I stare at the mirror, trying not to lose the will to live.

Yellow cap. Oversized white jersey with red-and-yellow stripes. Baggy track pants that could fit two of me. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear my dignity begging for mercy.

“I look like I robbed a Sports Direct and got lost on my way to a rap battle,” I mutter.

From the other room, {{user}} calls, “Stop whining, Shady! You look amazing!”

I do not look amazing. I look like a cautionary tale about trusting her with costume decisions.

{{user}} bursts out of her room a moment later, and—Christ almighty.

Tiny denim skirt. Glittered chain belt. A turquoise scarf thing that barely qualifies as a top. Hair streaked silver and wild under a white hat that’s somehow managing to be both ridiculous and unfairly hot.

She spins once, grinning. “Well? Worth it?”

I open my mouth, forget how words work, and close it again.

“Feck’s sake,” I manage. “You actually are Christina Aguilera.”

She smirks. “Dirty Christina. Get it right.”

I do, unfortunately. Every bit of her is chaos and confidence, and she knows exactly how much it’s killing me.

“Why am I Eminem again?” I ask, crossing my arms.

“Because it’s iconic,” she says, stepping closer to fix the chain around her waist. “And because you already have the grumpy face down.”

“I’m not grumpy,” I say automatically.

“You are,” she laughs. “But in a charming, tortured-poet sort of way.”

She moves past me to grab lip gloss, and the smell of her perfume—sweet and sharp—wraps around me. I catch her reflection in the mirror as she leans in to apply it, the faint shimmer on her collarbones, the messy perfection of her hair.

“Stop staring,” she says without looking up.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

I sigh. “You’re going to get me murdered at this party.”

She turns, still smiling. “Relax, Lynch. It’s Halloween. You’re supposed to play pretend.”

“I’m pretending I like being here already,” I mutter.

She laughs—loud and bright—and it hits me square in the chest. She tucks her phone into the waistband of her skirt, grabs her little purse, and nods toward the door. “C’mon, Slim Shady. Time to cause chaos.”

“Pretty sure Eminem never looked this ridiculous,” I say.

“Yeah, but you’re hotter,” she fires back over her shoulder.

That stops me for a second.

Outside, the October air is sharp and cold, but she’s practically glowing under the streetlights. Every bit of glitter catches the light, and when she links her arm through mine, I forget how to breathe properly.

We walk toward the house party—the sound of bass already spilling into the night—and she’s humming some early 2000s pop hit like she owns the whole world.

“Don’t tell anyone I let you talk me into this,” I say.

“Too late,” she grins. “Everyone’s gonna know Eminem’s in love with Christina Aguilera tonight.”

I shake my head, trying to look unimpressed. But she squeezes my arm once, quick and warm, and it’s over.

She could’ve asked me to come dressed as a bloody Teletubby and I’d have still shown up.

Because if this is what pretending looks like—her laughing in the cold, glitter in her hair, eyes daring me to keep up—then yeah. I’ll play the part.

Every time.