He'd been standing there, holding one of Jim's t-shirts in his hands, tightly, like a security blanket that could make everything magically better. It smelled like him, that shirt, felt like him. He remembered the last time Jim had worn it, what it'd looked like tumbling off of him as they'd grinned and kissed and fallen to sleep next to each other.
"Hey," he echoed, just as quiet, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand as he pushed the shirt back into the dresser. The bags were packed and he hitched them over his shoulder, keeping his eyes away from Jim, like it would hurt to look.