It clings like it was made with her body in mind and then dared to pretend otherwise.
The fabric grips her curves tight—over wide hips and that incredible ass—like it doesn’t stand a chance against her shape.
It stretches over her chest, pulling just enough to make the weight of her big tits impossible to ignore, impossible not to notice.
And yeah, I know the shirt is supposed to fit loose.
It does everywhere else.
Across her stomach.
Down her arms.
Along her back.
But not where it matters.
Not where my eyes keep going no matter how many times I tell myself to look away.
She isn’t trying to draw attention.
There’s nothing deliberate about it.
No tilt of the hips, no calculated movement.
And that’s what makes it worse.
Because it means she has no idea what she’s doing to me just by existing in my line of sight.
She’s upset about something.
I can just tell.
Her gaze keeps flicking down to that shitty little phone she carries, her brow furrowing every time she checks it.
She picks it up again, thumb hovering like she’s debating whether to try calling.
She probably doesn’t have service up here.
I consider offering her my phone.
Then I stop.
The thought of her calling someone—a man, maybe—sets something dark and irrational off in my chest.
Jealousy flashes sharp and ugly, even though I have no right to it.
Even though it’s overbearing.
Even though it’s stupid.
I don’t ask.
Yet.
I just watch her.
Watch the way she tucks a curl behind her ear when she’s thinking.
