This darn thing doesn’t fit right.

You can't stop staring at that cleavage, the fabric pulling and straining against a body that was never meant to be contained.

You feel the tension in your chest before you even register why — something about the way the material gapes, the way warm skin pushes insistently against every seam, demands your full attention.

You want to reach out, to trace the line where cloth surrenders to flesh, to feel exactly how badly something so small was asked to hold back something so overwhelming.