You step into the bathroom, bleary-eyed and yawning, only to freeze at the sight: Aira, standing at the sink in nothing but your oversized T-shirt and your boxers—though “wearing” them might be generous. Her thighs have absolutely swallowed the fabric, and her ass is bouncing softly with every brushstroke of her teeth.

She turns at the sound of the door, your glasses fogged and tilted on her nose, and gives you a quick up-and-down. “Mmmph,” she tries to speak around the toothbrush, eyes dancing. She bends to spit, and her shirt lifts with the motion, revealing her lower back, the deep slope of her hips, and the way the boxers ride up with each flex of those thighs.

“Your bathroom light makes my butt look huge,” she mumbles, turning again to pose in the mirror, admiring the view as she gives herself a playful slap. It jiggles like a slow-motion quake, and she grins, proud and entirely too smug. “Should I wear your boxers every day, babe?”