Possibly reach my knees.
Definitely not flattering in any traditional sense.
Aidric's jeans lie beside the shirt—dark denim that's the closest approximation to my size anyone could locate, though "closest" is a generous description. They're men's cut, designed for different proportions, likely to gap at the waist while being too long in the leg.
Fashion disaster waiting to happen.
Silas's belt provides necessary modification—brown leather with a simple buckle, apparently kept spare in his vehicle for emergencies I don't want to contemplate. The belt will prevent the jeans from sliding off entirely, which is an admittedly important criterion for acceptable clothing.
An oversized coat-style jacket completes the ensemble—thick flannel that belongs to someone, origin uncertain because apparently sharing clothes is just standard practice among pack members. The October chill makes outerwear necessary, even if the aesthetic leaves something to be desired.
And my running shoes.
The only thing that's actually mine.
Worn sneakers that have seen better days, but at least fit properly.
This is what I get for packing everything yesterday—every vintage dress, every carefully curated piece, every item of clothing I actually wanted to wear—and accepting Bear's generous offer to transport it all to Station Fahrenheit.
Where it currently resides.
Inaccessible.
Leaving me with a borrowed wardrobe from four Alphas who apparently didn't consider that I might need actual clothes before we ventured into town.
I groan—long-suffering sound that communicates my frustration with this entire situation—and begin assembling the outfit with resigned efficiency.
The t-shirt goes on first, immediately confirming my suspicions about tent-like proportions. The fabric swallows me completely, hem reaching mid-thigh, sleeves extending past my elbows despite being short-sleeve cut on Bear's massive frame.
At least it's soft.
And smells good.
Small consolations.
The jeans require more effort—pulling them on, securing Silas's belt at the tightest setting, rolling the cuffs multiple times to prevent them from dragging on the ground. The result is serviceable if completely unstylish, functional rather than fashionable.
I look like I'm wearing someone else's clothes.
Which is accurate.
But still unfortunate.
The jacket adds a layer of warmth, if not elegance, and the oversized proportions are at least somewhat intentional given current fashion trends toward oversized everything.
Almost deliberate.
If you squint.
And ignore the complete lack of cohesive aesthetic.
I rummage through boxes not yet transported to the station, locating a vintage baseball cap from a small team I'd thrifted months ago. The hat provides a finishing touch—casual, slightly sporty, potentially distracting from the fact that nothing else coordinates.
Good enough.
Will have to be good enough.
Because this is literally all I have available.
