# Chapter 6: The Search

"We need clothes," John said, breaking the silence. "There's got to be something in this cabin we can use."

Amelia nodded, still not meeting his eyes. "Actually... I brought some skirts with me. In my luggage. I wasn't sure what the weather would be like, and I thought—" She shrugged, her feathered shoulders rising and falling. "They might fit. Or at least cover us."

John blinked. "Skirts?"

"They have elastic waistbands. Stretchy fabric." Amelia was already moving toward the bedroom where they'd dropped their bags. "They won't be perfect, but they're better than nothing."

She returned a moment later, holding two skirts. One was long and flowing, a dark blue fabric with a floral pattern. The other was shorter, black, and made of some stretchy material. She held them up, examining them against her transformed body.

"The black one might work for me," she said, her voice quiet. "The elastic should stretch over my hips. And the length..." She trailed off, not sure how to finish the thought.

John took the floral skirt from her, holding it up to his waist. The fabric was soft, feminine. He'd never worn anything like it before. His stomach twisted with something between embarrassment and... something else.

"Help me put it on," Amelia said, turning around.

She lifted her tail feathers, exposing her cloaca for a brief moment before the skirt slid up over her avian hips. The waistband settled comfortably, the fabric hanging down past her knees. But as she adjusted it, she noticed something immediately.

The skirt's hem caught on her tail feathers, lifting the back of the fabric up. Her cloaca was still partially exposed, the soft skin visible beneath the bunched-up material.

"It's not covering everything," she said, twisting to look behind her. "My tail keeps lifting the skirt. You can still see my—" She couldn't finish the sentence.

John watched her, the floral skirt still clutched in his hands. He stepped into it, pulling it up over his deer legs. The waistband stretched over his wide hips, settling just above his sheath. The fabric was soft, lightweight, swishing against his fur-covered thighs.

And then the reality hit him.

He was wearing a skirt.

A woman's skirt.

His face flushed crimson. His heart hammered in his chest. And somewhere deep in his gut, a thrill sparked—a strange, shameful excitement at the feeling of the fabric …