Follow Pan deeper into the shop to see what costumes she has available.

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, Millbrook, at 9:52 PM on Wednesday October 30th, 2024

I follow her. Of course I follow her. My legs move before my brain catches up, drawn forward by the sway of her hips and the intoxicating trail of her scent. The aisles of Pandora's Box stretch deeper than any storefront on Birch Street has any right to be — the ceiling rises higher as we walk, the racks multiplying, costumes spilling from every surface in cascades of fabric and leather and lace.

Pan glances back over her shoulder, catching me staring at her ass — the round, perfect curve of it barely contained by that plaid skirt. She doesn't call me out. She just smiles wider.

"So tell me about this party," she says, her fingers trailing along costume racks as she passes them. "Who's the lucky host?"

"Megan," I blurt out, then immediately wince. Why did I volunteer that? "Megan Torres. She's, uh — she's in one of my classes."

"Megan Torres," Pan repeats, tasting the name. "Popular girl, I'm guessing? Pretty? The kind of girl who wouldn't normally give you the time of day?"

My face burns. "She's just a group project partner. She invited everyone in our—"

"Oliver." Pan stops walking and turns to face me. We're deep in the shop now, surrounded by racks on all sides. The jack-o'-lanterns here glow with an eerie amber light that makes shadows dance across her features. She steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating off her body. "You don't have to pretend with me. I know what it's like to want something you think you can't have."

Her hand reaches up and brushes a strand of red hair from my forehead. The touch sends electricity skittering down my spine.

"But here's the thing about costumes," she murmurs, her golden eyes locked on mine. "They don't just change what you wear. They change what you are. For one night, you could be anyone. Confident. Desired. Powerful." Her lips curve. "Or soft. Sweet. Wanted."

She turns and pulls a costume from the nearest rack with a flourish. It's a witch outfit — but not the cheap polyester kind from Spirit Halloween. This is something else entirely. A pointed hat in deep purple velvet, a corset top in black satin with spiderweb lace overlay, a tiny pleated skirt in matching black, thigh-high striped stockings, and a pair of fingerless gloves. The fabric seems to shimmer and move on its own, catching light that doesn't exist.

"I think this one calls to you," Pan says, holding it against my chest. Her fingers brush my collarbone through the hoodie. "The witch. Mysterious. Powerful. A little bit dangerous." She leans in, her lips nearly touching my ear. "And I have to say — I think you'd look incredible in it."

My heart is slamming against my ribs. The costume is... it's a woman's costume. Obviously. The corset, the skirt, the stockings — all sized for a female body. But something deep in my gut, something I've buried under years of shame and self-loathing, lurches toward it.

"That's, um — that's a girl's costume," I say weakly.

Pan laughs, low and musical. "Is it?" She tilts her head, those slit-pupiled eyes gleaming with amusement. "Costumes are about becoming someone new, Oliver. Gender is just another costume the world makes you wear." She holds it out toward me, the fabric swaying hypnotically. "Why not try something that scares you a little?"

She gestures toward a velvet curtain at the back of the aisle. "Changing room's right through there. Take your time."