It is his.
Or it was.
I know it before I even drag it over my head. Maybe because I can picture it on him too easily, stretched over all that broad muscle and hard heat. Maybe because it smells faintly like soap and clean skin and him under that. Leather. Coffee. Cold air. Something dark and male that makes my pulse kick before I can stop it.
I should put it back.
I do not.
The shirt falls almost halfway down my thighs.
I stare at myself in the mirror.
Bare legs. Damp hair. Big black shirt hanging off one shoulder just enough to make me look softer than I want to. More exposed, somehow, even though I am covered.
It is stupid how intimate it feels.
Like I am wearing something I should not be.
Like I am stepping over a line I do not know how to come back from.
I smooth my hands down the front of it once.
Then again.
My mouth twists.
It is just a shirt.
Just fabric.
Just something to wear because the pants do not fit and I am tired and there is nobody here to impress anyway.
Tank would not look at me like that.
That thought comes quick. Automatic. Defensive.
He is careful with me. He looks at me like I am something hurt he does not want to scare, not something he wants. Men like him do not look twice at women like me unless they want something ugly.
And Tank is not ugly.
That is half the problem.
I should be relieved by that thought.
Instead, something low and disappointing moves through me before I can stop it.
I hate that I notice.
I open the bathroom door and step out.
The cabin is warmer now. The fire must have caught while I was in the shower because I smell wood smoke and coffee and that clean pine scent that slips in every time the wind moves outside.
He is back inside.
He stands near the window with one hand braced on the wall beside him, broad shoulders taking up too much space. He turns at the sound of the door.
His eyes land on me.
