you didn't like to ask for things. not directly, at least.
it had taken half a dozen walks toward hayden's apartment—your head always turning to gaze through the windows of a brightly lit, brightly colored ice cream parlor two blocks away—for him to realize that you actually wanted to go inside.
last week, he knelt on the ground pretending to tie his shoe, jerking his chin towards a small family exiting the shop, grasping ice cream cones. "wanna try one?"
when he pops back up, all casual, your eyes are wide with excitement, but you temper your eagerness. "sure! if you want."
whatever made you happy.
and it did. you practically skipped on the way home, a malt milkshake in hand.
ever since then, he's paid more attention to your cues, and he's pretty sure he's got you figured out.
because when he worked, hunched over his desk, you liked to hook the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, dotting a small kiss on his cheekbone in encouragement.
you liked to pull on the edge of his sleeve to signal that it was time to eat dinner, your fingertips slipping in to touch the fleecy material inside.
and you liked twirling the two white strings laying on his chest whenever he finally got you seated in his lap after a long day.
tonight, he cups your hands and guides them down his torso until they reach the bottom hem.
you giggle, subconsciously toying with the material in your palms, harvard red and worn soft from years of washes. he wears a t-shirt underneath, but the backs of your fingers still tickle his stomach.
"help me take it off."
it takes some pulling and readjusting, but eventually the sweatshirt is in your hands.
you move to set it aside, as you usually do, but a hand at your waist stops you. he clears his throat. "put it on."
you blink rapidly at the gentle demand, scratching at your temple and avoiding his eyes. "oh, um..."
he repeats himself, his hands caressing your mostly-bare legs. so you nod, disappearing into the hoodie and emerging with a shy smile on your face.
turns out he likes this too, maybe even more than you: the artful way some of the fabric spills onto your thighs, your hands mostly obscured by the long sleeves. the color of your skin against the deep crimson.
"looks good on you." he tugs on the hoodie strings, coaxing you back to his lips. "keep it."
you can't hold back your grin now, not even a little.