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He runs his thumb over the leather. “Good.”

“They cost twice what the other ones cost.”

“Better.”

“That’s not how money works.”

Kell finally turns from the boots to me. “It is how boots work.”

I look at the price tag again. They’re more than I’d spend on an ordinary pair of shoes, but not enough to matter. I can afford them, and this entire trip is because Kell needs things that actually belong to him. If the boots are the first thing he’s found that makes him light up like this, I’m not going to talk him into the cheaper pair just because I would have chosen differently.

I put the boots in the cart. “Fine. Your theory of footwear wins.”

The shirts are worse. He likes fitted ones and darker colors. Deep green. Black. Charcoal. One burgundy shirt I’d never have chosen for him catches his attention, and when he comes out wearing it, I have to admit that he was right. The color makes the honey-brown willow of his throat richer and pulls out the living green threaded through the weave. I turn toward another rack before he catches me noticing.

“This one,” I say, holding up a blue checked button-down.

Kell barely needs a second. “No.”

“Why?”

“Looks like Dave.”

My hand stops on the hanger. He isn’t wrong. Dave owned several shirts almost exactly like this one. Blue checks, button-down collar, the kind he could wear to work and keep on if we went out afterward. For a second, I can see one hanging from the hook on our bedroom door while he searched for his wallet.

The memory comes easily, which may be the problem. I run my thumb over the edge of the collar before putting the shirt back. I hadn’t gone looking for something Dave would have worn. Out of a whole rack, my hand simply went to it.

Kell hasn’t criticized the shirt or Dave. He just doesn’t want it.

“All right.”

He reaches for a black shirt with softer fabric and a narrow open collar.

“This.”

I run my fingers over the sleeve. “That looks nothing like Dave.”

“Yes.”

There’s no apology in the answer, and there shouldn’t be. The strange thing is that I’m not disappointed.

And I keep liking his choices. By the time we reach jackets, I’ve stopped offering suggestions unless he asks. I keep an eye on prices and let Kell decide what belongs on his body.

Then he finds leather. He slides one hand slowly down the sleeve of a black jacket and stops.

“Oh, no.”

He turns toward me. “What?”

“You love it.”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t even tried it on.”

Kell looks from me to the jacket, then shrugs into it.

The black leather fits close through his waist and shoulders, making the honey-brown weave of his chest and the green willow at his throat stand out sharply. I spend one beat too long looking at the open front before forcing myself to meet his eyes.