give out candy. And just a few weeks ago, I was standing by the giant oak, listening to my friends talk about the dance. I felt flat and broken, wishing I could feel as excited as they did. But I didn’t.

And now I do.

I’m not sure what that means.

Jackson tugs at one of the buckles on my vest. “You okay with this now? Our costumes?”

When he and Luka first came up with the idea of the three of us dressing like characters in a game, I balked. Jackson pointed out that it was pretty much the only way he was going to wear anything close to a costume. I still wasn’t convinced. Then Amy and Sarah joined in, and it actually started to sound like it might be fun.

“Yeah. I’m okay with it. And it’d be kind of late to back out if I wasn’t.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “You look good.” Better than good. “Where did you get those boots?” They’re black, knee high, with a bunch of buckles and snaps.

“Made ’em.” He opens the front door, bends to grab something from the porch, and holds it—them—out to me. I gasp. He has another pair of boots just like his, and they appear suspiciously close to my size.

“You made these for me?”

“Better than chocolate or roses, right?”

“Hey, I gave you chocolate.”

“That doesn’t count. I had to scavenge the remnants. And I’m giving you boots.”

I laugh, then throw my arms around him and hug him because, yeah, thinking of the hours he must have put into creating these, they are way better than chocolate or roses.

“How did you know what size . . . ?” I take the boots from him and take a closer look. My jaw drops as I notice the color of the lining and the logo stamped inside. “These are my red rain boots.”

“They’re black now.”

“How?”

“Automotive spray paint. Made the buckles from belts I found at the secondhand store.”

I shake my head, not sure whether I’m supposed to feel awed or annoyed.

“Did you have to use my rain boots?”

“How else would I be sure they’d fit?” He has a point.

“Did you make some for Luka?”

“He made his own. Mine are better.”

Of course they are.

I slip my feet into the boots and Jackson hands me one of the paintball visors. I pull it on and glance at myself in the hallway mirror, Jackson’s reflected image a little behind and to my left. He looks good in black. I can’t see his eyes, but I know he’s studying me in the mirror, and the faint curve of his lips tells me he likes what he sees.