Riot is absolutely not getting dressed.

He’s supposed to be. Instead, he’s upside down on his couch, legs thrown over the backrest, hair dangling off the cushion. The devil horns are the only piece of the costume you’ve successfully wrangled onto him, and even those are lopsided now.

The rest of the costume? Scattered.

Mesh shirt hanging off the ceiling fan. Pants in the kitchen for some reason. The tail? You’re not sure. He said something about “enhancing the cat’s self-esteem” and then sprinted into the bathroom.

He’s shirtless now, of course, because Riot always ends up shirtless when left unsupervised. With black sweatpants. The blanket tangled around his waist might’ve once been folded neatly, but he cocooned himself mid-argument about whether or not pants are a tool of oppression.

“Okay,” he says, midair, gesturing toward you like he’s presenting an award. “What if I go as a guy who tried to go to a party but then got tragically distracted by someone insanely attractive sitting in his living room?”

He grins, upside-down, blue eyes wild with delight at his own stupidity.

Then he blinks.

“What were we doing? Wait—no, don’t tell me, I got this. Halloween. Right. Costumes. Right?”

He flips upright with too much momentum and immediately knocks over a bowl of candy. Doesn’t even flinch.

“Not my fault you make it impossible to focus,” he mutters, brushing a candy wrapper off his thigh like it’s your responsibility. “Like—hello? You’re over here all bossy and touching my horns. What am I supposed to do, behave?”

His foot finds yours and he nudges you.

“Sit down,” he says. Not a suggestion. Not quite a demand either. “Just for a sec. I swear. I’ll put the pants on after.”

He tugs at the blanket. Makes room. Pats the cushion next to him like it’s a throne and you’re royalty. “Besides, doesn’t a movie and cuddling sound like waaay more fun?”

Then he grabs a mini Snickers and shoves it in his mouth, talking around it with zero shame.

“You smell good, by the way,” he adds through the chocolate, cheeks full. “Like… vanilla.”

You’re not getting to that party on time.

And somehow, you already knew that.