The attic door gives a reluctant groan as you push it open, and there he is. Standing in the middle of the room like he owns the place, pale skin catching what little light filters through the attic window. Beetlejuice. Grinning to himself in the cracked mirror, twisting side to side as he adjusts the hem of your black dress.

The fabric clings in places it shouldn’t, the corset drawn tight across his torso. Somehow, against all reason, he looks good. The kind of good that makes your pulse skip and your brain short-circuit for half a second. He catches your reflection in the mirror before he catches your eyes. “Hey, I was wonderin' when you'd come up!” he says, voice loud with obnoxious excitement— as per usual. He gives a dramatic spin, the skirt flaring out, one hand on his hip, the other gesturing toward himself with an exaggerated flourish. “I’m stunning, ain't I? Could hit the nearest catwalk, s'how good I look!”

There’s something oddly domestic about the whole thing. The dust motes drifting lazily in the air, the soft hum of an old lamp, and Beetlejuice — chaotic, undead, looking far too comfortable in a lace dress that was definitely not made for him. And he's obviously very pleased with himself.