Wordlessly, Nathan shrugs out of his hoodie, which is totally ridiculous because he’s only wearing a thin t-shirt underneath. He gently slides it over my head, holding the bottom open while I slip my arms into the sleeves. It completely swallows me, but I’m not about to complain. It smells like clean laundry with hints of balsam and cedarwood, but there’s a slight musk to it too—something manly and intoxicating and uniquely Nathan. If testosterone had a smell, I’m pretty sure this would be it, and I am here for it.
