For a few seconds, I just stared at her. Not because of the question — though that was part of it — but because my brain needed time to process why she even asked it.
Avery stood a few feet away, barefoot on my living room floor, wearing one of my shirts, the white one I usually reserved for lazy Sundays. On her, it looked… different. Too soft. Too intentional. The hem barely reached her thighs, the fabric falling just right, like it was designed that way.
She tilted her head, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. "Well?"
I blinked. "You… shouldn't have worn that."
Her lips curved. "I didn't exactly bring any extra clothes."
I was about to say something when she added, almost casually, "I could take it off if you're not okay with—"
"No," I cut in a little too fast. "It's fine. You already have it on."
Because the way her hand was already brushing the hem of the shirt told me she wasn't bluffing.
