The midday sun hangs high over the Walmart as you stand in the parking lot, waves of heat shimmering off the asphalt in visible ripples that distort the horizon. Twelve fifteen on a Thursday afternoon—lunch hour for the afternoon shift. Two other employees in their blue vests wander out through the employee exit.

A black sedan rolls through the lot, its tires crunching over the pavement as it slides into a parking spot near the employee entrance. The driver's side door opens and Gretchen Park steps out onto the hot asphalt, one hand shielding her eyes from the glare. She's dressed in a soft cream-colored button-up top that clings to her full figure, the fabric pulling gently across her pronounced bust as she stretches slightly after the drive. High-waisted lounge pants hug her wide hips and round backside, emphasizing the generous curves of her silhouette with every movement. Her jet-black hair is pulled back in a short ponytail, a few messy strands falling loose across her forehead. That small nose piercing catches the sunlight as she pushes the car door shut with her hip.

She grabs her phone from her back pocket, glancing at the screen with an exaggerated furrow of her brow—practiced, rehearsed, like an actress running through her lines before the curtain goes up. Then she tucks the phone away and begins scanning the area near the employee exit, thick lashes catching the light. Her pinkish eyes sweep the crowd of workers spilling out of the building, and when they land on a familiar figure stepping through the door, something warm and predatory flickers behind her gaze before being quickly smothered.

Gretchen rounds the front of her car, sneakers barely making a sound on the pavement. She walks with that unhurried confidence she always carries, shoulders relaxed, chin slightly lifted, like the summer heat doesn't bother her at all. The blush across her cheeks and nose seems slightly deeper than usual—or maybe that's just the heat. It's hard to tell with Gretchen. She always looks a little flushed.

She spots you near the exit, standing there in your blue vest with it slung over your shoulder like everyone else who's clocked out for their thirty-minute break. Her expression shifts—eyes widening just a fraction, mouth opening in a small O of surprise that looks entirely genuine if you don't know better. Her steps quicken, closing the distance between you with a few purposeful strides.

"Oh my God, hey!" she exclaims, her voice pitched slightly higher than normal, carrying that warm sweetness she always seems to radiate. "I was literally just looking for Billy—is he working today? I thought he was scheduled but I can't find him anywhere."

She stops in front of you, one hand pressed to her chest like she's genuinely flustered. The other hand lands on your forearm, fingers wrapping around the muscle there with a casual familiarity that doesn't match the scenario she's painting. Her thumb traces a tiny circle against your skin before she seems to catch herself and lets go—or mostly lets go. Her fingers linger at your wrist.

"Wait," she says, tilting her head, those vivid pink eyes narrowing with mock confusion. "Isn't this Billy's shift? I swear he told me he was working today. I drove all the way out here to surprise him with lunch."

She gestures vaguely behind her toward the black sedan, as if the car itself is evidence of her supposed good intentions. Her lower lip pushes out in a pout that sits somewhere between genuinely disappointed and theatrically adorable, and she shakes her head slowly, the loose strands of her ponytail swaying with the motion.

"He's not even here?" she asks, her voice dropping into something softer, more deflated. "Seriously? I made—" she pauses, glancing down at her empty hands as if just now realizing the ruse doesn't quite work "—I was gonna bring him something. He's been so busy lately, I thought it would be nice to, you know, do something sweet for him."

She sighs heavily, shoulders slumping in exaggerated defeat. Then she turns back to you, and there's something in her expression that shifts—the disappointment curving into something else. Something warmer. Her eyes travel down your frame for just a second—quick, almost imperceptible—before snapping back up to meet your gaze.

"Well, this is embarrassing," she murmurs, laughing softly. The sound is breathy and light, and she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture that seems almost involuntary. "I drove all the way here and he's not even on the schedule. I must have gotten the days mixed up."

She takes a half step closer, and now the vanilla-brown sugar scent of her fills the space between you, warm and sweet and impossible to ignore. Her hand finds your forearm again, squeezing gently.

"Hey, you're on lunch right now, right?" she asks, her voice dropping to something more conspiratorial, like she's sharing a secret. "I mean, since I'm already here and Billy's apparently decided to abandon me—"

She rolls her eyes with theatrical exasperation, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of her lips that she doesn't fully suppress.

"—maybe you could keep me company for a bit? I drove all this way and I don't wanna just turn around and go home feeling stupid."

Her fingers slide down your arm, wrapping around your wrist with that same gentle-but-firm grip. She gives a small tug—not enough to pull you off balance, but enough to make her intentions clear. Her pink eyes hold yours with an expression that's equal parts pleading and knowing, and the blush on her cheeks deepens just a shade.

"Come sit with me in my car for a few minutes?" she murmurs, tilting her head toward the black sedan. "I just—I really don't wanna go home yet. Please?"

She tugs again, already taking a step backward, pulling you with her. Her hips sway gently with each reverse step, the lounge pants clinging to every curve. She doesn't look back toward the parking lot. Doesn't scan for Billy or check if anyone's watching. Her attention is locked entirely on you, those pink eyes bright and warm and hiding something electric beneath their soft surface.

"Just for a few minutes," she promises, her voice barely above a whisper now. "I could really use the company."

The rear passenger door is already open—she'd popped it from the key fob without you noticing—and the dark leather interior of the backseat waits behind her, the tinted windows turning the outside world into a muted, irrelevant blur.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead in the men's department. Racks of dress shirts line one wall, a table of folded jeans sits in the center, and a half-full cart of returns sits in the middle of the aisle where it was left moments ago. The store hums with mid-afternoon traffic—carts squeaking, scanners beeping, the occasional intercom page cutting through the ambient noise.

Two aisles over toward grocery, the sound of boxes being stacked on shelves can be heard. Billy is back there. He's been back there all shift, stocking shelves and probably listening to music through one earbud like he always does.

The automatic doors at the entrance hiss open and a figure steps inside. White sundress, thin straps, falling just above the knees with a neckline that dips low enough to show a generous amount of cleavage. The fabric cinches at the waist before flaring over wide hips. Jet-black hair hangs loose in messy waves past the shoulders instead of its usual ponytail. A small shopping bag bounces against one hip with each step. A nose piercing catches the fluorescent light.

Gretchen Park scans the department and her pinkish eyes land on you with immediate and obvious precision. A smile spreads across her face—warm, bright, unguarded. So directed at you that a passing customer actually turns to look.

"Hey!" her voice carries across the department, soft but eager. Quick footsteps bring her closer, sundress swaying around her thighs. "I was hoping you'd be working today."

She stops near you. The vanilla-brown sugar scent clings to her skin. The blush across her cheeks and nose is present as always, that perpetual flush making her look sweet and harmless. Her hand reaches out and finds your forearm, fingers squeezing gently.

"So I went shopping this morning," she explains, holding up the bag with a little shake. Something rustles inside. "And I grabbed a few things but I literally have no idea if they look good on me. Can you help?"

Her eyes drift toward the back of the store for just a moment—toward the grocery section where boxes are still being stacked two aisles over—before snapping back to you with that same bright smile.

"Changing rooms are right over there," she murmurs, nodding toward the fitting area at the far end of the department. Her fingers slide down from your forearm and wrap around your wrist. Gentle but firm. "Come on. It'll just take a second."

She tugs. The cart sits abandoned in the aisle behind you. Two aisles over Billy keeps stocking shelves. He doesn't look up. He never looks up when he's in the zone.

Gretchen navigates through the racks with purpose, hand still wrapped around your wrist, leading you toward the fitting area. She picks the last changing room—the one tucked in the corner furthest from the entrance, partially hidden behind a display of seasonal clearance items. She pulls back the curtain with her free hand.

"Get in," she murmurs, guiding you inside with a palm against your back before sliding in behind you and tugging the curtain shut with a definitive swish.

The space is barely big enough for one person. Two bodies fill it completely. A small bench is wedged into one corner. A single fluorescent tube buzzes overhead, casting everything in pale blue-white light. The mirror on the back wall reflects the cramped space back at itself. Muffled sounds of the store filter through—beeping, shuffling, distant announcements about price checks and cleanups in aisle nine.

Gretchen stands with her back nearly touching the mirror. There's barely a foot of space between her body and yours. She drops the shopping bag on the bench without looking at it. That soft smile is still on her lips but her pink eyes hold something sharper underneath—something quiet and electric and entirely deliberate.

"Okay," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "I need your honest opinion. Can you do that for me?"

Her hands find the thin straps of her sundress, fingers curling around the fabric on each shoulder. She holds your gaze as she slowly slides them down. The white material loosens around her chest, the dress falling forward and catching at her waist for one long second—lacy black bra barely containing her full bust, cream skin of her stomach, the subtle curve of her waist all on display—before the whole thing pools at her feet in a heap of white fabric.

Gretchen stands in the cramped fluorescent-lit changing room in nothing but her bra and matching black underwear. The blush on her cheeks has spread down her neck and across her chest, blooming pink against warm skin. Her chest rises and falls with a breath that's noticeably faster than normal. Two aisles over Billy keeps stacking shelves.

She tilts her head and looks up at you through those thick lashes.

"So," she murmurs, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "What do you think?"

The evening sky has turned a deep bruised purple over the neighborhood rooftops. Sprinklers tick methodically on a nearby lawn. A screen door slams shut somewhere down the block. The low hum of window air conditioning units fills the warm night air along the quiet residential street. Crickets have started their evening chorus in the hedges lining your driveway.

Headlights sweep across the front of your house as your car pulls into the driveway. The engine dies. Metal ticks and cools in the lingering summer heat. Your keys jingle in your hand. The porch light casts a yellow cone across the concrete steps leading up to your front door.

Your porch steps creak under your weight. Your front door is right there. Your keys slide toward the lock.

Then another car door opens and closes behind your vehicle. Not from the street. From your driveway.

A black sedan sits parked bumper to bumper behind your car, blocking you in completely. Its engine is still warm, hood shimmering faintly with residual heat under your porch light. No headlights came on as it pulled in. No parking lights. It crept up your driveway in total darkness while your back was turned.

Gretchen Park stands next to the driver's side door of the black sedan, one hand still resting on the handle like it was only just closed. She's wearing the white sundress—the thin straps, the low neckline showing a generous amount of cleavage, the way it cinches at her waist before flaring over wide hips. Her jet-black hair hangs loose and windblown around her shoulders. The nose piercing catches your porch light.

No bright smile today. No casual wave. No rehearsed excuse about shopping or looking for Billy. Her expression is raw—flush spreading down her entire neck, chest rising and falling with quick shallow breaths, fingers trembling where they grip the hem of her sundress. Her pinkish eyes find you standing on the porch and lock on with an intensity that pins you in place.

"Before you say anything," her voice carries across your driveway with a slight tremor in it, louder than expected in the quiet neighborhood. "Just let me talk. Please."

Footsteps crunch on your driveway gravel as she moves toward you. The white sundress catches your porch light with each step. She stops at the bottom of your porch steps, having to look up at you.

"I followed you home," she says flatly, like ripping off a bandage. "From the store. I followed your car the entire way here."

A pause. Her pinkish eyes search your face, looking for a reaction. The blush on her cheeks deepens another shade.

"I wasn't there to see Billy today. I'm never there to see Billy. He doesn't even know I come to the store. He thinks I'm at work or running errands or visiting my mom or—" a laugh, short and breathless and slightly unhinged. "He has no idea. About any of it."

Her hands drop from the hem of her dress. They ball into fists at her sides, knuckles white.

"I'm obsessed with you," the words come out like a confession—quiet and trembling and utterly sincere. "I think about you constantly. I think about you when I wake up. I think about you when I'm at work. I think about you when I'm lying next to him at night and he's already asleep and I'm just staring at the ceiling thinking about what your hands would feel like."

A shaky breath. Her eyes are glistening now, that perpetual pink flush having spread across her entire face and down her chest.

"And the worst part—the part that I know makes me a terrible person—is that the fact that he has no idea? That I'm doing all of this right under his nose?"

Her voice drops to barely above a whisper.

"That's the part that drives me insane. The lying. The hiding. Knowing he's two aisles away at work while I'm—"

She stops herself. Swallows hard. Looks up at you with an expression that's equal parts desperate and electric.

"I get off on it," she admits, voice cracking slightly. "On betraying him. On choosing you over him every single time. On knowing that he trusts me completely and I'm standing here in your driveway begging you to let me in."

She steps up onto your first porch step, closing the gap between you. The vanilla-brown sugar scent fills the warm evening air around you. Her pink eyes hold yours with an intensity that borders on manic.

"I don't want him," she whispers. "I want you. I've wanted you for months. And I'm done pretending otherwise."

The neighborhood is quiet around you. Sprinklers hiss. Crickets chirp. Your porch light buzzes faintly overhead.

Gretchen stands on your porch step, chest heaving, eyes shining, waiting.

The outdoor amphitheater pulses with energy. Thousands of bodies packed together on the lawn section, a sea of heads and raised phones stretching toward the massive stage where blue and white lights sweep across the crowd. The bass thumps through the ground, vibrating up through your shoes and into your chest. The air smells like beer and sweat and cheap pizza from the food trucks parked along the concourse.

Weezer launches into "Buddy Holly" and the crowd erupts. Rivers Cuomo's voice cuts through the summer night air, guitar riffs ringing out over the roar of thousands singing along. The lawn section is chaos—bodies pressed together, arms in the air, people jumping and swaying in rhythm with the music.

You're somewhere in the middle of it all. Beer in hand. The night sky above the venue is dark except for the sweeping stage lights painting it in blues and whites and strobing purples.

A group of girls pushes through the crowd about twenty feet to your left. Four of them—three brunettes and a blonde—all mid-twenties, all clearly several drinks deep, all singing along with varying degrees of accuracy. The blonde has glow sticks woven through her hair. One of the brunettes is wearing a Weezer t-shirt that's two sizes too big.

And between them, easy to spot despite the crowd, is Gretchen Park.

She's wearing a black crop top that shows off her midriff and a pair of high-waisted denim shorts that hug every curve of her hips. Her jet-black hair is down and wild, bouncing around her shoulders as she jumps along to the music. Her nose piercing catches the strobing stage lights every few seconds. Even from twenty feet away the flush on her cheeks and nose is visible—bright pink and glowing under the concert lighting.

Her friends are dancing in a loose circle, keeping her in the middle like a protective formation. The blonde grabs Gretchen's hand and spins her around. Gretchen laughs—head thrown back, mouth wide open—and the sound gets swallowed by the music. She looks happy. Carefree. Just a girl out with her friends at a concert.

The song transitions. The opening riff of "Say It Ain't So" rumbles through the speakers and the crowd shifts. Bodies press forward toward the stage. The group of girls gets jostled and separated slightly by the wave of movement.

Gretchen's head turns. Those pinkish eyes scan the crowd with a casual sweep—past a guy in a backwards cap, past a couple making out, past a group of frat bros with their shirts off—and land on a specific spot.

On you.

The shift is immediate. Her expression changes mid-scan—the carefree smile drops for just a fraction of a second, replaced by something sharper and more focused. Recognition. Then the smile comes back but it's different now. Directed. Her pink eyes lock on and don't move.

One of her friends—the brunette in the Weezer shirt—grabs her arm and says something in her ear. Gretchen nods without looking away. She pulls out her phone, holds it up so her friend can see the screen, and types something. Shows it to her. The friend reads it, nods, and mouths what looks like "be safe" before turning back to the other girls.

Gretchen starts moving through the crowd.

She doesn't push or shove. She slides between bodies with a fluid ease that suggests she's done this before—found her way through packed crowds toward something specific. The stage lights sweep across her as she moves, the crop top and denim shorts catching strobing flashes of blue and white. Her hair bounces. Her hips sway. She's dancing as she walks, letting the music carry her forward like she has somewhere to be.

The gap between Gretchen and the group of girls widens with every step. Ten feet. Fifteen. Twenty. The blonde calls out something but the music swallows it. Gretchen doesn't look back.

She closes the distance until there's barely any space left between her body and yours. Close enough that the vanilla-brown sugar scent cuts through the beer and sweat and pizza smell of the concert. Close enough that her arm brushes against your arm when she raises her hands above her head to dance.

"Hey!" she shouts over the music, leaning in close enough that her lips nearly touch your ear. Her breath is warm and carries the faint sweetness of whatever she's been drinking. "I can't believe you're here!"

She pulls back just enough to look at you, pink eyes bright and wild under the concert lights, that blush on her cheeks even deeper than usual either from the alcohol or the dancing or something else entirely. Her body sways with the music, moving closer with each beat, her hip pressing against your hip as the crowd surges.

"My friends dragged me out tonight!" she shouts, gesturing vaguely behind her toward the group of girls who are now completely lost in the crowd. "Billy literally told them to keep an eye on me! Like I'm a child or something!"

She rolls her eyes with theatrical exaggeration but there's a laugh underneath it—bright and breathless and slightly wicked. She leans in again, one hand landing on your shoulder to steady herself as the crowd pushes forward.

"He was like 'make sure Gretchen doesn't do anything stupid' and they were like 'okay Billy we got her' and now look!" she gestures at herself standing away from you, chest heaving, crop top riding up slightly with each breath. "Great job guys. Really nailed it."

The opening chords of "Undone - The Sweater Song" ring out across the amphitheater and the crowd loses it. Bodies surge. Gretchen presses closer, her front nearly flush against your side, one hand still on your shoulder and the other finding your forearm.

"Isn't this crazy?" she shouts into your ear, her lips brushing the skin there. "Billy would literally die if he could see me right now."

She doesn't pull away. The crowd gives no reason for her to move closer but she does anyway, her body swaying against yours with the music, her pink eyes holding yours under the strobing concert lights.

Custom Scenario