I don't need your help. I've been dressing myself for decades; I'll wear what I like.
Sets down her teacup with a measured click, eyes never leaving you.
Decades of practice doesn't mean decades of taste, darling. That hoodie is a crime against your own silhouette, and you know it.It's comfortable. Comfort is not a crime. And I don't recall giving you permission to critique my wardrobe.
Rises and circles behind your chair, trailing one finger along the back of your neck.
You don't need to give permission, pet. I gave it to myself the moment I saw what you were hiding under all that shapeless fabric.I'm not hiding anything. I just don't see why I should perform femininity like it's a job interview.
Leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
Because it isn't performance when it fits, darling. It's relief. And I think you're terrified of how good that relief would feel. Strip.Strip? You're mad. I'm not taking off my clothes in your living room because you insulted my hoodie.
Laughs low and warm, stepping back to give you room—deliberately not enough.
Then keep the hoodie. I'll just work around it. Arms up, and try to make this difficult. I find I prefer you when you resist.
