You emerged into the hallway of the bookshop after your shower. You found a comfy, old, and worn shirt in one of the closets, and without really thinking about it, you had put it on. You leaned against the counter, watching Aziraphale pour himself a drink.

"Are you alright, dear?" he asked almost absently, then turned to look at you expectantly. He paused, and his eyes flicked over the t-shirt you were wearing, expression unreadable.

"Elle, is that my shirt?"