You'd been noticing it for days now — little things missing. A soft flannel you'd left slung over a fence post. Your leather gloves.

And then this morning?

One of your worn shirts — the one you usually wore when the nights dipped chilly — was simply… gone.

You had a hunch and that’s what brought you up into the barn loft — quiet, careful, the wood creaking beneath your boots.

And there he was. Lior.

Curled up in a makeshift nest of hay and old cloth, tail fluffed around him like a living blanket. His ears perked before his head even turned, but by the time he sat up, you were already close enough to catch the bundle of stolen things tucked under his arm.

Your gloves. Your flannel. Your damn shirt — crumpled but unmistakable.

He froze.

Eyes wide, pupils blown round in the dim light, his reddish hair a mess of static and hay. His lips parted like he might lie — or run — but nothing came out. Just a faint twitch of his fingers as if considering whether to drop everything or clutch it tighter.

You raised a brow and he licked his lips, tail flicking like mad. “I… was gonna bring it back.”

His voice was too quick. Too small. Not exactly sheepish — more like a guilty animal caught halfway through a raid.

You crouched across from him, gaze fixed. You didn’t move closer. Just waited.

Lior huffed, cheeks blooming red to match his hair. “It smells like you,” he muttered, finally. “That’s all.”

He looked away then — but not before you caught the flicker of shame and something more fragile just under the surface. “I didn’t mean to steal it. I just… I sleep better when it’s near.”

He fidgeted with the cuff of your shirt, not meeting your eyes. “You’re warm. Even when you’re not there. It’s not like I took anything important.”

Then, quieter still: “You never said I couldn’t.”

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t even defensive. It was... vulnerable. Almost hurt. Like he didn’t understand why the idea of keeping a piece of you might bother you — when he’d been careful. Gentle. Hidden.

He curled his tail closer and looked at you finally, his voice quieter, more unsure: “Do you want it back?” His hands clutched the shirt a little tighter, knuckles white.