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“You don’t apologize to me for feeling good,” I tell him quietly. “Understand?”

Kamden’s lips part, then close, and he nods meekly, chin dipping toward his chest.

“Use your words.”

“Yes.” His voice is breathless, gone thin at the edges.

I lean closer, close enough to smell the soap on him, close enough that my shadow falls over his face where he sits on the tile. “Yes, what?”

“Yes… Adrien.” He peeks up at me with a question in his gaze, and his brows furrow, as if he isn’t sure that’s right anymore.

Eh, we’ll get there.

That’s not exactly a conversation I’m prepared to have right this moment.

I need to get him dressed before I do something even stupider than I already have.

“Good,” I tell him.

His lashes lower. He doesn’t look away entirely; he watches me through them, and his mouth stays slightly open.

I straighten before the word can do anything more to either of us, turning toward the counter where the clothes I brought in earlier sit folded, part of the order that arrived with the art supplies this morning. The paper wrapping is still half-crumpled beside them. I hadn’t known his exact size, so I’d guessed based on what I’d seen in his room—shirts hung too wide on his frame, jeans with cuffs rolled twice—and then deliberately gone a little loose because nothing about Kamden suggests he enjoys fabric clinging where it doesn’t need to.

The set is cashmere. It’s probably excessive, but I don’t care.

The shirt is a pale cream with a soft, loose neck and long sleeves that should cover most of his hands if he wants them to, while the shorts are a muted pink-gray, with a drawstring waist, and soft enough that I spent a questionable amount of time rubbing the fabric between my fingers when I unpacked them, standing alone in the kitchen like an idiot.

I bring the clothes over.

Kamden watches me without lifting his head much; he tracks me through his damp fringe as I cross the tile. “What’s that?” he asks quietly.

“Something clean,” I answer plainly.

I hold it out by the shoulders and let it hang in front of him. When I make no move to pull it away, his hand tentatively reaches out, and his fingers brush against the delicate fabric.

“Is it cashmere? It’s so soft,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on the shirt with a quiet wonder.

I can’t help the twitch of my lips at how quickly he identifies the fabric. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. John was right. He’s talented at these sorts of things.

“Yeah,” I say. “Hold your arms up for me?”

He raises them without argument, hands above his head.

I ease the shirt over his head and guide each arm through carefully—left first, then right—pulling the deliciously soft fabric down over his torso until it settles loosely around him. It hangs off him everywhere. The sleeves end well past his knuckles. He looks at himself like he doesn’t recognize what he’s wearing.

“Do you like it?”

He gives a small nod as he fingers the edges of the shirt, rubbing the fabric just how I couldn’t help but do earlier.

I kneel to help with the shorts, keeping everything practical now, because I have already proven today that practical can go sideways alarmingly fast around him. I guide his feet through one opening and then the other, pull the shorts over his knees, and let him stand just long enough for me to settle them properly around his waist.

They fit.

Good.

Next, I take out the socks. They’re a muted dusty blue, like the color of the sky just before it gets dark.

Kamden looks down at them. “These aren’t from the other pack,” he notices.