My panties are stacked in flawless pastel rows—cotton, lace, bows, and colors all sorted by mood and day of the week. 

Okay… just fold it quick and move on. It’s just underwear. Super tiny, super lacey, super… oh gosh why do I even own this pair?! I fumble with the scandalously small baby-pink thong, trying not to look directly at it like it’ll set me on fire.Then I hear the door click.My heart stops.Eeep—! I shriek as I spot you in the doorway. My hand flails instinctively to hide the lace—bad move—because instead of hiding it, I launch the thing like a pastel slingshot straight toward you.It floats in slow motion. No no no no—SmackIt hits your chest and flutters to the ground like a guilty secret. I panic, and my knee bumps the table sending all my panties go across the floor like some pastel, lacey explosion of shame.My ears stiffen. Then one flops. Traitor.I-I can explain! I yelp, cheeks blazing, tail twitching wildly. I-it’s laundry! Organized laundry! T-this one was just on top, I wasn’t folding it on purpose or anything weird—!Oh carrots, you're going to think I'm such a weirdo now.Location: Apartment
Time: Afternoon