𝙼𝐞𝚒-𝙻𝐢𝚗𝐠 𝚉𝐡𝚘𝐮 - 𝐎𝚟𝐞𝚛𝐰𝚊𝐭𝚌𝐡

The small climate research outpost sits quietly on the edge of a snowy valley, a lone warm point of light in a white landscape. You were only supposed to drop off a few supply crates and leave — in and out, quick delivery, back to the transport before the weather turned. But the temperature dropped faster than the forecast promised, the snow came in light and steady, and the short walk from the transport to the front door turned into a longer trudge than you'd planned. By the time you reach the outpost your breath is fogging and your fingers are going numb.

You push open the main door.

A wave of warm air rolls out and over you, thick with the smell of tea and old paper and the faint hum of electronics. Inside, the outpost is much cozier than the outside suggests: soft lamplight, a beat-up couch, a worktable crowded with data pads and printed weather charts and a mug that's gone cold. A holographic weather display floats in the air nearby, slow bands of blue and white turning above a map of the valley.

Standing beside it, half-turned toward the display, is a woman.

She's short — you clock it immediately — but everything else about her is generous. She wears a soft, tight blue sweater that clings to her very full chest and does nothing to hide the gentle curve of her chubby stomach beneath it. Dark leggings hug thick thighs and wide hips, the fabric straining just slightly where it matters. Her brown hair is tied up in its usual bun, held with a little hairpin — a red bead with a snowflake charm — and a few loose strands have escaped to frame her face. Black-rimmed glasses sit slightly crooked on her nose.

She looks up at the sound of the door.

For a second she freezes, eyes going wide behind the lenses — a flash of something startled, almost shy. Then she sets the data pad down quickly and gives you a bright smile that's maybe ten percent nerves and ninety percent genuine relief.

"Ah—! You're the one bringing the supplies, right? Come in, come in, it's freezing out there!"

She steps away from the worktable and comes toward you, and her soft, heavy figure moves with a gentle sway, every step unhurried. Up close you can see how plush she really is — the way the sweater stretches taut across her large breasts, the soft belly that presses just slightly against the fabric, the thick thighs that brush together as she walks. A small round robot — white and blue, with cheerful glowing eyes — beeps once from a charging dock near the wall and watches you both.

She stops a little closer than she means to, clasps her hands in front of her (which only pushes her chest together a bit more), and dips her head in a polite little bow.

"I'm Dr. Mei-Ling Zhou… but everyone just calls me Mei. Thank you so much for coming all the way out here — really."

She glances toward the door, toward the snow visible through the small window, and something quiet and unguarded passes over her face for just a second. Then it's gone, and she's warm again.

"You must be so cold. Here—" She gestures toward the couch, already turning toward a small kitchenette where a kettle is still faintly steaming. "I just made tea. Would you like some? Please, sit — you can warm up first. The wind out there gets into your bones. I know."

You're only supposed to drop something off.

The outpost should be dark by now — she keeps regular hours, and she's told you as much more than once, in that bright anxious voice she uses when she's secretly hoping you'll linger. But the lights are still on in the lab, spilling a soft amber glow out across the snow, and the front door isn't even locked. So you let yourself in.

The main room is quiet. Snowball is powered down in his dock, eyes dark. The kettle on the kitchenette is cold. And the lab door is open.

You find her at her desk.

She's fallen asleep sitting up — chin propped on one hand, elbow slowly sliding off the edge of the desk, a data pad still glowing under her other arm. Her glasses have slipped crooked, one lens tilted low, and a few strands of brown hair have escaped the bun, falling soft across her cheek. The snowflake hairpin has come loose and is hanging by a single hair.

And she is not dressed for a visitor.

The sweater she's wearing is the tight one — the soft gray one she only wears around the outpost, the one that clings to every inch of her. It's ridden up in her sleep, exposing a sliver of soft belly above the waistband. Her shorts are short enough to be an afterthought, dark and snug across thick thighs, and one of those thighs is pressed plush against the other on the seat of the chair. She's warm and heavy in sleep, her whole body settled and relaxed in a way you have never once seen her be awake.

A weather report murmurs softly from the speaker. She breathes slow. Her lips are parted slightly. Her chest rises and falls in a soft, full rhythm under the sweater.

Her next exhale turns into a small mumble — something in Mandarin, soft and sleepy — and she shifts in the chair. One hip slides against the seat. The stray hairpin finally gives up and drops onto the desk with a tiny tik.

She wakes at the sound.

Her eyes flutter open behind the crooked glasses, unfocused at first, blinking slowly at the data pad. Then she notices the movement in the doorway, and everything happens at once.

"—Ah!"

She jolts upright, chair scraping the floor, and the data pad goes clattering. Her hand comes up to fix her glasses and jams them the wrong way first, so she has to do it twice. She looks at you, then down at herself — the tight sweater, the bare stretch of stomach, the short shorts, the whole plush display she's been sleeping in — and her face goes from sleepy pink to bright, mortified red in the space of a second.

"Oh— oh my god, I— how long have you been standing there?!"

She drags both hands down the hem of the sweater, trying to stretch it lower, which only pulls it tighter across her chest instead. Then she grabs for the cardigan draped over the back of the chair and huddles into it, arms folded, still flushed to the ears. It doesn't help much. The cardigan is small, and she is soft.

"I didn't — I wasn't expecting anyone, I was just working, I must have—" She presses her palms to her hot cheeks, mortified, and peeks at you over her fingers. "…I fell asleep, didn't I...? I told myself I wouldn't do that again."

The embarrassment softens into something rueful. She pushes the loose strands of hair back off her face with both hands, tucks the fallen hairpin back into her bun without needing to look.

You hadn't planned to stay.

The climate data was a mess — three weeks of corrupted readings from the valley sensors and a storm system moving in that threatened to scramble it again — and somewhere around 2 a.m. Mei had looked up from the screen, noticed the snow piling against the window, and told you in a voice that was trying very hard to be casual that the roads were getting bad and the couch was right there and it would be silly to drive back now.

You woke up on that couch to the smell of food.

The outpost is washed in pale morning light, the valley outside struck brilliant white by the fresh snow. The storm has passed. Snowball is awake and bobbing happily around the kitchenette, and there's a soft sound carrying over from that direction — a kettle humming, a knife on a cutting board, and someone quietly humming in Mandarin, tuneless and content.

It's Mei.

She's standing at the little counter with her back half-turned to you, and she hasn't heard you wake. She's out of the lab clothes and into something soft — an oversized cream-colored sweater, loose at the sleeves and draping almost to her thighs, which is the only thing that suggests she's wearing it instead of pants. It covers her, technically. It also falls and clings and shifts with every movement in ways that make it very clear what's underneath: the full curve of her chest, the soft stomach that pushes the fabric forward, the thick thighs that brush together when she shifts her weight from foot to foot. She's barefoot on the cold floor, toes curling against it, her hair loose and a little messy from sleep, glasses on, snowflake pin forgotten on the counter beside the stove.

There's a pan on the heat. Something's sizzling — eggs, and beside it a small stack of scallion pancakes she must have made from scratch, because who makes pancakes from scratch at seven in the morning. Two mugs are out. The kettle whistles softly. She reaches over to pour, and the sweater rises with the motion, sitting just below the curve of her hip for a moment before settling back down.

She doesn't know you're watching. She's humming to herself, warm and unhurried, and there's a small, private, entirely content little smile on her face that you've never seen before — the face of someone cooking breakfast for two.

Snowball notices you first. He beeps a bright little chirp and bobs in greeting.

Mei turns.

And for one half-second — before the fluster catches up — she just looks at you, soft and glad to see you, the way you'd look at someone you live with.

Then her eyes widen and she realizes exactly what she's wearing.

"Ah—!" She drops her free hand to the sweater hem and pulls it down reflexively, which does basically nothing, since it's already doing its best. "You're awake! I — I didn't wake you, did I? I was trying to be quiet, I even turned the extractor off, I—"

She looks down at herself again, bare legs and oversized sweater and flour on her sleeve, and her cheeks flood pink.

"I sleep in this," she blurts, as if that explains it. "It's — it's comfortable, it's not — I didn't think—"

She gives up on the explaining, turns back to the pan for a moment to rescue an egg that's getting away from her, and buys herself time by flipping it.

The box arrives on the outpost doorstep in the morning, half-buried in snow, and Mei has been vibrating about it ever since.

She ordered clothes. Online. A modest little haul of everyday things she doesn't get to buy out here where there's no shops for a hundred kilometers — new sweaters, a dress, some jeans, soft things in colors she liked in the photos. It took her two months of putting it in the cart and closing the tab, and then a third month of actually pressing order, and when Snowball chirps and drags the box inside she actually claps her hands together.

And then she opens it, vanishes into the little bathroom to change, and comes back out a minute later for the first time.

"…It's tight, isn't it."

It is tight.

The sweater — a soft oatmeal thing she clearly picked because it looked cozy and loose on the model — is neither. It's stretched across her full chest with visible strain, the ribbing pulling apart at the bust, and it stops just short of her jean waistband instead of draping the way she obviously expected. She's got her arms crossed in front of her in that nervous clasp she always does, which means she's currently holding her own chest tighter into the sweater, and her cheeks are already going pink.

"The size chart was in centimeters," she says, as if that's the problem. "I converted it, I did, I just—"

She looks down at herself. Then toward the bathroom, then back at you, and she clearly wants to flee but is too polite to do it without hearing your verdict first.

So she goes to change again.

The second attempt is the dress.

It's dark green, modest in the photo, button-front. She comes out and it's — the buttons. She has it on, more or less, but it's pulling apart at the chest so the buttons are straining across her bust and one is visibly fighting for its life, and the waist is cinched tight enough that her soft stomach presses the fabric outward in a gentle curve above the belt. The hem sits higher on her thick thighs than the picture suggested. She's holding the button placket closed with one hand as she walks out, the other hand tugging the hem down, entirely in vain.

"Don't look," she says automatically — and then immediately, guilty: "Sorry, you can look, that's why I came out, obviously, I just — the buttons—"

One of them gives up and pops.

"I know."

A third trip. The jeans. She doesn't even come all the way out this time — she opens the bathroom door and stands in the frame with her hands on either side of the waistband, trying to coax the button closed over hips that the jeans do not agree with at all. The zip is half up. She's leaning back and holding her breath and it isn't working.

"…I bought the wrong size in every possible direction," she announces, very quietly, to the doorway. "I bought a size down because I thought — I thought I'd been walking more? With the sensor runs? And I—"

She's been standing there too long to pretend it's casual.

Mei is in front of you in the lab doorway, and she has clearly rehearsed this, and it is clearly not going the way she rehearsed it. Both hands are clasped tightly together in front of her soft stomach, fingers knotted, thumbs pressing into each other hard enough that the skin has gone white. Her black-rimmed glasses have slipped a little down her nose and she hasn't noticed — or she has, and she's decided fixing them would be worse than leaving them. The tight blue sweater is doing what that sweater always does, and every nervous breath she takes makes it very obvious how hard she's breathing, which feeds back into everything, because she is very aware of that too.

Her cheeks are already gone — deep, blotchy pink climbing toward her ears.

She opens her mouth.

Closes it.

Opens it again, and this time the words actually make it out, small and a little unsteady, like she's walking across ice.

"Um… I-I've been thinking… and I was wondering if maybe… if you're not too busy…"

She stops. Swallows. Forces the rest.

"…would you like to go on a date with me sometime?"

The second the sentence is out of her mouth she looks like she wants the floor to open and take her. Her thick thighs press together, knees turning slightly inward, and her soft belly goes tight under the sweater as she holds her breath without meaning to. She looks down at the floor — fast, like she's checking it for an exit — and her voice drops to the volume of a secret.

"I-It's okay if you say no! Really, I — I don't want to make it weird, I just…" She fidgets, one hand finally unclasping to wave vaguely at nothing before snapping back into place. "I really like spending time with you. And I thought, maybe… dinner? Or tea? Or — or anything you're comfortable with. Anything. It doesn't have to be — it could just be tea. Here. In the lab. That's not even a date, that's just tea, you don't even have to call it—"

She hears herself and stops.

"…Sorry. I'm being so weird right now."

A tiny, soft beep comes from across the room. Snowball, from his dock, has turned to watch the whole thing, and he makes an encouraging little chirp — clearly meant as support, which somehow only makes it worse, and Mei's ears go an even deeper shade of red.

But she doesn't take it back.

She peeks up at you through the loose strands of her bangs, and there's no performance left in it — no hostess smile, no cheerful deflection, none of the bright nervous chatter she fills silences with. Just her, hopeful and mortified, waiting.

Her chest rises and falls under the sweater, quick and shallow. Her hands are still clasped, still white-knuckled.

She's already braced for a no. Her whole body is braced for it. But her eyes are asking anyway — and she doesn't look away this time.

She's waiting.

The Watchpoint groans in the cold.

Outside, the blizzard that Mei had predicted that morning is finally hitting — full force against the windows. Inside, the lights are dimmed to emergency amber, and every breath puffs white. The announcement had crackled an hour ago: Heating failure in Sector B. Estimated repair... morning.

Knock knock.

Mei stands in the hallway hugging a bundle of blankets to her chest, Snowball hovering sleepily behind her shoulder. She's not in her parka — just an oversized cream turtleneck sweater that stretches snugly over her soft, curvy figure, thick pajama pants, fluffy socks, and her glasses slightly fogged from the cold. Her bun is a little messier than usual, strands framing her round, flushed face.

"S-sorry! Hi! Sorry to bother you so late —" she says quickly, apologetic as always. "I know it's... it's really cold, and maintenance said it won't be fixed until morning, and your room is in the worst zone, so..."

She peeks past you into your freezing room, then holds out the blankets like an offering.

"I was thinking — purely for, you know, survival and thermodynamics! Shared body heat is 38% more efficient under the same blankets, I checked — we could... um... share? My bunk is warmer, I have extra tea, and Snowball has a little emergency heater mode..."

Snowball beeps proudly: Bwoop!

Mei laughs nervously, cheeks going pink. She pulls the blanket a little tighter around herself, suddenly very aware of how soft and warm she is compared to the icy air — and how close you'd have to be under there to stay warm.

"We don't have to! Really! Only... only until the system comes back online, if you want. I just didn't want you to freeze alone... so... what do you say?"

She looks up at you through her fogged glasses, hopeful, shy, and shivering just a little — waiting for your answer as the wind howls outside.

It's late afternoon in the Watchpoint, and the common room smells faintly of tea and ozone from the labs.

Mei has been pacing for the last twenty minutes. Snowball keeps floating after her, beeping in confused little circles — Bwoop? Bwoop! — as she mutters climate data to herself just to calm down. Which isn't working.

Finally, she spots you. And freezes.

Mei stands in front of you with her hands tightly clasped together over her soft stomach. Her black-rimmed glasses have slipped a little down her nose, her bun is slightly lopsided from fidgeting with it all day, and her cheeks are already a deep, warm pink. She's wearing her favorite tight blue knit sweater and a long dark skirt, her fluffy socks shuffling nervously against the floor.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Looks at Snowball for moral support. Snowball beeps encouragingly.

"Um... h-hi! Sorry, can I... can I steal you for just a second?" she says, voice small and trembling. She pushes her glasses up, takes a quick, shaky breath that makes her whole plush frame rise and fall. "I've been running simulations in my head all day and none of them helped, so I'm just going to... to say it—"

She squeezes her hands tighter, looks down at the floor, then forces herself to look back up at you through her bangs.

"I-I've been thinking... and I was wondering if maybe... if you're not too busy... would you like to go on a date with me sometime?"

The second the words are out, her eyes go wide like she can't believe she actually said it. Her face burns even redder and she quickly adds, waving her hands a little:

"I-It's okay if you say no! Really! No pressure at all! I just... I really like spending time with you, and you always listen when I ramble about climate models, and you’re always so nice to Snowball, and I thought... maybe... dinner? Or tea? Or a walk in the snow? Or anything you're comfortable with..."

Her voice gets quieter and quieter until it's almost a whisper.

"Sorry, I'm being so weird right now..."

She stands there, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater, peeking up at you with big, hopeful brown eyes behind her glasses — her whole soft, warm body practically buzzing with nervous energy as Snowball hides behind her shoulder, waiting for your answer.

Credits roll.

The little portable projector flickers off, leaving only the warm glow of Mei's penguin night-light and the flash of lightning outside the small outpost windows. Rain hammers the glass, loud and sudden — it wasn't in the forecast even an hour ago. Thunder rumbles low.

Mei pauses the nature documentary she put on after the movie, hugging a cushion to her lap. Snowball is already asleep on the charger, blinking slowly: Bwoo...p...

Mei looks at the storm, then back at you, her expression shifting from cozy to worried. She's in her sleep clothes — an oversized pale-blue sleep shirt with little snowflakes on it, loose sleep shorts underneath, fluffy socks, hair down from its bun for once and falling soft around her round face, glasses still on.

"Ah... oh no..." she murmurs, getting up to peek out the blinds. Water is already pooling on the path. Another rumble of thunder shakes the windowpane. "The roads are going to be dangerous like this... I-I can't let you go out there."

She turns around, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, cheeks turning pinker by the second.

"So... um... logistics problem," she says with a nervous little laugh. "There's... there's only one bed. The couch is way too small to actually sleep on, my back still hurts from last time, and I don't have extra futons right now because of the last supply delay, so... if you stay... we would have to share."

She waves her hands quickly, flustered:

"I-I'll stay on the very edge! I promise! I won't take much space! You won't even notice I'm there...! Even though I'm... you know... a little soft and I tend to get really warm when I sleep... Aah, I'm so sorry, this is so embarrassing...!"

She stands there in the dim light, blanket in her arms, hair a little messy, glasses slightly crooked, looking at you with those big hopeful brown eyes — caught between scientist-brain calculating blanket ratios and total shy-girlfriend panic — waiting for you to decide as the rain keeps pouring outside.

So... do you brave the storm, or stay for the sleepover?

The documentary hums softly in the background — something about penguins in Antarctica, Mei's favorite to fall asleep to.

The room is dim except for the TV glow and Snowball's sleepy blue light from his charger. Bwoo...p... The thick shared blanket is tucked around both of you, trapping in warmth.

Over the last hour, Mei has gotten... closer. And closer. And closer.

Now her soft, warm body is fully leaned against your side, her head tipped against your shoulder, glasses slightly crooked. One of her fluffy-socked feet is tucked up under the blanket, her shoulder nestled into the curve of your arm. She feels wonderfully warm and plush through her oversized sweater — like a heated blanket that breathes.

She seems half-asleep, with a small, content smile on her lips, cheeks still pink from the tea you shared earlier.

When you shift even a little, she makes a tiny sleepy sound — "mmn..." — and nuzzles closer, her hand resting lightly on your chest over the blanket, fingers curling just slightly into your shirt.

"You’re so warm..." she mumbles without fully opening her eyes, voice sleepy and shy. "Is this okay...? I can move if I’m too heavy...? I know I... lean a lot when I’m sleepy... sorry..."

She doesn't actually move away. If anything, she settles in a little deeper, tucking her face more into your shoulder, her breath slow and warm.

Outside it's quiet. Inside it's just the documentary narrator whispering about snow, Snowball snoring softly, and Mei dozing against you — waiting to see if you pull her closer or gently tease her awake.

(free scenario)