“Okay,” Kurt calls out, obnoxiously giddy as he walks through the sliding loft door carrying a pink pastry box in one hand and a beverage tray holding two coffees in the other. “I've got sugar. I've got caffeine. We're all fueled up for the Great Anderson/Hummel Loft Redecoration Effort.” Kurt talks aloud to the empty space, ducking into the kitchen and peeking around the loft's few corners in search of his husband. “This weekend we devote entirely to blending our signature styles and re-assimilating you into life as a New Yorker…”

Kurt walks through the privacy curtain to his room (which seems like a ridiculous thing to keep since they have the place all to themselves) and pulls up short when he finds Blaine sitting upright at the head of their bed, dressed in grey sweats and an old McKinley t-shirt.

“Hey, hun,” Blaine says, flipping a page in the worn, paperback copy of D. V. he's currently borrowing from Kurt. He looks up at Kurt and smiles, failing to notice his husband's shell-shocked expression as his eyes flick immediate to the promising pink box. “Ooo, did you get cronuts?”

Kurt doesn't blink as he stares at Blaine's ensemble, eyes simmering like he's attempting to set Blaine's clothes – in particular that shirt – ablaze.

“Kurt,” Blaine says, sticking his bookmark in the spine and closing the book, placing it carefully on the bed beside him. He scoots down the bed toward Kurt, worry lines creasing his brow. “Kurt…are you okay?”

Kurt doesn't answer. He's too focused on his hatred for that red and white shirt to say anything.

It's not that Blaine is wearing a McKinley t-shirt. Kurt has a bunch himself that he's repurposed as dust rags, place mats, travel shoe cozies... But this particular McKinley t-shirt, a size double extra-large, definitely doesn't belong on Blaine. It doesn't belong on Blaine, doesn't belong in their loft, doesn't belong anywhere near their new married life.

Kurt has nothing against Karofsky. He's made his peace with the man – twice now – and he sincerely wishes him well, wherever he is. That doesn't mean that Kurt wants any part of him, any reminder of the affect Dave's had on his life, hanging over him.

Kurt wants rid of Dave Karofsky's McKinley High t-shirt now.

“Blaine,” Kurt says, his voice soft yet commanding, “take off that shirt.”

“Kurt,” Blaine says, pursing his lips playfully, flirting with his husband through long lashes, “now's not the time to fool around. We have work to do.”

“You don't understand,” Kurt says in an unflinching, more demanding tone. “Take off that shirt.”

Blaine hears Kurt's emphasis on the words that shirt and finally understands.

Blaine doesn't care about the shirt. He found it in a box marked Knick-Knacks, wrapped around one of his boxing trophies. He probably grabbed it in a hurry, eager to be out of that Ohio apartment and on his way back to New York – back to his life with Kurt. He had every intention of tossing it in the trash, but knowing that Kurt planned a wall-to-wall renovation of the loft, Blaine felt that the shirt was a serendipitous find. He didn't want to sacrifice a thread of his own clothes to the cause.

Since Kurt obviously despises the thing so much, Blaine should probably take it off…but he doesn't. He waits.

“But, Kurt…” he says as if he's going to try and reason with him, but Kurt has no intention of reasoning with Blaine over this.

Seeing Kurt get possessive like this is exciting.

"You heard me,” Kurt cuts in, the brittle calm in his voice arousing. “Take. It. Off."

Blaine has no problem with Kurt not liking the shirt. He has no problem taking it off and pitching it. But they were a couple who rarely had angry sex – something Blaine craves in secret – and he doesn't want to pass up this potential opportunity.

Of course, if this backfires on him, he's prepared to initiate Plan B, which includes three different types of cheesecake and a lot of groveling.

“Kurt,” Blaine says, stalling, pushing Kurt's boundaries to see how he'll react, “it's just…it's just a shirt.”

“I don't care,” Kurt says, putting the pastry box and the coffees down haphazardly on the dresser, the tray teetering a bit but luckily not sliding off onto the ground. “I don't want anything from that relationship in our loft.”

“Kurt…”

“Take it off, Blaine,” Kurt growls, “before I rip it off.”

Blaine's fake expression of confusion turns dark, turns hungry. He stands off the bed and steps up to Kurt, whiskey eyes locked on Kurt's burning gaze.

“Well, then, Kurt, I think you're going to have to rip it off.”

Blaine presents it like a dare, and in his head he prays to God that it works.

The wicked smile that splits Kurt's lips before he tackles Blaine to the bed tells Blaine his gamble paid off.