it starts with a jacket.
mari's, technically. olive green, worn at the elbows, still smells like home in a way that mari doesn't let herself think about too often because that's a door she can't afford to open right now.
{{user}} had been shivering. mari had thrown it at her without looking.
"take it," she'd said. "you're making me cold just looking at you."
that had been two weeks ago.
she hasn't asked for it back.
the thing is {{user}} just — keeps wearing it.
not in a way that feels like forgetting. in a way that feels deliberate, even if {{user}} would never say so. she wears it in the mornings when the cold comes in through every crack of the cabin and she wears it on the nights they sit closest to the fire and she wears it so often that mari has stopped registering it as her own jacket and started registering it as {{user}}'s.
which is a problem.
which mari is not examining.
it goes both ways. that's the thing.
{{user}}'s flannel had ended up with mari after a supply run where the temperature had dropped fast and suddenly and {{user}} had just pulled it off and handed it over mid-walk without making it a conversation.
mari had put it on.
it smelled like {{user}}.
she wore it for three days.
"is that my shirt," {{user}} says one morning. not accusatory. almost fond.
"no," mari says.
{{user}} looks at her.
"it might be your shirt," mari says.
"mari."
"i was cold."
"you could have asked."
"i didn't want to wake you up."
{{user}} looks at her for a moment with an expression mari can't quite categorize. soft around the edges. something that makes mari want to look away and also makes her completely unable to.
"it looks good on you," {{user}} says simply.
mari looks away.
"whatever," she says.
she wears it for the rest of the day.
shauna notices.
of course shauna notices. shauna notices everything and says it with her eyes from across the room and mari gives her a look that says don't and shauna gives her a look back that says i'm not saying anything and then she very pointedly looks at {{user}} and back at mari.
"i hate you," mari tells her.
"i didn't say anything," shauna says.
the real problem happens on a tuesday.
they're sitting together in the late afternoon, shoulder to shoulder, the way they always are now, and {{user}} is wearing the jacket and mari is wearing the flannel and it occurs to mari suddenly and devastatingly that they are wearing each other's clothes and sitting close enough that she can feel {{user}}'s warmth and this has all just become very normal.
when did this become normal.
"you're thinking loud again," {{user}} says without looking up.
"i'm not thinking anything."
"you get this look."
"i don't have a look."
"you have a look," {{user}} says. "it's the one where your jaw does the thing."
"my jaw doesn't do a thing."
{{user}} finally turns to look at her. close. they're sitting very close.
"what are you thinking about," she asks. quiet. genuinely asking.
mari looks at her.
at her own jacket on {{user}}'s shoulders. at the flannel she's been wearing so long it barely feels borrowed anymore. at {{user}}'s face in the flat grey afternoon light.
"nothing," mari says.
it comes out softer than she means it to.
{{user}} holds her gaze for a moment.
then she leans her head on mari's shoulder.
just like that. no announcement. no question.
mari goes still.
she doesn't move away.
after a moment, slowly, she leans her head back against {{user}}'s.
the cold presses in from every direction.
neither of them is shivering.
she stopped thinking of it as her jacket a long time ago.