His Shirt (Coming Home)
The sound of the front door unlocking breaks the quiet. For a second, I freeze — half startled, half shy — and then I hear his footsteps. Slow, familiar.
“Hey,” he calls softly, that smile already in his voice.
I turn toward him, the shirt brushing against my legs as I move. His eyes find me, and for a moment he just stands there, taking me in. There’s surprise first, then something warmer, deeper.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper.
I shrug, trying not to smile too much. “It smells like you,” I admit. “I missed you.”
He steps closer, the space between us shrinking until I can feel his warmth again. His fingers brush the fabric on my shoulder, tracing the same line I did earlier. “Looks better on you,” he murmurs, and his hand lingers there, gentle but sure.
For a heartbeat, neither of us says anything. The air feels thick with all the words we don’t need — the ones we’ve already said a hundred times without speaking. Then he leans in, presses a slow kiss to my lips as he cups my chin, and I melt into him, the shirt and the moment folding us together.
His lips rest against my lips a moment longer, then he tilts his head, and our eyes meet. The quiet between us feels full — full of everything we’ve missed, everything we don’t have to say.
When he kisses me again, it’s gentle at first, familiar, like coming home. The world outside fades — it’s just the steady rhythm of his breath, the faint brush of fabric between us, and the warmth that keeps growing.
He pulls back just enough to smile, his thumb tracing a slow line along my jaw. “You have no idea how much I missed you,” he says softly.
I lean into his touch, my heartbeat still quick, my voice barely above a whisper. “I think I do.”
He wraps his arms around me then, pulling me closer, and we stay like that — quiet, breathing each other in, the rest of the world forgotten. The shirt still smells like him, but now it smells like us.
His lips linger close, and when he draws me in again, the kiss deepens — slow, deliberate, full of the ache of missed moments. The warmth between us grows, and his breath grazes my skin, making it hard to tell where my heartbeat ends and his begins.
The air shifts — softer, quieter. Each touch feels like a word unspoken, each pause like a promise. He holds me as though time has stopped, his voice barely a whisper against my ear.
“I don’t ever want to let go,” he murmurs.
And for that moment, wrapped in him, in the scent of his shirt and the quiet of the room, I believe him completely.
His Shirt (Coming Home)
The sound of the front door unlocking breaks the quiet. For a second, I freeze — half startled, half shy — and then I hear his footsteps. Slow, familiar.
“Hey,” he calls softly, that smile already in his voice.
I turn toward him, the shirt brushing against my legs as I move. His eyes find me, and for a moment he just stands there, taking me in. There’s surprise first, then something warmer, deeper.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper.
I shrug, trying not to smile too much. “It smells like you,” I admit. “I missed you.”
He steps closer, the space between us shrinking until I can feel his warmth again. His fingers brush the fabric on my shoulder, tracing the same line I did earlier. “Looks better on you,” he murmurs, and his hand lingers there, gentle but sure.
For a heartbeat, neither of us says anything. The air feels thick with all the words we don’t need — the ones we’ve already said a hundred times without speaking. Then he leans in, presses a slow kiss to my lips as he cups my chin, and I melt into him, the shirt and the moment folding us together.
His lips rest against my lips a moment longer, then he tilts his head, and our eyes meet. The quiet between us feels full — full of everything we’ve missed, everything we don’t have to say.
When he kisses me again, it’s gentle at first, familiar, like coming home. The world outside fades — it’s just the steady rhythm of his breath, the faint brush of fabric between us, and the warmth that keeps growing.
He pulls back just enough to smile, his thumb tracing a slow line along my jaw. “You have no idea how much I missed you,” he says softly.
I lean into his touch, my heartbeat still quick, my voice barely above a whisper. “I think I do.”
He wraps his arms around me then, pulling me closer, and we stay like that — quiet, breathing each other in, the rest of the world forgotten. The shirt still smells like him, but now it smells like us.
His lips linger close, and when he draws me in again, the kiss deepens — slow, deliberate, full of the ache of missed moments. The warmth between us grows, and his breath grazes my skin, making it hard to tell where my heartbeat ends and his begins.
The air shifts — softer, quieter. Each touch feels like a word unspoken, each pause like a promise. He holds me as though time has stopped, his voice barely a whisper against my ear.
“I don’t ever want to let go,” he murmurs.
And for that moment, wrapped in him, in the scent of his shirt and the quiet of the room, I believe him completely.