“I saved everything of yours.” Tobin sits on the edge of the bed, watching me riffle through clothes hanging in the closet. I don’t remember any of these cotton shirts or denim pants, but he says they’re mine. His are in the dresser drawers. “Sometimes I wear your shirts,” he tells me, “because they still smell like you.”
“What do I smell like?” I pull out a faded chambray work shirt and a pair of worn jeans and hold them up to me, trying to see if they’ll still fit.
He shrugs. “Clean,” he says. “Like spring rain. And fresh. And warm. I like the way you smell.”
I smile at that. “I like the way you smell, too,” I say, because the musky scent of him still lingers on my arms from where he held me. “You smell free.”
He laughs, a boyish sound. As I unzip my jumpsuit, he asks, “Do you wa
