Sam y sprawled across the bed, still in the dangerously scandalous combo of thigh-high socks, crop top, and short skirt, staring at the ceiling like it might offer her guidance.

  She needed real clothes.Proper clothes.

  Something that didn't make her look like she was five seconds away from posting a "subscribe for more" link.

  Because no matter how good she looked—and, holy hell, she knew she looked good—there was no way she was walking into public dressed like this.Not unless she wanted to cause a minor traffic accident.

  Groaning, she dragged herself upright and pawed through the closet again.

  Nothing.Everything was too big, too boxy, too wrong for this new body.Even the baggiest gamer tees hung weirdly now, the necklines too tight around her chest and loose everywhere else, riding up in weird pces.

  Her jeans?Forget it.She could barely pull them up over her thighs now, let alone button them.

  She slumped against the wall, scowling at her reflection.

  Somewhere, the universe was ughing its ass off.

  And then she remembered—

  The other bin.

  The one she'd shoved under the bed months ago.

  The one with her sister’s forgotten stuff.

  Sam flopped down on her stomach and wriggled under the bed, kicking up dust bunnies and cursing under her breath until her fingers tched onto a cracked pstic handle.

  With a grunt, she yanked it out into the light.

  The lid popped off with a reluctant snap, and inside—

  Bingo.

  Jeans. Tees. A few sundresses.And, most importantly—

  Bras.

  Sam sat back on her heels, blinking at the little stack of pastel fabric like it might bite her.

  Her sister had left this stuff behind after a two-week visit months ago, swearing she’d come back for it "next time" she was in town.

  That had been three flights, two canceled road trips, and one major political fallout ago.

  Sam figured at this point, they were basically squatters’ rights.

  She plucked one of the bras out, holding it up with a mix of hope and trepidation.

  It was cute, sure—white with little pink stars—but...It looked tiny.

  Her sister had always been on the petite side.Even before, Sam had had broader shoulders, thicker thighs.Now?

  Now she was soft and curvy in ways her sister had never been, even at her most filled out.

  Still.Better than nothing.

  Sam took a deep breath, shed the crop top (with some minor sadness—it had been doing heroic work), and fumbled her way into the bra.

  It was an uphill battle.

  Straps tangled. Hooks fought her like angry little demons.She twisted and cursed and wrestled herself into it like a woman possessed.

  When she finally managed to fasten it and adjust the cups—

  Well.

  It technically fit.

  If "fit" meant "struggled to contain a natural disaster."

  The band bit into her ribs a little too tightly, and her breasts overflowed the cups like an overgenerous serving of whipped cream, threatening to pop free if she so much as breathed wrong.

  Sam stared at herself in the mirror and choked on a ugh.

  "I look like I’m trying to smuggle water balloons," she wheezed.

  She adjusted the straps, tugging them for dear life.

  It helped.A little.

  Enough to make her feel less like an imminent wardrobe malfunction and more like an incredibly awkward mall rat circa 2005.

  "It'll do," she muttered grimly.

  She dug deeper into the bin, pulling out a pair of old jeans—low-rise, because of course they were—and shimmied into them.

  It was a fight.A full-blown, cardio workout kind of fight.

  She hopped, wiggled, cursed, and finally managed to yank them over her hips.

  Buttoning them?Another challenge entirely.

  The button strained under the pressure, but it held—barely.

  The jeans hugged her hips and thighs like a second skin, the waistband riding low enough to reveal just a peek of her newly curved stomach.

  She grabbed a loose fnnel shirt from the bin next, slipping it over the too-tight bra and the low-rise jeans.

  She buttoned it halfway, letting it hang open just enough to cover the sins of the fit.

  It wasn't perfect.

  The jeans dug into her hips if she sat wrong, and the bra was definitely two seconds from giving up the ghost.

  But from a distance?

  She looked normal.Cute, even.

  Casual.Harmless.

  Exactly what she needed.

  She turned in the mirror, adjusting the hem of the fnnel.

  The new curves were still obvious—there was no hiding the way her jeans clung to her thighs or the way the fabric strained across her chest—but at least she didn’t look like she was headed to a questionable convention booth anymore.

  She squeezed her thighs again absently, marveling once more at the soft, springy give.

  "God, I'm adorable," she muttered, grinning at herself.

  A sly little voice in the back of her mind purred,"You could absolutely wreck some poor soul like this."

  She rolled her eyes at herself but didn't deny it.

  Another gnce in the mirror made her heart stutter all over again.

  She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and smiled experimentally.

  The girl smiling back was sweet and wicked in equal measure—soft cheeks, bright eyes, full lips curved into a lopsided grin that promised trouble.

  Her body buzzed with restless energy.

  She wanted to move, to show off, to own this new form instead of hiding from it.

  But for now?

  She needed to survive Walmart.

  She grabbed her keys, her wallet, and stuffed her phone into the back pocket of her jeans—which immediately protested by trying to eject it, thanks to the curve of her new ass.

  Sam sighed and switched to tucking it into the fnnel’s breast pocket instead.

  She caught one st glimpse of herself in the mirror before she headed out the door.

  The jeans hugged her thighs, her hips swayed just slightly more than before, and every step made her acutely aware of the warm, shifting weight of her chest.

  She looked like trouble.

  And for once, she didn’t mind one damn bit.