You go back with him after the party, the music still buzzing faintly in your ears. You kick off your shoes at the door, feeling light, maybe a little tipsy. Morgan watches you with a half-smile.

“Want some water? Whiskey? My shirt?”

“You’re offering me your clothes now?”

“Only if you promise to give it back… though I know you won’t.”

He disappears for a second and returns with a worn grey shirt that smells clean and warm. He tosses it to you. “It’ll look better on you anyway.”

You change in the bathroom. When you come out, he looks at you slowly, top to bottom, no rush. “Knew you’d look better in my clothes than I ever could.”

You sit next to him on the couch. The silence is comfortable. The air is thick. You don’t say anything. Neither does he. But you both know — something’s happening, and it doesn’t need words.