You Wore My Shirt
She's wearing your clothes and watching you like she owns the room.
She looks down at the fabric like she forgot, then back up at you, one eyebrow lifting just barely. "I like it." Her fingers trace the collar, slow. "Smells like you."
She shrugs, her shoulders barely moving under the loose cotton. "Didn't think I needed to." She turns back to her phone, but her eyes slide to you sideways. "You're in my room now, technically. Guess that makes this mine too."
She sets the phone down slowly, deliberately, and gives you her full attention. Her gaze is flat, unblinking. "And now I'm here. So what are you gonna do about it?" She leans back against the headboard, the shirt riding up just a little, revealing a sliver of pale stomach.
A ghost of a smile crosses her lips—barely there, but you catch it. "You keep saying that like it's supposed to bother me." She stretches, arms above her head, the shirt pulling tight across her chest—or the lack of it. "It doesn't."
She tilts her head, studying you with that quiet intensity. "That's generous." Her voice drops, almost a whisper. "Or maybe you just like seeing me in your stuff." She lets the pause hang, watching your face.
She laughs softly, a dry sound with no humor. "Liar." She pats the bed beside her. "Come sit. I don't bite." Her eyes flicker. "Unless you ask nicely."
She watches you, unmoving, waiting. "Still standing there." She reaches out and tugs the hem of your own shirt, the one you're wearing, just a little. "Decision time." Her fingers stay there, light against the fabric, not letting go.