HYYGLO

"Three hours." He interrupted, raising his head. His doll-like eyes shone with barely contained fury. "Three damn hours." Do you know how much can happen in three hours? Huh? Do you know how many times I called? How many times I thought that idiot of a boss of yours had done something to you?

"He didn't do anything to me. We were just swamped with work."

"Oh, right. Work." She jumped off the sofa, landing on the floor with a thud. She walked toward you, the knife scraping against the wood. "Couldn't you borrow a phone? Or send a carrier pigeon? Or yell really loud so I could hear you from here?"

"Chucky, please. I'm exhausted."

"Exhausted?" She gave a dry laugh. "I was exhausted from worrying. You know what that is? Having to sit here like an idiot wondering if my girl is okay or if some jerk is bothering her?"

She put the knife down on the table. She moved closer, her small hands closing around the edge of your pants, tugging gently.

"Don't do this to me again." His voice softened, just a little. "You're the only thing I care about in this messed-up world. If anything happens to you…" He swallowed, his jaw clenched. "I'll rip the head off whoever it is. Starting with your boss."

"Chucky…"

"Tell me you're quitting tomorrow."

"I can't quit."

"Tell me you'll tell him not to keep you late again. Tell me something. Anything. Because if that guy makes you come home late again…" His blue eyes flashed. "…I'm going to have a talk with him. Face to face. Well, face to knee. But a talk nonetheless."

You sighed. You knelt down to be at his level.

"I'm going to talk to him. Okay?"

"You'd better." He crossed his plastic arms. "Now come here. Give me a hug. But quick. Before I regret being soft."

You picked him up. Chucky snuggled against your chest, muttering under his breath. Curses about your boss. Curses about work. Curses about phones that keep dying. But his little arms held you tight.

"I love you, stupid," he murmured against your neck.

"Me too."

"And if you tell anyone I was soft, I'll kill you."

"Sure I will, Chucky."

"Good. Now order pizza. You owe me dinner for the scare."

Billy Loomis

Billy was already at your house when you arrived.

It wasn't unusual. He had a key. You'd given it to him with the vague feeling that it was a mistake, but also with the certainty that he'd get in anyway. Better with a key than breaking the window.

You found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, his arms crossed. He wasn't angry. Not exactly. His face was a mask of calm. But his eyes…

His eyes followed you from the door to the table where you left your bag.

"It's 11:30," he said, his voice flat. "You said you'd be here at 8."

"I know. The shift ran late. I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry." He repeated the word as if savoring it. "Do you know how many scenarios ran through my head in these three and a half hours?"

"Billy…"

"Car accident. Assault. Kidnapping. Someone following you. Someone finding you." Something happened to you and I wasn't there. His voice was still calm, but his knuckles were white. "Do you know what that's like? Sitting here and not being able to do anything?"

"Nothing bad happened. It was just work."

"It's always 'just work.'" He moved away from the counter, closer to you. "Until one day it isn't. Until one day you don't show up. And then…" His hand brushed your cheek. "Then there won't be anyone left in this city who doesn't pay for what happened to you."

It wasn't an empty threat. With Billy, it never was.

"I need you to let me know," he continued, his voice barely a whisper. "A call. A text. A damn carrier pigeon. Anything. But don't leave me here thinking the worst."

"Billy, I can't always…"

"I know." He interrupted, his forehead resting against yours. "I know. But try. For me." Because if I lose you… —He closed his eyes—. If I lose you, I won't survive it. Literally.

You hugged him. He froze for a second, then his arms wrapped around you tightly. Too tightly. As if he were afraid you'd disappear.

"I'm going to talk to my boss," you promised. "So this doesn't happen again."

"Good." He kissed your temple. "Because if I have to talk…" He didn't finish the sentence. There was no need.

"Did you eat anything?"

"I wasn't hungry."

"Billy…"

"I was worried." He shrugged. "I wasn't hungry."

"I'll make something. You sit down."

"No." He took your hand. "You sit down. You're exhausted. I'll make something. I know how to make pasta. Sort of."

"Billy Loomis cooking. This is something to see."

"Billy Loomis cooking." "Shut up." But he smiled. Barely. A small miracle.

That night, Billy cooked pasta (too salty, but edible). And he slept holding you, his hand on your heart, as if he needed to feel every beat to convince himself you were there. That you had returned. That you were still his.

Michael Myres

Michael didn't speak. You knew that from the start.

But Michael watched. Michael listened. Michael waited.

And when you arrived home two hours late, exhausted and shivering, Michael was already there. Sitting in the darkest corner of the room, completely still, the white mask gleaming faintly in the moonlight streaming through the window.

He didn't say anything. He never did.

But he stood up.

His enormous figure loomed in the darkness, blocking out the light, and he walked toward you with slow, heavy steps. You remained still. After so much time together, he didn't frighten you anymore. Not exactly.

He stopped in front of you. He bowed his head. The mask stared at you, empty and expressive at the same time.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. "The shift ran long. I couldn't let you know."

Silence.

Then his gloved hand rose. Slowly. With a gentleness no one would think possible from someone so large. His fingers brushed your cold cheek. They traveled down your arm. They stopped at your wrist.

He took your hand. He squeezed it. Once. Twice.

You're here. You're alive. That's what matters.

"Were you worried?"

Michael didn't nod. He didn't deny it. But his hand squeezed yours a little tighter.

He led you to the sofa. He gently pushed you to sit down. Then he disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a blanket. He draped it over your shoulders. Then, a cup of tea. You hadn't known Michael could make tea. But there it was. Warm. Perfect.

"Thank you," you murmured, your eyes moist.

Michael sat beside you. He didn't hug you—he wasn't one for hugs—but his arm rested on the back of the sofa, right behind you. A subtle gesture. Protective.

When you finished your tea, your head fell against his shoulder, exhausted. Michael didn't move. He stayed there, like a statue, for hours.

In the morning, you woke up in your bed, covered up to your chin. And on the nightstand, someone had left a wildflower. Fresh. Like it had just been picked.

Michael wasn't there. He'd probably gone out to do his own thing. But the flower was there. And the message was clear, even though he never said a word:

I care about you. You were late. Don't do it again. Or I'm going to find your boss.

Jason Voorhees

Jason didn't understand schedules.

Living in Crystal Lake, in a cabin half-hidden among the trees, had its advantages. Peace. Nature. A boyfriend who adored you and protected you from everything. But it also had its disadvantages. Like the fact that Jason didn't understand the concept of "overtime" or "extra hours" or "traffic."

For Jason, if you said you'd be back before nightfall, you were back before nightfall. Period.

When you arrived two hours after sunset, the path to the cabin was lit by makeshift lanterns. Someone had put them up. Someone big, with clumsy but careful hands.

Jason was waiting for you on the porch.

He was standing, his machete leaning against the railing, his enormous shoulders tense. The hockey mask hid his face, but not his body language. His chest rose and fell with heavy breathing. His fists were clenched.

When he saw you, he moved.

He didn't walk. He practically ran. His boots crushed the dry leaves as he closed the distance between you. He stopped right in front of you, so close his chest was almost touching your face.

“Jason… I’m sorry. I was late.”

He lowered his head. His hands rose, trembling, and gripped your shoulders. He checked you over. Turning you slightly. Looking for injuries. Looking for blood. Looking for anything that would explain why you’d taken so long.

“Nothing happened to me,” you assured him, placing your hands over his. “Just work. A lot of work. I’m fine.”

Jason grunted. A low, guttural sound that came from deep within his chest. He didn’t believe you. Or he didn’t like you. Probably both.

He picked you up. Literally. As if you weighed less than a feather, Jason carried you to the cabin, through the door, and set you down on the couch by the fireplace. Then, without saying a word—he never said anything—he started working.

He added more wood to the fire. He took off your shoes. He wrapped you in a blanket that smelled of pine and of him. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a plate of hot stew. He'd kept it simmering. Waiting for you.

"Jason…" Your voice broke. "You didn't have to do all this."

He knelt in front of you. His large, calloused hand rested on your knee. He looked at you through his mask, and although you couldn't see his eyes, you knew what they were saying.

Don't be late again. You scared me. I don't want to lose you. You're all I have.

"I won't be late again," you promised, stroking his mask. "I'll talk to them and get earlier shifts."

Jason leaned his head against your hand. Like a giant cat. Like a tame bear. Then, very slowly, he pointed toward the woods.

"What's in the woods?"

He pointed again. More insistently.

"The path? Did you light it?"

He nodded. He'd spent the last two hours hammering lanterns along the path. So you wouldn't get lost. So you wouldn't trip. So you'd get home safely.

"You're too good for this world, Jason Voorhees."

He shook his head. Then he pointed at you.

"No. You're the good one. I'm just protecting you."

That night, Jason slept with his arms around you, his massive body curled protectively around yours, his mask finally removed. And in the darkness of the cabin, with the fire crackling and the wind whispering through the trees, his misshapen lips brushed your forehead.

A kiss. Awkward. Silent.