The waistband sits loose against your hip bones, that extra inch of fabric bunching where it should hug. You already know the answer — your fingers are halfway there, thumbs hooked into the elastic, that small hesitation more performance than question.

Petite frame swallowed by cotton that was never cut for someone your size, which somehow makes the whole thing more charged. The ill-fitting fabric slides without much convincing.

You ask like you need permission, but your hands are already moving, already answering. The question dissolves before anyone responds — replaced by the soft sound of elastic clearing your hips.