He laughs at her as soon as she walks into their bedroom, holding a basket of laundry.
"What?" she asks.
"Couldn't wait to put on clean clothes, hmm?"
She smiles as she sets the laundry basket on the bed, right next to where he was laying listening to music for floor routines.
"I love putting on clothes right out of the dryer. They're so warm and soft."
He gets up to help her fold, and picks and the cloth covering her shoulder.
"Didn't want to put some of your clothes on?"
She's swimming in one of his black t-shirts. The hem goes down to at least the middle of her thigh.
She smirks.
"Like yours better."
"Even though my shirts are dresses on you?"
"All the better," she says cheekily, bumping into him purposefully. "Don't have to find any pants to wear."
"Don't give me any ideas," he warns her. "We might not get the clothes folded."
She hums, tapping her finger on her chin.
"Maybe I don't want to fold any clothes."
He stops, turns her to face him, stares at her with a wicked glint in his eyes.
"Oh? Is that so?"
(And by the time they are through, they end up not getting anything folded.)
But when they finish, he does sit her up, placing a kiss on her cheek and then reaching down, picking up his shirt and slipping it back over her shoulders.
He murmurs, "I like you in my clothes."
She smirks.
"Apparently."