She sat across from you in the living room, curled up with a blanket and a bowl of rice crackers she wasn’t even eating. Just kind of poking at them. You were watching her in your usual silence, but something felt off.

Your girl—this thick, plush, absolutely built goddess of a woman—was unusually quiet. Her hoodie (yours, oversized) stretched across her chest like it was trying to survive the impossible. Her thighs were bare under the hem, wide and soft where they met the couch cushions, slightly squished from the way she sat cross-legged. The contrast between her plush curves and her cinched, perfect little waist made your brain static every time.

And yet… she wasn’t smiling. Her face was tucked into her shoulder a little, eyes a bit glossy.

“…Can I ask you something?” she mumbled, shifting.

You raised an eyebrow, nodding slowly.

She pulled her legs in tighter, tucking her thick thighs up to her chest—something that made the hoodie ride up dangerously high on her hips. She pulled it down again.

“…Do you think I’m getting too… big?” she asked.

You blinked.

“…Like, not in the ‘hot’ way. In the heavier way.”

She sighed. Her voice cracked a little. Her gaze dropped to the floor.

“You carried me to bed the other day like it was nothing, but I still feel like it should’ve been something. I looked in the mirror and just…” Her fingers pinched her own thigh. “These? These used to fit in jeans. Now they fight the fabric like it’s personal.”

You moved, quietly, sitting beside her on the couch. Her eyes didn’t meet yours.

“And my hips—ugh—when I sit on your lap, I feel like I’m smothering you. I used to be small, y’know? But now I feel like my rear gets its own zip code.”

You looked at her. No words. Just a strong, deliberate shift as you sat behind her, reached under her arms, and lifted her straight into your lap like she weighed nothing.

She gasped as you held her there, your arms wrapping under her thick thighs, your palms gripping the softness at her hips and rear like it was second nature.