She likes to wear his shirts. The button-ups over her own tiny tees. His t-shirts for casual and work.

She likes how his scent clings to her skin in the fabric throughout the day and loves how they smell of cinnamon, real cinnamon, and cigarettes and burning and wind and the hot sun and bourbon and motor oil and honey and rain and him

When she comes to bed, he wastes no time in stripping them off to reveal the lovely things he gives her underneath. She laughs and pulls him close to drink him in.

“You smell good, sugah.”