It's not really until they move in together that Steve finds out that Phil owns articles of clothing that do not comprise a suit; a fact that seems to please him to no end.
"Steve, it's just a cardigan."
"Steve, it's just a t-shirt."
"Steve, it's just a pair of jeans."
He's heard it all and then some, but he can't very well help it if he thinks Phil looks good in whatever he wears. Still, out of every stitch of clothing Phil owns, Steve discovers that the things he loves to see the agent wearing more than anything… doesn't actually belong to him.
"What are you doing?"
Phil looks back over his shoulder and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose before returning his gaze to the eggs in the pan before him.
"Making breakfast," he answers.
"I can see that," Steve answers, walking across the kitchen until he's standing beside the shorter man. "I meant what are you doing—" He plucks the sleeve of the plaid shirt Phil's wearing. "—with this?"
"Oh," Phil says, glancing down at himself. "I couldn't find my robe, so I took your shirt off the chair. I'm doing laundry later today, so I figured you wouldn't mind."
"I don't mind," Steve assures him.
He should feel bad that he grips his partner by the arm and drags him away from the counter. He should feel bad when Phil protests that the stove is still on as he throws the agent over his shoulder and makes a beeline for their bedroom. He should feel bad when he drops the agent on the bed and tugs the man's boxers off before growling that the shirt and glasses should be left on.
But he can't feel all that bad when Phil's legs wrap around his waist and he's being encouraged to proceed. He can't feel bad when they're moving together so perfectly and Phil keeps making those quiet noises in his ear. And really, it's Phil's fault to begin with, because a pair of glasses and one of Steve's shirts shouldn't equate to hanging a sign around his neck that reads "Please fuck me."
"What was that about?" Phil pants afterward. "You haven't been like that since… that mission in Egypt…"
"I like it when you wear my clothes," Steve says breathily, kissing his neck.
"Apparently," Phil chuckles, sighing deeply. "What a way to start the morn—… Do you smell smoke?"
Steve freezes before bolting up when, speak of the devil, the smoke alarm goes off. "Oh my God, the eggs."
It's not the most graceful display for either of them as they fall out of bed and scramble towards the kitchen. Steve breaks out the fire extinguisher as Phil opens a few windows and takes care of the screaming fire alarm. Breakfast is beyond salvageable and they have to field a call or two from some nosy neighbors, but overall, Steve can't really bring himself to feel bad about any of it.
After that, Phil continues to sometimes accidentally put on one of Steve's shirts… he just makes sure the stove isn't on when he does it.