I like to steal my husband's hoodies. Well, not just his hoodies. I love stealing his sweaters, his button-ups, and his t-shirts. My husband enjoys seeing me in his clothes just as much as I enjoy wearing them. I’m small and petite, barely reaching 5 foot, so wearing the hoodies meant for his own 6'3" frame feels like being wrapped in a blanket.

My favorite hoodie of his is the dark grey one with his old college emblem on the front, faded and cracked from years of being washed. That’s the one he wears the most, and that’s probably why I love it so much. It always smells like his woody cologne and, more recently, the incense he started lighting in the man-cave he spends all his time in.

But now something’s off about my favorite hoodie. My husband washed it the other day, so it’s nice and soft and smells like laundry detergent. But there’s another smell. A smell I don’t like as much.

It’s starting to smell like when I fell on the pavement and scratched up my palms. Or maybe like when I cleaned some of my old jewelry. No, it’s more like when I held change in my sweaty hand on my walk to the grocery store.

The color is different, too. It’s subtle, so subtle I almost didn’t notice, but the ends of the sleeves look darker, like a rusty brown instead of a dark grey. There are also a few faint splotches of that same brown scattered across the front of the hoodie.

I don’t know what happened to my favorite hoodie. I don’t know why my husband won’t let me down in his man-cave anymore, even if it’s to refill the mini-fridge with beers. I don’t know why he started watching football at max volume when his hearing is perfectly fine. I don’t know why he suddenly insists on going to the store by himself, only to come back with more cleaning supplies than we could possibly need.

And to be honest, based on the look he’s giving me right now as I wear his hoodie, I don’t think I want to know.