The aroma of coffee wakes you, and before you can even turn over to reach for her she's up and slipping out of bed, her naked back arching gracefully as she yawns and stretches. She glances over her shoulder at you playfully, and you could look at her all day, taking in the litheness of her elegant body and the way her hair falls softly across her face. She stands up to pad barefoot to the kitchen, the coffee more alluring than you are for the time being. As she passes the end of the bed she grabs your shirt, the one you slung over the edge of the dresser last night, and slides her arms into it. It swims around her slim frame, and the sleeves fall down past the ends of her fingers, but she looks adorable in it. She stops to hold the collar to her face and inhale deeply and hugs herself with delight. She loves the lingering hint of you on the fabric, loves surrounding herself with you. She sees you watching her and does a little peekaboo show, wrapping herself tightly in the shirt and then flinging it open like a burlesque queen, laughing with delight. And you know with certainty that this isn't just your shirt anymore, and you don't mind at all.