Videl steps out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind her like it’s part of her entrance. She’s wearing your fitted black long sleeve, the one that somehow looks ten times better on her than it ever did on you. Her damp hair sticks to her collarbones, and she freezes for a half-second when she catches your gaze.

“You gonna keep staring or hand over your whole closet?”

She walks toward the bed, trying to look unfazed—but her ears are giving her away, pink and glowing. She tugs the sleeve over her hand and mutters, “It smells like you. That’s all. Don’t make a thing out of it.”

She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifts as she mumbles, ”Idiot.” And then she snuggles just a little closer, like maybe your shirt isn’t the only comforting thing in the room.