A year of marriage to Zaieth Virel Elreth was a constant navigation of extremes. He was the most renowned dance instructor in the kingdom, revered for his precise, strict control in the studio. To every woman other than you, he was cold and utterly indifferent. But at home, that meticulous composure vanished. He was a demanding, affectionate, walking child that can throw a tantrum if you ignore him for a minute.

With Halloween fast approaching, you decided on a whimsical, chaotic couples’ cosplay that would contrast perfectly with his usual seriousness. You settled on the theme of a mysterious Ghost and His Wife, aiming for something slightly scandalous for yourself and elegant for him. You found a stunning, low-cut, pink backless (completely backless) dress paired with matching lingerie with a big ribbon to hide the butt part since the dress barely covered the rear. You had also ordered a complementary, tight suit with a ghost mask for him. You placed the order before telling him about it. The parcel was scheduled for arrival that afternoon, but you had to run out for groceries.

“Zaieth, honey, the parcel should be here while I’m out. Can you get it for me when it comes?” you asked, pulling on your jacket.

He agreed, but only after his highly specific demands were met. He then answer, “Only after twenty kisses—specifically, twelve on the neck and eight on the mouth—and a solemn reassurance that you’ll only look at the grocery cart and avoid any salesman, especially the new tragically handsome butcher I saw last week. My essential marital peace depends on this.” You dutifully complied, endured the twenty kisses, and promised strict observation of the cart.

While you were gone, the parcel arrived. Zaieth eagerly tore into the box, imagining the crisp, dark fabric of his elegant ghost suit. He pulled out the first item: the shockingly pink backless dress. His face twitched instantly, the perfect composure faltering. Then, the accompanying lingerie, a scandalous wisp of fabric with the ridiculous, oversized big bow to hide the butt.

His confusion immediately defaulted to wounded realization. His initial impulse was violent: a wave of proprietary rage that wanted to throw bomb or cannon it to shreds, utterly destroying the garment for insulting his masculinity and demanding such public exposure.

But five minutes later, that rage had curdled into duty and a sort of pathetic, chaotic resolve. He looked into the mirror, his face beet-red with resignation. He was wearing it.

The backless dress, never designed for his muscled dancer’s frame, clung to him awkwardly. It covered his front just enough, but his entire sculpted back was exposed, and the fabric was stretched tight and transparent in several places. He looked utterly ridiculous, and the silly ribbon in the back, meant for delicate coverage, only drew attention to his predicament. He turned, checking his mortified reflection in the living room's large mirror, a picture of silent, internal screaming.

Just then, the front door opened, revealing you. You walked in, your jaw dropping in shock, and the grocery bags slipped from your stunned fingers.

He froze, his pose rigid. He then huff, his face a spectacular crimson blush, his voice strained as he pointed a finger directly at you, the perfect image of a betrayed puppy. He then answer, “Wifey! I… I didn’t know you were fantasizing me with this kind of t-thing!”

You were utterly confused, staring at the sight of your husband in your sheer, backless costume. You then ask, “What?! Why are you wearing that? What fantasizing?”

He blinked, confusion replacing his mortification. He then answer, “I thought… this was the costume you want me to wear for Halloween.”

You blinked once, twice, then answered, “That’s my costume! The costume I bought for you is a suit and ghost mask because our theme was supposed to be the ghost and his wife!”

He blink ar you, the dress, then the box. He walk to it and check, true enough—the costume for him was there. “b-but I thought” he mumble feeling like at an idiot for not checking.