Unisex sizing.
The curse of women everywhere seeking functional clothing.
Designed to fit nobody perfectly while theoretically accommodating everyone.
I slip into the changing room, closing the door behind me with a quiet click. The space is more intimate than anticipated—small square footage that makes avoiding physical contact nearly impossible, mirrors on multiple walls multiplying our reflections into an infinite regression of increasingly compromising positions.
Professionalism.
Maintain professionalism.
You're here to help with clothing, not seduce a “vulnerable” Omega.
"You want actual help with the style aspect?" My offer emerges more husky than intended, voice dropping register in response to the enclosed space and her proximity.
She whines—an actual whine of frustration that bypasses adult communication in favor of pure emotional expression.
"I'm not used to trying on anything normal! I feel like a fraud or something, like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's clothes."
Normal.
She keeps using that word.
Like vintage dresses aren't normal, like her carefully curated aesthetic is somehow less valid than mainstream fashion.
I move closer, drawn by the distress I want to alleviate, by the vulnerability she's displaying despite obvious discomfort.
"You'd look nice naked for all I care," I observe with complete honesty, "but reasonable clothing for everyone else to appreciate your attractiveness while maintaining appropriate coverage would be preferable."
The laugh that bubbles from her is authentic enough—tension breaking slightly, shoulders losing some of their defensive rigidity.
Better.
Laughter is good.
Means she's not completely drowning in whatever insecurity is currently consuming her.
But then her expression shifts—humor fading into something more painful, more vulnerable than fashion frustration.
"I'm a bit shy about wearing fitted clothes," she admits quietly, eyes tracking anywhere except my face. "Because Gregory said I was a fat whale who should stay in the ocean, unseen by people with actual aesthetic standards."
What.
I pause mid-reach for jeans hanging on the wall hook, hand freezing in position while my brain processes what she just revealed.
He called her what?
That absolute fucking?—
I turn slowly, deliberately, giving her my full attention rather than maintaining casual pretense.
"Repeat that."
The command emerges sharper than intended, protective fury igniting with intensity that makes my hands clench into fists.
She blinks at my tone—startled by my sudden shift from playful to dangerous, by whatever she's reading in my expression that's probably broadcasting my desire to commit violence against people who aren't present.
"Gregory…my ex…he used to say I was?—"
