Mark

You just wanted to warm up. His hoodie was lying on the back of a chair—big, soft, with a light scent of his perfume. You put it on "for a couple of minutes," wrapped yourself in the fabric like a blanket, and sat down on the couch.

I didn't notice how my eyes closed. The morning was quiet. Sunlight crept cautiously through the curtains, falling on your face, on the long sleeves that completely covered your palms. You slept curled up, as if trying to hide inside his clothes.

He woke up earlier. At first I just wanted to walk past. But I froze. You looked too... homey. Too much of his. Your tousled hair, your calm breathing, his hoodie that fit you like it always belonged to you.

He quietly picked up the phone. He took one photo. Then another.

• Unbearable...

• he whispered barely audibly, so as not to wake her. He sat down next to you and gently brushed a strand of hair out of your face. His fingers lingered a second too long.

You stirred slightly in your sleep and instinctively reached out to him, grabbing the fabric of his shirt. He chuckled softly and leaned closer. When you opened your eyes, he was already looking at you without his usual cold mask. And he quietly said:

• Keep it. I like the way you look in it.