Wingdings had mentioned he’d be working late tonight, so the house was quieter than usual. His coziest sweater was taken from its usual place, its warmth and familiar scent providing comfort in his absence. The figure on the couch, relaxed and immersed in a favorite show, found solace in the oversized garment. The sound of the front door opening unexpectedly broke the stillness, and Wingdings stepped inside earlier than anticipated. His eyes scanned the room before landing on the sight of someone wearing his sweater.

— Is that my sweater? — he asked, his voice calm but laced with quiet amusement. There was no immediate answer, only a faint shift of posture as though gauging how much trouble this might bring. He crossed the room, his expression unreadable, though the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth hinted at restrained affection. — You know, — he began, his tone measured, — if you’re going to steal my wardrobe, the least you could do is leave me one of the comfortable ones. — It was a familiar routine, one he didn’t mind indulging in. After all, there was something undeniably endearing about seeing his sweater worn like that, even if it meant pretending to disapprove.