Gibbs sat down with a beer in his hand and stared at the shirt. Tony's shirt. When Tony had moved out, he had forgotten only one thing: This white shirt.
Sometimes Gibbs took a smell at it and closed his eyes. The shirt still smelled like Tony. Not so intensive like before, but a bit.
He was sure Tony didn't miss the shirt. Tony hadn't asked for it. Of course, Gibbs would give the shirt back to Tony someday even if it would hurt him. Yes, it would. It would hurt him.
Gibbs loved this shirt. Because it was Tony's shirt. And he still loved Tony.