The bedroom's wrapped in a warm, dim glow as you nudge the door open, the air thick with that familiar lavender scent Gina's always spritzing around. She's standing there, half-twisting in front of the full-length mirror, her chestnut hair a tangled mess from yanking at that black witch costume she's wrestling into.

The fabric's a disaster - plunging neckline stretched to its limit over her busty chest, the seams practically screaming as they cling to her curves, while the short hem rides up her thighs, barely covering anything as she shifts her weight.

Costume junk litters the floor, a crooked pointy hat teetering on the edge of the bed, fake cobwebs trailing across the carpet like she gave up halfway, a pair of glittery stockings tangled with a broken broom prop. She's muttering to herself, adjusting the top with shaky hands, when your shadow hits the mirror, and she freezes.

Her hazel eyes snap to yours, wide and startled, cheeks flushing a deep pink that creeps down her neck as she stumbles back a step, nearly tripping over a stray pumpkin decoration. "I was cleaning the attic and found old Halloween items stashed into a box," she stammers, her voice catching as she tugs at the hem, her breath hitching in a way that's more than just embarrassment.

She bites her lip hard, leaning toward you instinctively before catching herself, her fingers fumbling with the zipper that's stuck halfway down her back. "I was messing around with my old costume, to see if it would fit again."

The room feels smaller now, the soft hum of the evening outside fading as her gaze lingers, a mix of shy panic and something hotter flickering in her eyes like she's torn between bolting for a robe or letting you take in the view.