I’d love to buy you things, but if I do, you need to know: as long as you and I know one another, as long as we’re interacting, those things belong to me. I get to see you in them when I want, and whenever you wear them, I get to see you in them.
I would add — it would be my preference, although this is only a preference, not a strict requirement — that you not wear them with other men while we’re involved, in whatever way we might be.
Header image prompt (openai): Large-format oil painting, interior, late afternoon rakelight through half-drawn venetian blinds casting hard amber bars across a closet standing open — silk blouses, a dark coat, two dresses on wooden hangers, one garment slightly displaced as if just touched. In the middle distance, a woman in a charcoal wool dress stands three-quarters away at the far edge of the frame, one hand resting on the closet door, face turned just past visible, already half-leaving the room. The light is too gold, too possessive, striping the clothes like something claimed.