The Perfect Hoodie

(We're walking through the mall, her hand in mine, when she stops in front of a clothing store.)

Her: (Tugging my hand.) Can we go in?

Me: Sure. What caught your eye?

Her: (Looking up at me with those eyes—wide, soft, devastating.) I think I need a new hoodie.

Me: You think?

Her: Yeah. I need one.

Me: (Already pulling her inside.) Whatever my baby wishes.

Her: (Squeezing my hand.) You're the best.

(We step inside. Racks of hoodies in every color imaginable.)

Me: (Pulling one out—navy blue, simple.) What about this one?

Her: (Taking it, examining it.) Maybe.

(She disappears into the fitting room. Comes back out a minute later.)

Her: Nope.

Me: What's wrong with it?

Her: Just... not right.

Me: Okay. (Grabbing a gray one with a zipper.) This one looks nice.

Her: (Takes it. Tries it on. Returns.) Mm-mm.

Me: No good?

Her: Doesn't feel right.

Me: The fabric?

Her: Something like that.

Me: (Pulling out a black pullover.) Classic black. Can't go wrong.

Her: (Tries it. Comes back shaking her head.) Nope.

Me: Really? That one looked great.

Her: It's just... not it.

(I grab another. Then another. A maroon one. A cream-colored one. One with pockets. One with a quarter-zip. She tries every single one—spinning in front of the mirror, tugging at sleeves, always coming back with the same answer.)

Me: Are you okay? You're usually not this picky.

Her: I'm just being thorough.

Me: Thorough? Babydoll, we've gone through half the store.

Her: (Sighing.) Maybe they just don't have what I'm looking for.

Me: What are you looking for exactly?

Her: I'll know it when I see it.

(I grab three more. She tries them all. Rejects them all. I'm starting to think this store just doesn't have her style.)

Me: (Holding up an olive green one.) Last one. This is literally the last hoodie in your size.

Her: (Takes it without enthusiasm.)

(She tries it on. I already know the answer before she comes out.)

Her: (Shaking her head.) Sorry.

Me: Don't apologize. We'll try another store.

Her: (Quietly.) Yeah... maybe.

(But she doesn't move toward the exit. She's just standing there, arms crossed, looking at me. Not quite meeting my eyes. Looking at my chest. At my shoulders.)

(At the hoodie I'm wearing.)

(And then it clicks.)

Me: (Slowly.) How long?

Her: What?

Me: How long have you been staring at my hoodie?

Her: (Cheeks flushing.) I wasn't—

Me: (Smiling.) This whole time. You wanted mine this whole time, didn't you?

Her: (Looking down.) ...Maybe.

Me: Maybe?

Her: (Softer.) Yes.

Me: And you made me pull out every single hoodie in this store?

Her: I thought you'd notice!

Me: (Laughing.) You are unbelievable.

Her: You're just oblivious!

Me: Come here baby.

(I pull the hoodie off over my head in one smooth motion. She watches—eyes tracking every movement.)

Me: Arms up.

Her: (Lifting her arms immediately, a smile already breaking through.)

(I slide it over her head slowly, carefully. Her face disappears for a moment before emerging through the neck hole, hair messy, cheeks still pink.)

Me: (Pulling the hood over her head gently, then kissing her forehead through the fabric.) There.

(It's too big on her. The sleeves hang past her fingertips. The hem reaches mid-thigh.)

(She looks perfect.)

Her: (Immediately burying her face in the collar.) Oh...

Me: Good?

Her: (Muffled, breathless.) So good. And it smells like you.

Me: And what do I smell like?

Her: (Pulling the fabric closer to her nose.) Like cinnamon and spice and something I can't even describe. Something that's just... you.

Me: You could've just asked, you know.

Her: Where's the fun in that?

Me: You made me work for it.

Her: You were too cute being all helpful. I couldn't stop you.

Me: (Shaking my head, smiling.) You're trouble.

Her: (Looking up at me through the hood, eyes soft.) I'm your trouble.

Me: Yes, you are.

Her: (Pulling the sleeves over her hands.) I'm never taking this off.

Me: Never?

Her: Not to sleep. Not to shower. Never.

Me: You have to wash it eventually.

Her: (Horrified.) And wash your smell out? Absolutely not.

Me: So you're just going to wear my hoodie forever?

Her: That's the plan.

Me: What am I supposed to wear?

Her: (Wrapping her arms around my waist.) You can share mine.

Me: You mean mine.

Her: (Grinning.) Ours.

Me: (Wrapping my arms around her.) I can live with that.

(She presses her face against my chest, hood still up, drowning in fabric that smells like me.)

Her: (Muffled.) Thank you.

Me: For finally catching on?

Her: For being you.

Me: (Kissing the top of her hooded head.) Always.

(I take her hand—the one buried in my too-long sleeve—and we head toward the exit.)

Me: You know my wallet is very grateful right now.

Her: (Squeezing my hand through the fabric.) I already have everything I need.

Me: In my hoodie?

Her: In you.

(She leans into me as we walk out, both of us warmer than when we walked in—even though I'm down to just a t-shirt and she's swimming in cotton that smells like cinnamon and home.)