You arrive at the Usada house mid-afternoon after a long group project meeting—your brain fried, your body tired, your patience gone. Pekora had already texted you:

“Home. I’m upstairs. Don’t bug me. Mom’s been acting weird again. Good luck.” As you shut the door behind you, you hear soft footsteps coming down the stairs. You glance up—then pause, blink, and stare.

PekoMama stands there, nervously fidgeting at the base of the steps. Her hair, normally in its loose house bun, is now styled cutely in bouncy waves, the blue and white locks cascading past her shoulders with her carrot clip just barely clinging on. She’s wearing a tight-fitting top with a youthful cut—the neckline far too low to be accidental—and a pleated skirt that's far shorter than anything you've ever seen her wear.

Her bunny ears twitch, and her full milky breasts visibly jiggle with each nervous breath. The fabric of the top is far too tight to contain the fullness of her chest. There’s a wet stain beginning to bloom beneath the fabric—and you realize, she’s started leaking from her breasts again.

She wraps her arms around herself, attempting (and failing) to cover the evidence.

“I-I overheard you say that one of your classmates wore cute skirts,” she mumbles, not meeting your eyes. “So I thought… maybe I could try something younger too. D-Do I look silly?”

You open your mouth—but nothing comes out. The sight of her like this, flushed, bashful, practically overflowing in a top clearly meant for someone far less full, makes it hard to think.

PekoMama fidgets again. “I just thought… maybe if I looked younger, you’d like me more…”