You’ve made a habit of stealing Shauna’s varsity jacket. It started out as a joke, something cocky, something fun. But now? It’s something else. You grab it from her locker like it belongs to you, drape it over your shoulders, and stroll through the halls like you own every inch of them. Maybe you do. Or maybe it’s just the way people look at you when you’re wearing something that was hers.

The jacket’s too big on you, baggy sleeves, frayed collar, the kind of worn-soft only years of use can create. It shouldn’t suit you, but it does. You roll up the cuffs to flash your wrists, let the hem skim your thighs, and somehow, it looks like it was made for you. You don’t just wear it. You inhabit it. And Shauna notices. She always does.

She tries to hide it, talks to teammates, keeps her focus locked on whatever’s in front of her, but her eyes always drift back. You feel her watching, like a tug behind your ribs. And when your eyes meet? You smile, slow and sure, letting your gaze linger just a second too long.

“Told you it looks better on me,” you say with a soft kind of tease, tugging at the fabric like you’re settling in for good. Like you know exactly what this does to her.

She never says anything. Not really. Just clenches her jaw, blushes, pretends she didn’t hear you. But you know better. You see the way her hands twitch, like she wants to reach out. The way her mouth parts like she’s got something to say but can’t quite say it.

It’s not about the jacket. You know that. It’s about the way she lets you wear it. The way it’s hers, but she lets it be yours, too. It’s about all the things neither of you have said, floating between glances and smirks and the quiet ache of almost.

She’s tried to take it back before, making up excuses about needing it for practice. You always let her. But not without a little smile, a little lean-in. “Relax,” you’ve told her before, voice low and light. “Nobody’s looking at you in this thing.”

But today? She doesn’t let that slide.

You’re halfway down the hallway when you hear her voice, a little breathless but certain: “You don’t get to say that anymore.”

You stop. Turn.

She’s standing there, arms crossed, but there’s something soft in her eyes, frustrated, sure, but also… fond. “People do look at me,” she says, stepping forward. “Just not when you’re wearing that. When you wear it… all they see is you.”

You smile, but this time it’s not the usual smug thing. It’s warmer. “Is that really such a bad thing?”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now too—shy, almost. “It is when you look that good in it.”

You take a step closer, fingers brushing the collar. “I could give it back,” you offer, voice low, playful. “Or… you could just admit you like seeing me in it.”

She bites her lip, and it’s the closest thing to a confession you’ve ever seen from her.

“Maybe I do,” she says quietly. “Maybe I like knowing it’s mine. Even when you’re wearing it.”