They’re delicate, almost too pretty to go under something this rough, but that’s exactly why I choose them. The pattern stretches over my thighs as I pull them up.
The shorts sit low on my hips when I pull them on, the tears exposing more skin than I usually go for.
The tights are intricate and feminine beneath the destruction of the denim. Soft underneath something torn open.
I reach for a tank next. Black again—thin straps, fitted, just slightly cropped so a sliver of skin shows when I move. It clings without feeling restrictive, like it’s there to highlight instead of hide.
Simple.
But not innocent.
The leather jacket is draped over the chair.
The one he bought me.
I don’t even pause this time. I slide it on, letting the weight of it settle over my shoulders, grounding and sharp all at once. Itpulls the whole look together—taking it from thrown-on to intentional.
My boots are an easy choice—the ones I traveled in, the ones I wear almost everywhere. Worn-in black, scuffed just enough to feel real. I tug them on, anchoring myself in something that still feels like mine.
My makeup ends up darker than usual. I smudge liner along my eyes, not bothering to make it perfect, letting it blur slightly at the edges. My lips stay soft, just a muted tint—like I didn’t try too hard, even though I definitely did a little.
Now, ready to go, I give myself one last once-over. And when I look at myself in the mirror, I go still.
Because I don’t look like the girl who walked in here. I look like someone else.
Or someone Icouldbe.
Edgier. Sharper. Like I belong somewhere louder, darker, less forgiving than I usually let myself exist in.
The lace peeks through every rip in the shorts, catching my eye.
Delicate. Intentional. Exposed.
My hand drifts to the hem of the jacket, smoothing it down without thinking.
And then the thought slips in—quiet, uninvited, automatic.
He’s going to like this.
My stomach tightens.
I don’t know when that started mattering.
Or when I stopped pretending it didn’t.
He’s already in the living room when I step out, and I feel it before I see him.
The atmosphere adjusts.
Like the room has narrowed to a single point and I’ve just walked straight into it.
I look up.
He looks as hot as ever, this time in a T-shirt that stretchestight across his chest and biceps. His distressed jeans cling to him in all the right places.
He’s leaning against a side table, one arm braced behind him, the other loose at his side, and for a second nothing happens. No reaction. No obvious change.
And then his eyes settle on me.