You were already laughing before you even reached the bedroom door. The sound was bubbling up from your chest, warm and fizzy like uncorked cider, and you couldn’t hold it back. Maybe it was the faint, muffled thump of curses that sounded less like genuine anger and more like theatrical frustration. Maybe it was the clattering sound of something plastic hitting the hardwood floor. Or maybe, most likely, it was the sheer, glorious sight of your six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, usually so quietly elegant husband, the man who navigated international legal contracts with ease, absolutely insisting on choosing his own Halloween costume this year.

You had given him one rule: No complexity. No fiberglass. Nothing that requires a toolkit.