Chapter Text
The worst part about Halloween at Pine Meadows Mall wasn’t the fake cobwebs, or the screaming children hopped up on Fun Dip and parental desperation, or even the fact that someone had tried to Trick-or-Treat-A-Thon in a building with exactly four working trash cans.
The worst part was November 1st.
November 1st was when the mall looked at itself in the harsh fluorescent mirror of morning and realized what it had done.
A sad pile of crushed candy wrappers sat in the planter outside Alice in Brewland like a memorial to someone’s lost dignity. The plastic pumpkin bucket someone had dropped by the escalator was upside down, rolling slowly whenever the air-conditioning kicked on. A single vampire cape—child-sized, glitter-lined—was draped over a bench in the food court like it had given up and decided to live there now.
And inside Alice in Brewland, Charles was drinking tea like a man who had not suffered a single consequence in his entire life.
He stood on a small step stool behind the counter, carefully peeling a paper ghost off the chalkboard easel. The ghost tore in half. Charles made a pained noise, like he’d just snapped a violin string.
Bobby, slumped at the pastry case with a to-go cup and the thousand-yard stare of someone who had worked the candy line for five hours, didn’t even blink. “Charles,” he said hoarsely. “The ghosts can stay. We can be haunted. That’s fine.”
Charles looked over his shoulder with the bright expression of a man determined to treat reality like a suggestion. “It’s November,” he said, like that explained everything.
“That’s what I’m saying,” Bobby replied. “Haunted. Forever.”
Charles turned back to the chalkboard, smoothing his palm over the torn paper like he could heal it through optimism. “We’re not haunted,” he said. “We’re transitioning.”
“Into what,” Bobby asked, “Seasonal Depression?”
Charles clicked his tongue. “Too early.”
Bobby stared at him. “It’s November first.”
“And yet,” Charles said, lifting a new paper cut-out from beneath the counter, “I have acquired turkeys.”
Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “If you put up Thanksgiving decorations today, I’m quitting.”
“You’re not quitting.”
“I will,” Bobby insisted, but it had no heat. He was too tired for actual rebellion. “I will walk directly into the fountain, sink to the bottom, and become a cautionary tale.”
Charles held up a small garland of felt turkeys, each one wearing a tiny pilgrim hat. “They’re tasteful,” he said.
Bobby made a noise of disgusted disbelief. “There is no such thing as a tasteful turkey.”
Charles looked genuinely wounded. “I had them custom made.”
“Of course you did.”
Before Charles could argue that turkeys were in fact capable of taste, the bell above the door chimed and Raven walked in like she’d personally come to arrest November. She was dressed in black—obviously—coat open, lipstick darker than the coffee, keys already in her fist like she was deciding which of them deserved to live.
She didn’t look at Bobby. She didn’t look at Charles.
She looked at the felt turkeys.
Her face didn’t change. Her entire soul did, though. Bobby felt it in his bones.
“No,” Raven said flatly.
Charles smiled at her like he hadn’t just brought festive violence into the world. “Good morning, Raven.”
“No,” Raven repeated, louder, pointing at the garland. “Absolutely not.”
Charles stepped down off the stool with an innocent little hop. “They’re temporary.”
“They’re an omen,” Raven replied.
Bobby lifted his cup in silent salute to Raven’s correctness.
Charles sighed like they were both exhausting children. “It’s November,” he said again.
Raven’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think repeating the month makes it less stupid?”
“It makes it accurate.”
“It makes it insufferable.”
Charles ignored that, because he treated Raven’s insults the way he treated cinnamon: as an inevitable ingredient. He walked behind the counter and started making tea without asking, because Raven pretended she hated routine the way she pretended she didn’t miss her son.
Bobby watched Raven’s gaze sweep the shop. The chalkboard. The sagging web strands Charles hadn’t taken down yet. The skeleton in the beret—Beanie Barnes—currently lying face-down on the top shelf like he’d passed out after a bender.
Raven’s mouth twitched like she wanted to smile and didn’t trust herself.
“Rough night?” Bobby asked, voice careful.
Raven glanced at him. “I watched a grown man in a Spider-Man suit argue with a toddler over a KitKat. In public.”
Bobby nodded solemnly. “War changes people.”
Raven leaned on the counter. “I stepped on a gummy worm in the security corridor.”
Charles slid her tea toward her, the steam curling up like an offering. “That corridor is a lawless place,” he said gently.
Raven stared at the tea. “If this is pumpkin, I’m setting your turkeys on fire.”
“It’s Darjeeling,” Charles said, pleased with himself. “I’m not a monster.”
Raven took one sip, as if testing for betrayal. Her shoulders eased by exactly one millimeter. It was the closest thing she ever did to gratitude.
Bobby drained the last of his coffee and stood. “I’m going to go count the spider cookies and see how many I can throw away before Charles notices,” he said.
Charles’s head snapped up. “Do not throw away the spider cookies.”
“They’re November spiders now,” Bobby said, deadpan. “They’ve moved on.”
Charles made a sound of genuine offense. Bobby left anyway, shuffling toward the back room like a man fleeing festive tyranny.
The second he was gone, Raven looked at Charles and said, quietly, “How’s Erik?”
Charles’s smile softened. “Stubborn,” he said. “Hot,” he added, because he couldn’t help himself. “Annoying. Mine.”
Raven rolled her eyes, but there was no real venom in it today. “He’s going to pretend he’s fine,” she said.
“Yes,” Charles agreed. “And then he’s going to go home and fold dish towels like they personally disrespected him.”
Raven stared into her tea like the steam could explain her life. “Nina worked until close last night,” she said. “At Edie’s. She didn’t even come by to get candy.”
Charles’s brow furrowed. “That’s… not like her.”
Raven shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe she’s tired of playing maid to her siblings’ nonsense.”
Charles’s expression turned thoughtful, like he’d filed that away under future problem. Raven didn’t comment on it. She wasn’t here to fix Erik’s children.
She was here because she couldn’t go back to Trumpets & Tape Decks yet without hearing the echo of that broken door chime and feeling the weight of the countdown in her chest.
She took another sip of tea. Let it burn a little.
Outside, the mall speakers clicked on with a soft pop and then began playing something aggressively cheerful—some peppy “Now That Halloween’s Over!” playlist the mall manager clearly found hilarious.
Raven’s eye twitched.
Charles watched her, gentle and perceptive in that way that made Raven want to throw a mug. “You know,” he said, carefully, “you could take today off.”
Raven snorted. “That’s adorable.”
“You’re closing soon,” Charles said, voice softer now.
Raven’s fingers tightened on the mug. “November fifteenth,” she confirmed, like she was reciting a fact she couldn’t argue with. “Last day.”
Charles nodded, not pushing. He never pushed. He just stood in the doorway of feelings like a calm librarian and waited for people to decide whether to enter.
Raven stared at her tea and said, so quietly it almost didn’t count, “I saw Kurt yesterday.”
Charles didn’t pretend he didn’t hear. “Did you?” he asked.
“He was in the crowd,” Raven said. “At the Trick-Or-Treat-A-Thon. Helping Hank run the music table. He was… good with kids.”
Charles’s mouth curved faintly. “He always is.”
Raven swallowed. “He didn’t look at me.”
Charles waited.
Raven added, like a confession she hated, “I didn’t look at him either.”
Charles reached up and plucked a loose piece of fake webbing off the counter. “Well,” he said gently, “maybe November can be the month you stop doing that.”
Raven’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “Charles, don’t romanticize November. It’s the month people die and turkeys suffer.”
Charles lifted the felt garland again. “These turkeys are thriving.”
Raven’s stare could’ve melted glass. “Put those away.”
Charles sighed, tragic. “Fine. For now.”
Raven took one last sip of tea, set the mug down, and pushed away from the counter. “I’m going,” she said.
“To work,” Charles guessed.
“To pretend I’m not closing down my entire life,” Raven corrected.
Charles didn’t stop her. He just said, softly, “If you need help on the fifteenth—”
“I don’t,” Raven snapped automatically.
Charles smiled. “Okay.”
Raven paused by the door like something invisible tugged at her sleeve. Then she muttered, “But if you bring turkeys into my store, I’ll kill you.”
Charles beamed. “Noted.”
And Raven left, the bell chiming behind her like a warning.
**********
Across the corridor, Edie’s Fine Jewelry gleamed with its usual rich, quiet menace. The display cases were spotless. The lighting was perfect. The kind of store that made you stand up straighter even if you were just there to browse.
Erik stood behind the counter, polishing the edge of a glass case with a microfiber cloth like the concept of smudges was a personal insult.
Nina stood near the register with a clipboard and a pen, posture too composed for sixteen. She looked tired, but not fragile. Just… done.
Erik didn’t look up. “You’re early,” he said.
“I never left,” Nina replied.
Erik’s hand stilled for half a second. He looked at her then—really looked. There was a faint shadow beneath her eyes. Her hair was pulled back in a knot that said she hadn’t had time to care.
“You worked last night,” Erik said.
Nina lifted a shoulder. “Halloween.”
“You’re in high school,” Erik reminded her.
“I’m also in retail,” Nina replied, like it explained everything.
Erik’s jaw tightened. He hated that she was right. He also hated that she was here doing the job of two adults and one overconfident brother who thought “vibes” counted as labor.
“Where are they?” Erik asked, because he couldn’t not ask.
Nina’s pen clicked once. “Peter texted me at midnight that he ‘found himself’ in the food court.”
Erik closed his eyes.
“And Wanda,” Nina added, voice careful now, “is… busy.”
Erik opened his eyes slowly. “Busy doing what?”
Nina hesitated, just a fraction. Enough for Erik to feel it.
Erik’s tone went dangerously mild. “Nina.”
“She’s doing paperwork,” Nina said.
Erik stared.
Nina held his gaze with the calm steadiness of someone who had already decided something and didn’t need permission. “She’s opening her boutique,” Nina said. “She’s serious.”
The silence that followed was clean and sharp, like a gemstone edge.
Erik set the cloth down on the counter with deliberate control. “Wanda is… opening a store,” he said, voice even.
“Yes.”
“In this mall.”
“Yes.”
“And she didn’t tell me,” Erik concluded.
Nina’s expression didn’t change. But something in her eyes softened, just slightly, like she did still care even if she was tired of proving it. “She told you,” she said gently. “A lot.”
Erik’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something more painful. “She said she wanted a brand,” he muttered, half to himself.
“She wants a life,” Nina corrected.
Erik leaned back against the counter, arms crossing. He looked like a man bracing for impact and trying to pretend he wasn’t.
Nina clicked her pen again and said, quietly, “I’m helping her.”
Erik’s eyes snapped up. “You’re what.”
Nina didn’t flinch. “I’m helping her,” she repeated. “With set-up. Staffing. Displays. Whatever she needs.”
Erik’s voice stayed calm by force. “And Edie’s?”
Nina’s gaze flicked to the polished cases. The velvet trays. The careful perfection Erik had built with his own hands and impossible standards. She looked back at him and said, evenly, “I can’t do both.”
Erik stared at his daughter like she’d just told him the building was on fire and she was choosing to let it burn. “You’re choosing her,” he said.
Nina’s brows knit. “I’m choosing me,” she corrected.
That landed harder than it should have.
Erik opened his mouth. Closed it. He didn’t know how to argue with that without sounding like the villain in her origin story.
Nina softened, just a little. “I’m not leaving you,” she said. “I’m just… growing.”
Erik’s laugh was quiet and bitter. “You’re sixteen.”
Nina’s smile was faint. “And I’m tired,” she said. “And I’m good at this. And I don’t want to spend the next two years cleaning up after people who treat you like a vending machine.”
Erik’s throat tightened. He hated how true it was.
Outside the glass storefront, a group of mall walkers shuffled past, chatting about discounts and weather. The world kept moving like nothing inside Erik had just shifted.
Erik picked up the cloth again because it gave his hands something to do. “When,” he asked tightly, “is she opening?”
Nina exhaled. “This month, hopefully,” she said. “And she wants to call it Scarlet Witch.”
Erik’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “Of course she does.”
Nina’s smile returned, realer now. “It’s a good name,” she said.
Erik didn’t answer. He polished the same corner of glass until it squeaked. Then, very quietly, he asked, “Does she need money?”
Nina blinked. “What?”
Erik’s gaze stayed on the glass. “If she’s opening a store, she will need capital,” he said, like it was a business lecture and not a father trying not to beg. “I can offer a loan.”
Nina’s expression softened into something complicated. “She doesn’t want your money,” she said gently. “She wants your blessing.”
Erik’s hand stilled again.
He didn’t have a blessing. He had fear. He had pride. He had the terrible, aching knowledge that his children were becoming themselves—and he didn’t know how to survive that without trying to hold on too tightly.
Nina watched him for a long moment, then said, quietly, “I’m going to help her anyway.”
Erik swallowed. “I know,” he said.
Nina nodded once. Then she set her clipboard down, stepped around the counter, and—because she was Nina, and Nina did things that were good and inconvenient—she hugged him.
Erik froze like a man who hadn’t expected warmth.
Nina held on for two seconds. Three. Then she stepped back like nothing had happened, picked up her clipboard, and said, “Also, you have a customer coming at eleven who wants a ‘noncommittal commitment’ ring.”
Erik blinked.
Nina smiled sweetly. “I told her we had a vibe ring.”
Erik exhaled, slow. “Of course you did.”
Nina’s grin widened. “I’m learning from the best.”
And then she walked out of the store, already texting Wanda, already building something new, leaving Erik in the quiet glittering aftermath of the life he’d tried to keep unchanged.
**********
Kitty had sworn she wasn’t going to come into the mall today.
She had said it out loud, to Moira, while standing in her kitchen with a mug of coffee and the posture of someone trying to convince the universe she wasn’t available for nonsense.
Moira had nodded sympathetically and then texted her ten minutes later. pls come in. if i’m alone with the november “cozy reads” display i will commit a felony.
So now Kitty was in Read ’Em and Weep, wearing leggings and an oversized sweater that made her look like a stressed-out librarian in witness protection, trying to wrestle a box of autumn-themed bookmarks onto the front table without knocking over the “Mini Marvels” glitter crafts Moira still hadn’t fully cleaned up.
“This,” Kitty muttered, shoving a stack of bookmarks into a crooked acrylic stand, “is not a job. This is a slow-motion haunted house.”
Moira, perched on a step stool and peeling tape off the window, sighed dramatically. “It’s November,” she said.
Kitty turned sharply. “Don’t you start.”
Moira blinked innocently. “Start what?”
“The month talk,” Kitty snapped. “I’ve already been attacked by Charles’s turkeys. I’m not surviving a second wave.”
Moira laughed, delighted. “Charles has turkeys?”
“Felt,” Kitty said grimly. “With hats.”
Moira made a sound of pure joy. Kitty felt her soul leave her body a little.
The bell over the bookstore door chimed and Kitty instinctively braced, because the day after Halloween was usually when customers came in to return costumes and complain about candy quality like the mall personally grew it.
Instead, Piotr Rasputin stepped inside.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. Kitty knew that the way you knew when a storm was coming—subtle shift in air pressure, an inexplicable sense of why is my heart doing that.
He wore a plain dark jacket, no apron, no bar uniform. His hair was still slightly damp, like he’d just come in from the cold. He held a small paper bag in one hand like it contained something either thoughtful or dangerous.
Kitty stared at him.
Piotr’s gaze flicked to her. He didn’t smile. But his eyes softened in that quiet, steady way he had—the way that always made Kitty feel like she was being seen without being judged.
Moira, of course, immediately clocked the entire situation like a woman who had lived through too many romantic subplots and refused to miss one in the wild. “Oh,” she said brightly. “Hello, Piotr.”
Piotr nodded politely. “Moira.”
Kitty cleared her throat, because her body had forgotten how to function. “Uh,” she said intelligently.
Piotr’s eyes stayed on her for a beat longer than necessary. Then he lifted the paper bag slightly. “This is for you,” he said.
Kitty blinked. “For me?”
“Yes.”
Kitty narrowed her eyes. “Is it a trap?”
Piotr’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “No trap,” he said. “Just… you looked tired last night.”
Kitty’s stomach dipped. “You noticed.”
“I work behind the bar,” Piotr said simply, like that explained the entire concept of observation. “I notice.”
Moira’s eyes widened with the feral glee of someone watching a deer walk willingly into emotional traffic.
Kitty took the bag slowly, like it might explode. She opened it.
Inside was a pastry—something dense and warm-looking, dusted with sugar—and a small bottle of water.
Kitty stared. “Is this,” she asked, voice suspiciously soft, “hydration?”
Piotr nodded once. “And food.”
Kitty looked up at him, stunned. “You came here,” she said, “to give me water.”
Piotr’s shoulders lifted slightly. “You were… loud,” he said carefully. “But good. Last night.”
Kitty’s face warmed. “I was scream-singing Céline Dion.”
“Yes,” Piotr agreed, like that was a respectable art form. “You were brave.”
Kitty’s throat tightened in a way she absolutely did not appreciate on a Monday morning. She looked down at the pastry again like it might save her from being perceived.
Moira, sensing the emotional intensity approaching, hopped down from her stool with exaggerated casualness. “I’m going to,” she announced, “go commit a felony in the back room,” she said, then pointed at Kitty. “Front table. Don’t die.”
Kitty glared. “Moira—”
Moira was already gone, disappearing behind a stack of cookbooks like she’d been summoned by plot necessity.
Kitty and Piotr stood in the bookstore’s front area in a pocket of silence that felt too intimate for fluorescent lighting.
Kitty finally said, “You didn’t have to do this.”
Piotr’s gaze held hers. “I wanted to,” he said.
Kitty swallowed. Her instincts screamed at her to joke, to deflect, to make this harmless.
But Piotr didn’t feel harmless in the way she usually meant. He felt… steady. Like someone offering a hand without demanding she take it.
Kitty clutched the water bottle like it was a lifeline. “Thanks,” she said, and her voice came out smaller than she liked.
Piotr nodded once. “You are welcome.”
Kitty’s mouth opened, searching for something clever.
Nothing came.
Piotr glanced toward the back of the store, then back to her. “I should go,” he said.
Kitty’s chest tightened. “Right,” she said quickly. “Yeah. You have… bar things.”
Piotr hesitated, just a fraction. Then he said, very quietly, “Maybe later this week… you come for coffee.”
Kitty blinked. “I—what.”
Piotr’s gaze didn’t waver. “Coffee,” he repeated, like it wasn’t a loaded word in a mall where Charles existed. “Not at night. Not loud. Just… coffee.”
Kitty’s brain short-circuited. “Okay,” she heard herself say.
Piotr nodded, like that was settled. Then he turned and walked out, leaving Kitty standing there with a pastry, a water bottle, and the unsettling realization that someone had just offered her something gentle and meant it.
Kitty stared after him for a full five seconds before whispering, to no one, “Oh my God.”
From the back room, Moira’s muffled voice floated out, “DON’T PANIC.”
Kitty snapped, too loud, “I’M NOT PANICKING.”
Moira cackled.
Kitty took a bite of the pastry and immediately hated how good it was.
Because if it was good, it meant Piotr knew what he was doing.
And if Piotr knew what he was doing—
Kitty swallowed hard.
—then November was going to be a problem.