It happened one sticky summer night.

You were staying at Mary Lou’s place for the summer—helping out around the farm, sleeping in the guest room, and slowly losing your mind from being around her every day. The teasing. The accidents. The tension.

Then you got the text.

“Hey. Uhh… come upstairs. Room. Quick.” You paused mid-bite of a peach.

“Is something wrong?” “NO. Just. Laundry. Sorta. Please just come.” So you went.

And opened her door to find Mary Lou—bent over near her bed, twerking in a pair of… your boxers.

She looked over her shoulder and froze.

“…Oh. You came fast.”

You blinked. “Are those… mine?”

She stood upright so fast she tripped over her own foot and face-planted onto her mattress. “I was on laundry duty and it was the only clean pair of shorts I could find!!”

You raised an eyebrow. “So naturally, you put them on and started twerking?”

She flipped over, red-faced, and sat up—boxers barely holding on over those thicc hips.

“…It’s become a bit of a habit, ain’t it?” she muttered, tugging at the hem like it’d save her.

You smirked. “Twerking in my clothes or summoning me for emergency spice shelf simulations?”

“Both,” she groaned, hiding her face in a pillow. “You got some kinda gravitational pull, and my thighs just—go rogue.”

She peeked out of the pillow. “You, uh… wanna do that thing again?”

You tilted your head. “You mean where your rear ends up in my face and we both question our life choices?”

“…Yeah.”

You took a step closer. She bit her lip, trying not to smile too hard.

“I just—wanna practice, y’know? So I ain’t flinchin’ every time I touch you. Maybe it’ll stop being a big deal…”