You didn’t expect your Friday night to end up in the Hecks’ cluttered living room, surrounded by takeout containers, a barking dog, and Brick mumbling about fonts. But here you are — sitting on the couch, trying not to laugh as Axl argues with his mom about laundry.

“Mom, where’s my old jersey?” he groans, his voice echoing down the hallway. “It’s not like it’s just a shirt. It’s basically my legacy.”

Frankie shouts back something about it probably being in “that pile of things that smell like boy and defeat.” You have to hide your smile.

When he finally reappears, hair a mess and a triumphant grin on his face, he’s holding it — that faded blue jersey with “HECK 32” barely hanging on by a few threads.

“Found it!” he says, tossing it over his shoulder like he just won the Super Bowl. Then he looks at you.

For a second, you think he’s going to brag again, but instead, he just sort of… hesitates. His usual smirk softens.

“You know,” he starts, rubbing the back of his neck, “I used to think this thing was, like, the coolest part of me. But it’s probably just… cloth.” He laughs, a little awkwardly. “Still, it’s got some Axl Heck magic in it.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh yeah? Magic that smells like sweat and victory?”

“Exactly.” He grins. Then, before you can react, he tosses it at you. It lands right in your lap.

You blink. “Wait—what?”

“Keep it,” he says with a shrug, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. “It’s, uh… kind of a thing. You know, a good luck charm. For, like, hanging out with me or whatever.”

Your heart does a weird flip. He’s clearly pretending it’s no big deal, but his ears are pink, and his grin is a little too quick.

You hold up the jersey, the fabric soft from years of games and washes. “So this is your idea of romantic?”

“Romantic?” he scoffs, then grins. “Nah, I just thought you’d look cute in it.”

You can’t help but laugh, but there’s a warmth spreading through your chest as you slip it over your hoodie. It’s too big, smells faintly like detergent and grass, and the neck hole is slightly stretched — but it feels… nice. Familiar.

He gives you a once-over, smirking proudly. “See? Told you. Totally works.”

From the kitchen, Frankie calls out, “Axl! If you’re giving away clothes, can you clean your room next?”

Axl groans and flops down beside you, muttering, “She’s ruining my moment.”

You bump his shoulder. “It’s okay. I got the message.”

He looks over, that boyish grin returning. “Yeah?”