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wait, i said, moving to take off my oversized sweater – harlow's oversized sweater, a soft heather gray that made me want to write a song about the color alone. it smelled of warm and sweet spiced cinnamon, harlow's smell ; the material was heavy and warm, the sleeves too long in just the perfect way. you forgot this.
harlow paused and turned, tilting his head. no, he said after a moment. no, you keep it.
i looked at him. i can't keep it.
it fits you better, corlan, he said with a smile, reaching out to smooth down the sleeve. it's yours now.
before i could say anything else, another protest, or even a reluctant thank-you, harlow leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to my lips. he pulled back and gave another smile ; he was always smiling, while i could rarely find reason to smile at all. except him, of course, always him.
and anyway, he said. it looks better on you than it does me.
