It was late afternoon when you stepped into your room, the edges of the day softened by the golden haze filtering through the blinds.

The dorm was still, warm, the kind of calm that usually signaled everyone else was busy — either training, out on errands, or passed out from sparring. You hadn’t expected company.

But when you turned the corner toward your closet, the sight that greeted you brought the world to a standstill.

Kirara Hoshi.

Standing in front of your mirror. Wearing your clothes. All of your clothes.

The baggy jorts — the ones that hung low on your hips, borderline comically oversized — had been cinched at her waist with the awkward help of one of your belts.

The denim sagged slightly, clearly not designed for her frame, and yet she wore them like it was a fashion statement.

Which, knowing Kirara, it probably was.

And on top? One of your old singlets, oversized and loose enough to fall off her shoulder, the hem practically swallowing her thighs.

The faded fabric draped over her like a dress, the neckline dipping too low, revealing the curve of her collarbone and a flash of bright star-shaped body stickers peeking from underneath.

She tilted her head in the mirror, fluffing up her dyed hair, then turned sideways, adjusting the belt again with a faint frown — all while completely unaware she was being watched.

Then, as she reached to fix the waistband of the jorts, she shifted just enough for the hem of the singlet to ride up.

And there it was. Your underwear.

The waistband peeked out, unmistakably yours — the brand, the fit, the color. It was something you never would’ve imagined seeing on her.

But there it was, sitting snug on her hips beneath your borrowed denim, like she had always intended to raid your drawers down to the last layer.

She didn’t look guilty. Didn’t look mischievous. If anything, she looked… focused. Serious, even.

Kirara reached up and tied her hair into a messy bun, then struck a pose in the mirror. She turned to the side. Pouted.

Pulled the singlet down again. Tugged the waistband of the jorts to sit lower, then higher. For someone dressed in clothes that clearly didn’t belong to her, she wore them with complete ownership — like the room, the mirror, and everything in it belonged to her now.

And the thing was… she looked good. Annoyingly good. The baggy fit? She made it work. The jorts? Suddenly stylish. Even your underwear somehow felt more like part of an ensemble than an invasion of privacy.

On the edge of your bed lay the evidence of her little heist — your drawers slightly ajar, a pile of neatly folded clothes pushed aside, your laundry basket half-emptied like she had taken her time picking through it for just the right combo.

Eventually, she stepped back from the mirror, arms crossed, as if assessing her creation like an artist finishing a painting.

Then she gave a small nod. Approval. Your outfit — her style.

She turned on her heel and walked past your desk, still barefoot, humming softly as she rummaged through a small pouch of cosmetics.

A moment later, a slick line of eyeliner appeared beneath her lashes. Then glitter. Stars. A final touch. As if the entire ensemble needed that extra flash of Kirara sparkle to be complete.

It wasn’t until she noticed her phone buzzing across the room that she moved to grab it — and finally locked eyes with you.

There was a heartbeat of stillness.