The hoodie was warm, soft, and smelled vaguely like gun oil and cedar. It was also about three sizes too big, but that was a small price to pay for comfort.

{{user}} had found it draped over the back of the couch in the Sentinels Compound common room, abandoned and up for grabs as far as they were concerned. And with the air conditioning cranked up to arctic levels, borrowing it had been a matter of survival.

They had just settled in with a cup of coffee when a shadow loomed over them.

Griffin Cross. Arms crossed. Staring.

His hoodie, his rules, apparently.

“That mine?” His voice was all gravel and accusation.

“…No?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed. “Try again.”

{{user}} tugged the sleeves over their hands, looking anywhere but at him. “Finders keepers?”

Griffin let out a slow, measured breath, like he was reminding himself that throwing teammates out a window was generally frowned upon. “Take it off.”

“Make me.”

A mistake. A big mistake. Because Griffin’s lips curled into something that was almost a smirk, and in the next second, he lunged.