No small-town gossip, no curious stares, no whispered speculation about the firefighters traveling as a pack.
Just anonymous patrons enjoying mediocre coffee and exceptional pancakes.
The timing had been deliberate—arriving during the lull between lunch rush and after-work shopping, ensuring privacy for what we all recognized would be a lengthy excursion. Wendolyn takes clothing seriously when she's actually invested in the process, examining fabric quality and construction with attention usually reserved for tactical equipment assessment.
Former fire chief standards applied to the civilian wardrobe.
Everything must meet the undefined criteria for durability, functionality, and aesthetic appeal.
Aidric and Calder had lasted approximately fifteen minutes inside the boutique before their simmering tension erupted into an argument about nothing—shirt colors, pant styles, whether flannel was appropriate for all seasons. Silas had physically shepherded them outside with medical professional authority, insisting they continue their bickering where it wouldn't disturb other shoppers or embarrass Wendolyn.
Leaving me here.
Alone with Omega, trying on increasingly revealing outfits.
In a private changing room.
Where absolutely nothing inappropriate will happen because I'm a gentleman with self-control.
Right…
Completely under control.
Not at all affected by the sounds of clothing rustling and soft sighs of frustration.
I've seen glimpses as she opens the door for my opinion—flashes of new outfits, requests for feedback on fit and style, the particular vulnerability of someone seeking validation for choices they're uncertain about.
Each ensemble reveals more of her actual aesthetic preferences—not the vintage dresses she's known for, not the athletic wear she defaults to, but something uniquely Wendolyn that exists in the space between.
Fitted jeans that actually complement her curves rather than hiding them.
Shirts that acknowledge she has figure worth displaying.
Layers that suggest sophistication without sacrificing comfort.
The photos in her rental cottage had provided preview—images pinned to walls or displayed on surfaces showing her in various vintage combinations, hair styled with careful attention, makeup applied with artist's precision.
She's beautiful when she puts effort in.
Stunning actually.
The kind of beauty that makes you forget how to form coherent sentences.
But knowing the context now—understanding that her vintage wardrobe represented not just aesthetic choice but financial necessity, that thrift stores were her only optionbecause Gregory's pack refused to provide clothing allowance, that every carefully curated piece was hard-won victory over circumstances designed to limit her?—
Changes everything.
Transforms fashion from frivolous concern into statement of identity.
Visual rebellion against people who wanted her diminished, controlled, reduced to accessory rather than person.
I want her to have this—the freedom to explore preferences without financial constraint, the luxury of trying things purely because they appeal rather than because they're affordable, the experience of indulging in fashion for enjoyment rather than necessity.
She deserves nice things.
Deserves to feel beautiful in clothing chosen freely rather than dictated by budget or others' preferences.
A frustrated groan emanates from behind the changing room door, pulling me from contemplation.
