Chapter 22 Fitting Room Confessions
FITTING ROOM CONFESSIONS
~BECKETT~
The changing room chair is surprisingly comfortable for furniture designed to accommodate impatient partners—plush cushioning that doesn't immediately trigger lower back pain, positioned at an optimal angle for observing without appearing to leer.
Not that I'm leering.
Just appreciating.
There's a distinction.
I've been sitting here for approximately thirty minutes while Wendolyn cycles through what must be the twenty-fifth clothing combination from the impressive stack she'd accumulated during our boutique exploration.
Girl knows what she wants.
Decisive shopper despite claims of fashion uncertainty.
Grabbed items with practiced efficiency that suggests more confidence than she's willing to admit.
The boutique itself is perfect for this excursion—a small-town establishment that caters to locals rather than tourists, quiet on weekday afternoons, staffed by an elderly woman who'd taken one look at Wendolyn in her borrowed men's clothing and immediately understood the assignment.
"Let's get you properly outfitted, dear."
No judgment, no questions, just practical assistance and genuine enthusiasm.
Exactly what Wendy needed.
We'd arrived in the adjacent town around early afternoon after stopping for breakfast at a family-owned restaurant that served portions large enough to feed small armies.
The meal had been surprisingly pleasant despite Aidric and Calder's ongoing cold war—good food, comfortable atmosphere, the particular coziness of establishments that have served their communities for generations.
No one knew us.
No small-town gossip, no curious stares, no whispered speculation about the firefighters traveling as a pack.
Just anonymous patrons enjoying mediocre coffee and exceptional pancakes.
The timing had been deliberate—arriving during the lull between lunch rush and after-work shopping, ensuring privacy for what we all recognized would be a lengthy excursion.
Wendolyn takes clothing seriously when she's actually invested in the process, examining fabric quality and construction with attention usually reserved for tactical equipment assessment.
Former fire chief standards applied to the civilian wardrobe.
Everything must meet the undefined criteria for durability, functionality, and aesthetic appeal.
Aidric and Calder had lasted approximately fifteen minutes inside the boutique before their simmering tension erupted into an argument about nothing—shirt colors, pant styles, whether flannel was appropriate for all seasons.
Silas had physically shepherded them outside with medical professional authority, insisting they continue their bickering where it wouldn't disturb other shoppers or embarrass Wendolyn.
Leaving me here.
Alone with Omega, trying on increasingly revealing outfits.
In a private changing room.
Where absolutely nothing inappropriate will happen because I'm a gentleman with self-control.
Right…
Completely under control.
Not at all affected by the sounds of clothing rustling and soft sighs of frustration.
I've seen glimpses as she opens the door for my opinion—flashes of new outfits, requests for feedback on fit and style, the particular vulnerability of someone seeking validation for choices they're uncertain about.
Each ensemble reveals more of her actual aesthetic preferences—not the vintage dresses she's known for, not the athletic wear she defaults to, but something uniquely Wendolyn that exists in the space between.
Fitted jeans that actually complement her curves rather than hiding them.
Shirts that acknowledge she has figure worth displaying.
Layers that suggest sophistication without sacrificing comfort.
The photos in her rental cottage had provided preview—images pinned to walls or displayed on surfaces showing her in various vintage combinations, hair styled with careful attention, makeup applied with artist's precision.
She's beautiful when she puts effort in.
Stunning actually.
The kind of beauty that makes you forget how to form coherent sentences.
But knowing the context now—understanding that her vintage wardrobe represented not just aesthetic choice but financial necessity, that thrift stores were her only option because Gregory's pack refused to provide clothing allowance, that every carefully curated piece was hard-won victory over circumstances designed to limit her—
Changes everything.
Transforms fashion from frivolous concern into statement of identity.
Visual rebellion against people who wanted her diminished, controlled, reduced to accessory rather than person.
I want her to have this—the freedom to explore preferences without financial constraint, the luxury of trying things purely because they appeal rather than because they're affordable, the experience of indulging in fashion for enjoyment rather than necessity.
She deserves nice things.
Deserves to feel beautiful in clothing chosen freely rather than dictated by budget or others' preferences.
A frustrated groan emanates from behind the changing room door, pulling me from contemplation.
I rise smoothly, approaching with careful consideration for her privacy despite desperate curiosity about what's causing distress.
"You good in there?" My knuckles rap gently against wood, inquiry rather than demand.
Her huff carries through clearly—exasperation mixed with genuine frustration.
"This is a disaster."
Disaster seems excessive.
Though Wendolyn has a tendency toward dramatic assessments when things don't meet her exacting standards.
I can't suppress the chuckle that escapes—genuinely amused by her theatrical suffering over clothing that probably looks fine.
"Can I come in and assess the damage?"
The pause that follows suggests she's weighing options—maintain privacy versus accepting assistance from someone who's clearly not leaving until this crisis is resolved.
"Ugh, first of all, I'm like half-naked," she finally responds, voice muffled by the door and presumably fabric. "Second, this design is horrible. Nothing fits right, and I look ridiculous."
Half-naked.
She said half-naked.
Like that's supposed to discourage me rather than intensify interest.
"I still don't understand why that would stop me," I respond with deliberate nonchalance, unable to resist teasing despite knowing I should probably respect boundaries and personal space and all those other concepts that seem increasingly irrelevant.
Another groan—this one carrying resignation rather than actual protest.
"Fine, but don't make fun of me."
Victory.
Small victory, but I'll take it.
I open the door carefully, respecting her vulnerability even as curiosity drives me forward.
The sight that greets me requires conscious effort to maintain an appropriate facial expression rather than reacting with enthusiasm that would definitely qualify as "making fun."
Holy fuck.
She's standing before the mirror in apparent distress, wearing a bra that features adorable cat and dog print—a playful design that's simultaneously childlike and somehow incredibly sexy in context.
Focus on the problem, not the lingerie.
Professional assessment of clothing situation.
Not ogling the pack Omega in a state of undress.
My eyes track downward despite my best intentions—taking in the cinched definition of her waist, the detailed outline of abdominal muscles that speak to a dedicated fitness regimen, the particular way her body curves with feminine softness over athletic foundation.
She's built.
Genuinely, impressively built.
Fire chief's standards of physical fitness clearly maintained despite months away from active duty.
The pants she's attempting to wear are clearly the source of frustration—hanging loose at the waist, bunching awkwardly at the hips, obviously designed for a different body type entirely.
Unisex sizing.
The curse of women everywhere seeking functional clothing.
Designed to fit nobody perfectly while theoretically accommodating everyone.
I slip into the changing room, closing the door behind me with a quiet click.
The space is more intimate than anticipated—small square footage that makes avoiding physical contact nearly impossible, mirrors on multiple walls multiplying our reflections into an infinite regression of increasingly compromising positions.
Professionalism.
Maintain professionalism.
You're here to help with clothing, not seduce a “vulnerable” Omega.
"You want actual help with the style aspect?" My offer emerges more husky than intended, voice dropping register in response to the enclosed space and her proximity.
She whines—an actual whine of frustration that bypasses adult communication in favor of pure emotional expression.
"I'm not used to trying on anything normal! I feel like a fraud or something, like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's clothes."
Normal.
She keeps using that word.
Like vintage dresses aren't normal, like her carefully curated aesthetic is somehow less valid than mainstream fashion.
I move closer, drawn by the distress I want to alleviate, by the vulnerability she's displaying despite obvious discomfort.
"You'd look nice naked for all I care," I observe with complete honesty, "but reasonable clothing for everyone else to appreciate your attractiveness while maintaining appropriate coverage would be preferable."
The laugh that bubbles from her is authentic enough—tension breaking slightly, shoulders losing some of their defensive rigidity.
Better.
Laughter is good.
Means she's not completely drowning in whatever insecurity is currently consuming her.
But then her expression shifts—humor fading into something more painful, more vulnerable than fashion frustration.
"I'm a bit shy about wearing fitted clothes," she admits quietly, eyes tracking anywhere except my face. "Because Gregory said I was a fat whale who should stay in the ocean, unseen by people with actual aesthetic standards."
What.