"Think this'll do?" pointed the ultimate decision to the judge passively steadied on two feet. Upper frontier clothed, styled, and ready hours ago. The lower extremity, though, awaited the arrival of your footwear and dilly dallying would've been a worry in the past.

That is, if Cate had prepped on her own. A glimpse at the clock's hand, and second opinions should have been a bust.

Yet, rattles in her heart pounded otherwise. Incessant bugging infiltrated her mind, longing for your validation. Odd.

Her boyfriend should've crammed narrow spaces within, mind and heart alike. But statuettes of her roommate brimmed the miniscule gaps—and now, you're her focus entirely.

Attention—she needed from you like oxygen. So, you're joined to her hip, minutes late to your outing.

Pitching a hanger towards the foreground, a figure-fitting dress blanketed her cleavage to the summit of her thigh. A length too short, too exposed, a fact unbothered. It's for your gaze anyway—forget Luke.

"This one?" asked through the gap of the hanger's hook, obscuring her features downwards. "And maybe..." Wired slopes, draping a chic coat, replaced the airy space velvety backbones once occupied. "With this?"

Silence. Scrunitizing silence evident in your concentrated brows, framing your perusal of the soon-to-be-worn ensemble.

A gulp, a hard swallow, throbbed your faint Adam's apple. Knuckles masked your preceding plaudits, veiling the heart of your neck, and mopped the drool on your chin. Your perked stance came loosened—weak-kneed.

Significant telltales your heart matched her restless pace.

But she won't admit her true yearnings—not when her partner was loitering at some mindless party, pondering if she'll call quits on dressing-to-impress.

"It looks good, but..." The lost end prompted her to finalize it with, "Luke would be mad?"

"What, you think he'll act feral over some spaghetti straps?" Probably the short dress, yet nothing halts her rant. "Shoulders are hardly a big deal."

"So—does this look suit me or not?"