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“Hallie, this is my good friend Sage Thompson,” Bear said, calm as ever. “She needs some clothes.”

Sage’s head snapped toward him so fast it was a miracle she didn’t pull something.

WHAT THE FUCK! NO I FUCKING DON’T–

Hallie Peters made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a delighted squeal and descended on her like a very warm, very fragrant, extremely determined natural disaster.

“Oh, honey!” Hallie took both of Sage’s hands in hers, holding her at arm’s length and looking her over with open, focused delight. “Look at you. Those cheekbones. And those eyes—Cal, have you seen her eyes?”

"I've seen them," Bear said, from somewhere that sounded like it might be the other side of the store.

Sage opened her mouth to protest—oh that’s really not necessary, I’m sure there’s a Walmart somewhere, I don’t need⁠—

“And the piercings—oh I love a girl with piercings. My daughter has her lip done but she won’t touch her septum because her daddy has opinions—” Hallie was already moving, still holding one of Sage’s hands, gently but inexorably drawing her toward the racks in the back. “Now, what’s your style, sugar? What are we working with?”

As she turned Sage around, Hallie’s gaze swept approvingly over her with open admiration—taking in the full, heavy curves Sage had spent years trying to hide under baggy dark layers.

Sage, who had not technically agreed to any of this, shot a desperate look back at Cal.

He had already found a large leather armchair near the far wall and was settling into it with calm composure. He looked like a man who had anticipated exactly this outcome and arranged himself accordingly. He met her eyes and gave her a look that said: I know. You can yell at me later. Good luck.

She turned back to Hallie, chin lifted.

“Punk,” she declared, trying to sound as intimidating as possible. “Goth. Edgy. In your face.” She paused, bracing for the gentle redirect toward pastels and neutrals. “Like, actually edgy. Not a Hot Topic poster.”

Hallie Peters didn’t miss a beat. Her eyes lit up like fireworks as she grinned approvingly.

“Honey,” she said, squeezing Sage’s hand, “I am a woman who moved to Montana twenty years ago because I thought cowboys were sexy and I have never been proven wrong.” She winked. “Western goth. Trust me.”

Then she was off.

What followed was the most disorienting forty-five minutes of Sage’s life—and she had lived a life full of genuinely disorienting experiences.

Hallie Peters moved through her store with complete, unhurried authority, knowing exactly where everything was and exactly what it was for. She pulled things off racks, held them up, discarded them, grabbed others with rapid-fire decisiveness, like she’d spent decades learning exactly how fabric could speak for a woman.

Dark wash jeans that somehow hugged her thick thighs and wide hips without feeling suffocating. A black thermal henley. A flannel in deep black with a barely-there dark red plaid—the kind that said I live here and I am not soft. A charcoal knit vest that laced up the front with leather cord. And boots—real cowboy boots, black with subtle stitching, the toe just pointed enough to be interesting.

“Try these,” Hallie said, pointing toward the dressing room.

Sage stepped inside and closed the curtain and reluctantly put on the clothes.

She looked at herself in the mirror for a long, silent moment.

Oh.

The black worked the way her black always worked—like armor, like intention—but this was different. The jeans sat perfectly on her wide, curvy hips. The flannel skimmed over her full, heavy breasts without hiding them or making them the only thing anyone would notice. The vest cinched just enough to give her soft belly and waist a shape she usually tried to disappear. The boots added an inch to her height and made her stance feel… solid.

She looked like herself. But like a version of herself who belonged somewhere with actual winters. A version who could walk down a snowy street and not feel like she was apologizing for taking up space.

I look…pretty.

Her breasts were full and soft and hers. Her rounded stomach and wide hips weren’t flaws to hide—they were just her, curved and strong and real. For one terrifying second she saw what other people might see when they looked at her.

Sage’s eyes stung hard.

“Don’t you fucking start,” she whispered fiercely at her reflection, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Don’t you dare.”

“Are you okay in there, honey?” Hallie called gently.