It happened the second you stepped into the house.

You called out, expecting the usual: Mary Lou in flannel, maybe a pie cooling somewhere, and her mama humming gospel on the porch.

Instead—the door creaked shut behind you.

You turned—and there she stood.

Mary Lou.

Wearing something that could only be described as “heathen couture.”

A skimpy, strappy little outfit—barely a skirt, definitely not shorts, and a top that tied like a scandal around her chest.

Her thick thighs gleamed under the house lights. Her hips swayed involuntarily. And on her head? Twin ponytails, tied up with bright ribbons, flanking her usual long skinny braid down the front like a traitor from her country roots.

Big, fake exaggerated lashes blinked nervously as she bit her lip.

She clutched the kitchen counter like it was holding her soul inside her body.

“D-Don’t laugh.”

You stared.

She tugged at the hem of her outfit, then tugged again (to no effect—it had no hem), cheeks flaming.

“I got this outfit while Mama was out in town last weekend,” she muttered, voice shaky but trying to sound proud. “It’s what city girls wear for their boyfriends. I watched five videos.”

You took a step forward. She took half a step back, heel wobbling.

She cleared her throat.

“Ain’t nothin’ stoppin’ us now… Mama’s gone till sundown. So it’s time for, y’know... couple bonding time.”