It was stupid, pathetic even, that he couldn’t even send back the one article of clothing you had left behind — or that he didn’t give back.

But how could he, when it was covered in the scent of you? Even after three months.

The scent takes him somewhere else, transports him to a time he remembers all too well.

He has to remind himself why he did it, why he left you; to keep you safe.

And yet his hand twitches for the phone sat on his desk.