Archive of Our Own

Asami was packing clothes for a new batch of orders when her laptop dinged—a crisp, bright sound that echoed through her quiet dorm room. It was the familiar notification from the campus marketplace, the one that meant someone had confirmed their order and left a review.

The engineering student smiled without even looking up. She knew it was another five-star rating. Another successful transaction. Another satisfied customer. She folded the last black tee with precise hands, smoothing the fabric flat before slipping it into its plastic sleeve. She would check the review later and leave a polite thank you, as she always did.

After dropping off the neatly stacked packages at the courier station downstairs, Asami returned to her desk. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and opened her laptop, already expecting to see five bright gold stars waiting for her.

They weren’t there.

Instead, a single, glaring one-star review sat on her dashboard like a stain.

It came from a student who chose to remain anonymous. The website censored the name to “K***a.”

“What the hell?” she muttered under her breath, heat rising to her cheeks as irritation flared sharp and immediate. Her perfect record—two years of flawless ratings for Sato’s Garage (Your one-stop shop for immaculate clothing at a garage sale price!)—was marred by one careless click. Of course, she was livid!

Her fingers flexed over the keyboard, joints cracking softly as she prepared to draft a pointed but professional response. She would dismantle whatever misunderstanding this buyer had posted.

But when she clicked on the review and the attached image loaded onto her screen, her jaw dropped at the sight that greeted her.

YELP REVIEW REPLY:

The buyer had purchased a blue t-shirt, sized 2XL, but that wasn’t the issue.

It was tight because the buyer was built like she bench-pressed small vehicles for fun. This was not a sizing problem. At all.

This was a genetics issue. Or possibly a varsity-athlete-who-lives-in-the-gym issue.

Heat rushed to her face, then traveled south in a way that was wildly inappropriate for someone so composed as her. She swallowed hard.

The fabric stretched across the buyer’s torso like it had just discovered fear. The cotton clung desperately to broad shoulders and biceps that had absolutely no business being that thick. The sleeves were fighting for their lives. The hemline looked tense. The seams looked tense. Asami looked tense.

Her breath hitched. Asami had a sudden urge to bite those biceps, or be choked by them. Or maybe both! Just look at them! Ugh. And oh, boy, is it hot in here?

She leaned closer to the screen, studying the image for quality control purposes. Obviously.

Her eyes widened even more as she took in the image, gaze traveling slowly—scientifically—over muscle that was very clearly not the result of casual yoga classes. And oh, god. Don’t get her started on those abs. She could clearly see them, thanks to how tight the shirt was! Asami almost reached out for a bowl of rice to pair with that snack.

Before her brain could regain control, her fingers had already moved. The words “Oh, my god” disappeared from the text box and appeared publicly under review.

Asami froze.

Her soul left her body.

“No, no, no,” she whispered, lunging toward the screen as if sheer willpower could yank the words back. Too late. The little “Seen” indicator popped up almost immediately.

Oh no. She’s going to think I’m a creep. A pervert. A seller who thirsts publicly over customers. Her entire academic and entrepreneurial career: ruined. Oh, she’s going to think I’m staring at her body. Which I am. But that’s not the point.

But then her laptop dinged again. The buyer replied! “Maybe I can return it? Or exchange it for a bigger size?”

Asami exhaled, lungs finally remembering how to function. Okay. Good. The buyer did not immediately accuse her of being a creep. Her irritation returned, though now it was… complicated.

Suddenly, an idea began to form.

“Okay,” she typed. “We can meet tomorrow. Engineering quad. 10 a.m. Wear the shirt.”

There was a pause long enough for her to question every life decision that led her here before the buyer replied again. “Why would I wear the shirt? How could I give it back to you if I’m wearing it?”

Asami’s cheeks heated again, but she squared her shoulders. Commit. Double down. Stay intimidating. “Because I need to verify that your photo is accurate,” she replied smoothly. “And ensure you’re not scamming me.”

A beat passed. “Fine. I’ll be there… wearing the shirt.”

Asami shut her laptop a little too quickly and leaned back in her chair, pressing her palms to her heated cheeks. She did not replay the image in her mind as she stared at the ceiling that night.

Absolutely not.

—

Asami was fairly certain the stone tiles in front of the engineering quad had worn thinner from her pacing. It was only nine fifty-five, but she had already checked the time at least six times in the past minute. Yes, she was early. Yes, that was intentional. No, that did not stop her from being nervous.

This was a simple business meeting. A shirt exchange. Nothing more.

Her stomach clearly disagreed.

Every scrape of sneakers against pavement, every burst of laughter from passing students made her head snap up. Each time, her pulse spiked, only to settle again when the person walking toward her was very clearly not built like a Greek statue wearing cotton.

“Calm down, Sato,” she muttered under her breath as she finally sat on the empty bench facing the engineering building. She smoothed invisible wrinkles from her slacks and inhaled deeply, the crisp morning air doing little to steady her thoughts. Inhale. Exhale. Do some math.

Not… whatever else her brain was trying to think about.

At exactly ten o’clock, the clock tower chimed, and Asami straightened automatically. She scanned the quad, eyes narrowing slightly as she tried to identify which student might be “K***a.” There were plenty of tall women on campus. A few athletic builds. But none was like the buyer’s physique. None of them captured Asami’s attention.

Suddenly, the crowd shifted.

Students parted as if unconsciously making way, and Asami’s breath caught.

There she was.

The buyer stood just beyond the flow of students, glancing around with a faint crease between her brows, clearly searching. The blue 2XL shirt clung to her exactly as it had in the photo, only worse. Or better. Objectively worse for the shirt. Catastrophically better for Asami’s pulse.

The morning sun caught against warm brown skin, making it glow softly under the light. Her arms were bare, sleeves stretched tight around thick biceps that flexed subtly every time she shifted her weight. Her shoulders were broad, her stance relaxed but grounded, like someone used to taking up space without apologizing for it.

Her hair was cropped short, dark, and slightly tousled, as if she’d run a hand through it on the way over. And when she finally lifted her head, their gazes met.

Bright, clear, startling blue eyes locked onto hers. Asami’s brain stopped functioning for a full second.

The photo had not done this woman justice.

The screen had flattened her presence, compressed her into pixels. In person, she was solid, tall, and strong. Slightly confused-looking, yet intimidating. She was also probably capable of carrying her and a sack of potatoes at the same time.

Oh no?

Oh yes.

This woman was exactly her type.

Asami mentally patted herself on the back for insisting on an in-person verification. Excellent business decision, truly inspired. Five stars to her own strategic thinking.

Composure, she reminded herself.

She rose from the bench, smoothing her blouse once more before stepping forward, heels clicking softly against the pavement as she approached the buyer.

Time to handle this professionally. Even if professionalism was currently hanging by a very thin cotton thread.

“Hi,” Asami greeted, schooling her expression into something pleasant and professional, even as she felt her pulse spike. “I’m Asami. The seller. You must be my customer?”

The woman looked at her.

And then visibly short-circuited.

Her blue eyes widened, jaw slackening just a little, like her brain had taken a momentary detour. Asami caught it instantly and had to bite back the smirk that threatened to curve her lips.

Of course, she hadn’t expected anything when she chose a fitted red blouse that morning. And naturally, the fact that she’d left the first two buttons undone—just enough to show a hint of cleavage—was purely coincidental. She didn’t intentionally do it. Goodness, no!

Inside, though, Asami was screaming in triumph.

One point to Sato.

She cleared her throat gently, regaining the woman’s attention.

The woman snapped her mouth shut, laughing under her breath as she lifted a hand to rub the back of her neck. The simple motion made her arm flex, the tight sleeve of the shirt stretching even further as muscle shifted beneath the fabric.

Asami’s gaze followed automatically.

Of course it did, drawn like a moth to a flame.

Her thoughts took a sharp, unhelpful turn, imagining just how strong those arms must be, how easily they could lift heavy equipment, gym weights, or cho—no. Stop that. Business meeting.

Her mouth felt a little dry.

“Yeah,” the woman said, sheepish grin still in place. “I’m the buyer, as you can see.” She extended her hand. “Korra. By the way.”

Asami startled slightly at the sound of her voice. It was deeper than she’d expected. It was smooth, steady, and grounding in a way that sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine. She liked that. Far more than was appropriate.

She took Korra’s hand.

And promptly forgot every thought she’d ever had.

Korra’s grip was firm but careful, and calloused. Asami deduced that it came from hours in the gym or some other form of training the woman did. Asami’s fingers fit easily against hers, and for a brief, dangerous moment, she became acutely aware of how small and slender her own hand felt in comparison.

She withdrew first, forcing herself to refocus.

Korra cleared her throat, shifting her weight slightly. “Um. So… did I prove I wasn’t lying about the shirt?”

Asami lifted her chin, composure snapping back into place like a shield. “Oh,” she said smoothly, eyes flicking once—only once—over the stretched fabric. “Definitely.”

A beat passed.

Then nothing happened.

No one said a word. No one moved. Asami watched as Korra stood there, frozen, tan cheeks slowly turning pink. Opportunity, Asami knew, was fleeting, and as a businesswoman, she took it.

She stepped forward and bent slightly to grab her bag, intentionally slow, deliberately careless. The movement pulled her fitted red blouse taut, the open buttons parting just enough to give Korra an unobstructed view of her cleavage. Asami didn’t need to look up to know it worked. She saw Korra’s head tilt, her gaze dropping before snapping back up, jaw tightening like she was trying very hard to be respectful and failing.

Another point to Sato.

Satisfied, Asami straightened and pulled out the replacement shirt. “Here,” she said lightly, handing it to Korra.

Korra blinked, taking the neatly wrapped shirt with a smile. “Thanks. But, uh… how would I give the shirt back?”

There were many professional answers to that question. Unfortunately, the one Asami’s traitorous brain supplied—and her mouth delivered—was not one of them. “Then give it to me now.”

The world stopped.

Asami’s eyes widened. Korra’s eyes widened. Time itself seemed to stop, stunned by Asami’s own audacity.

Oh no. She was about to backtrack, laugh it off, regain professionalism, when Korra’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.

“Sure.”

The next thing Asami knew, Korra was pulling the shirt over her head. Slowly.

Asami was left in sweet agony as the fabric slid up and away, baring a perfectly sculpted six-pack. Korra’s abs caught the sunlight before the shirt was tugged free entirely, leaving Korra in just her sports bra. Asami forgot how to breathe. Heat rushed straight to her core as her thoughts derailed completely. She imagined running her hands, mouth, tongue, or something much slicker entirely on them. She was fairly certain she could grate cheese on those abs if given the chance.

Wait, what?

This was not how this was supposed to go.

She had expected embarrassment. Shyness. Maybe a flustered refusal, but she was not prepared for this.

That was it. Game over.

Final score:
Korra — 100
Asami — 2

“Here,” Korra said, grinning as she held the shirt out. “I’m giving it to you.” The emphasis echoed Asami’s own innuendo.

Asami snapped back to herself with effort, taking the shirt from Korra’s hand, her fingers brushing against warm skin in the process. Electricity shot through her, sharp and immediate, settling low in her belly.

She swallowed hard. “T-thanks.”

“No problem.” Korra was still smiling, like she knew exactly what she’d done, and exactly how it had landed. For reasons Asami would unpack later, her heart skipped a beat.

Then, Korra added something so casually devastating, “And sorry about the trouble. I didn’t think the shirt would be too small for me. I should’ve checked your sizing chart further. So, let me make it up to you.” She hesitated. “How about I treat you to dinner? Tomorrow night. Eight o’clock. Narook’s.”

Asami was fairly certain it would be reasonable to pass away on the spot. Instead, she lifted her chin, forced composure back into place, and smiled. “Yes,” she said. “I’d like that.”