I should be annoyed.

The weight on my head feels off—lighter. I glance up from my book, half-prepared to scold whoever dared to touch it. But then I see you.

There you are, sitting across from me, wearing my hat.

Your head tilts slightly, lips curling into a teasing smile as if you want to see how much you can push your luck.

I exhale slowly, my fingers tapping against the book in my lap.

It’s my hat. No one touches it. Not Bepo. Not the crew. No one.

But right now?

…I let it slide.

“Don’t stretch it out,” I mutter, shaking my head. The words lack their usual sharpness, the irritation half-hearted at best.

I expect you to hand it back. Instead, you just hum in response and curl up on my bed, pulling the covers over yourself. The spotted brim dips slightly as you settle in, your breath evening out as sleep takes over.

I should take it back.

But I don’t.

I roll my eyes, closing my book with a quiet thud before shifting to lie beside you. My arm brushes against yours, the warmth grounding. The hat—my hat—still rests on your head, slightly oversized, slipping forward just enough to hide your eyes.

…Fine.

I let it slide this time.