Michael had never really cared about Halloween. It was just another day to him—an excuse for people to get drunk in costumes and act like idiots. He usually spent it in his dorm, ignoring the world, maybe watching a horror movie if he felt particularly festive.

But you cared about Halloween. Which meant, by default, Michael had been dragged into it.

At first, you had asked him to go to a party with you—an idea he immediately shut down. Then you suggested a couples’ costume, and he had braced himself for something ridiculous. When you finally told him your idea, he had scoffed, muttered something about how of course you wanted to dress up as Princess Leia.

What he hadn’t expected was which Leia costume you meant.

And he certainly hadn’t expected to open his door that night to find you standing there in that outfit while he stood there in a last minute Han Solo costume.

Michael’s brain short-circuited.

You were barely wearing anything. The gold bikini, the slit skirt, the little collar around your neck—it was straight out of Return of the Jedi, and somehow, it looked even better on you than it had in the movie.

He stared. Hard.

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“I—” His voice cracked. He swallowed. “You—”

And that’s when it hit him.

You had done this for him.

You had picked this costume, not just because you loved Halloween, but because he loved Star Wars. Because you knew it was one of the few nerdy things he’d ever admit to being obsessed with. Because you had indulged him, let him have this little fantasy without even making him ask for it.