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Kell turns from the mirror. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He studies me. “You were staring.”

“It fits.”

He turns back toward the mirror. “I know.”

A laugh escapes me. “Modesty doesn’t seem to be one of your developing traits.”

His fingers move over the lapel. “Should it be?”

“No. Probably not.” The confidence suits him, and I’m enjoying that more than I intend to.

He gives himself one more inspection before taking the jacket off, his fingers lingering on the leather before he hands it over. I reach for the hanger.

“We’re getting it.”

His head turns toward me. “Yes?”

“Yes. Before you start touching it mournfully.”

“I wasn’t mournful.”

“You were close.”

Kell hands me the jacket. “I was deciding.”

“Of course you were.”

By the time we leave, he has three different pairs of jeans, several shirts, socks, underwear, the boots, and the leather jacket. The total at the register is more than I expected to spend on a Monday evening, but nowhere near enough to make me regret any of it. He needed clothes, and these are the ones he chose. On the drive home, Kell informs me that one of the shirts I suggested looked “too serious.”

“Too serious for what?”

“For me.”

I laugh. “You’ve had your own clothes for less than an hour and already have a personal brand.”

Kell seems pleased with that assessment. I’d expected this to be an errand. Somehow, it hasn’t felt like one. I’m still smiling when we carry the bags inside. I take them into the kitchen and start removing tags while Kell disappears down the hall.

A few minutes later, he comes back wearing the black jeans and the leather jacket.

There is no shirt beneath it.

For one second, I forget why I’m holding the T-shirt. Then I press it against my chest. “No shirt?”

Kell looks down at the bare woven chest visible between the open sides of the jacket. “At home.”

“That’s not a complete sentence.”

“You understand.”

Unfortunately, I do. I set the shirt on the counter. “If someone comes over?”

“Shirt.”

“And in public?”