Wait here.” I ran back up to my room to grab his blue-and-black plaid flannel shirt, still in my possession. Back on the porch, I handed it over. “My shirt. I forgot you had it.” “It’s ‘my’ shirt. You need to go home tonight and sleep in it. I made the mistake of washing it and now it doesn’t smell like you anymore.” He turned the shirt over and over in his hand, laughing and shaking his head. “And I want it back first thing in the morning. You read me?

- Emma Scott