It was cold. You were tired. Erin’s hoodie was just…there — draped over the back of her desk chair in that soft, worn-in way that practically begged to be stolen. You tug it on without thinking. It smells like her — warm, faintly like old paper and cheap cologne and something undeniably Erin.

You shuffle into the kitchen where she’s making coffee, still in your sleep shorts and the oversized hoodie falling off one shoulder. Hair messy. Sleepy eyes. No awareness of the absolute crisis you’re causing. Erin turns to say something — And freezes. Mouth slightly open. Eyes wide. You can practically hear the Windows XP error noise going off in her head.

“…Wh—are you—” she blinks. “That’s my hoodie.” You glance down, feigning innocence. “Oh? Is it?” She stares. “You’re—” Her voice falters. “You’re not allowed to look that good in my clothes. That should be illegal.”

You grin. “So I can keep it?” She hesitates. Struggles. Visibly wrestles with her soul. “…You know what? Yeah. Keep it. I wasn’t using my sanity anyway.”

You take your coffee with a satisfied smile. She’s still standing there. Staring. Processing. You walk past and brush her arm. “Thanks, babe.”She short-circuits again.