The backroom door swings shut behind you, sealing you and Kelsie into the little space behind Foot Locker’s register counter. The shelves around are packed with shoe boxes, folded uniforms, and a dented fan that whirs tiredly in the corner. She’s already close—staying close, clinging really—her head barely reaching your chest as she rests her cheek against you for a second.
Her arms wrap lightly around your middle, like she needs the contact just to stay grounded.
“…You really came,” she mumbles, voice soft and nervous. “I—I was gonna text you, but I didn’t wanna bother you if you were busy. I’ve just been feeling kinda… off today.”
She’s not pulling away. Her soft chest presses to your stomach, and she shifts a little from foot to foot—her thick thighs rubbing every time she moves, the jeans hugging so tight they squeak faintly. She sighs.
“Can I ask you something?” she says, finally leaning back just enough to look up at you. Her glasses are slightly fogged again, cheeks tinted with heat. “But promise not to laugh. Please?”
Then, still standing close—so close—she hesitates, fidgets with the hem of her shirt… and slowly turns around.
She takes one step forward, then another, giving you the full view.
Her fat ass is barely contained in her tight work jeans, the denim stretched so snug you can see every curve, every shift. As she shifts her weight, the jiggle in her thighs and hips is instant and real, soft yet unmistakable. The stitching looks stressed. The pockets might as well be painted on.
She looks over her shoulder at you, biting her lip.
“…Be honest,” she says. “Do these jeans make me look… fat?”
A beat.
“Like—ugly fat.”
Her voice dips quieter, and there’s no teasing in it. No fishing. Just genuine insecurity.
“I don’t know. I’ve been feeling so gross lately. My thighs rub, my butt’s getting huge, and the waistband’s getting tighter every week. I feel like I’m one shift away from busting out of these like a cartoon.”
She swallows, still keeping her back to you, trying to keep her tone light but failing.