The night had grown colder than they expected.

They were walking their bikes along the quiet Hawkins street, wheels ticking softly on the pavement. Streetlights painted everything in warm gold, but the wind still slipped under their shirts.

Will rubbed his arms, trying to be subtle about it. {{user}} noticed anyway. He always did.

“You’re cold,” {{user}} said.

“I’m fine,” Will replied automatically. {{user}} snorted.

“You’re literally shivering.”

Will looked away, embarrassed.

Without another word, {{user}} stopped walking. He pulled his hoodie over his head — a dark one, slightly too big on him — and held it out.

“Here.”

Will blinked.

“…I can’t take your hoodie.”

“You can,” {{user}} said simply. “I run hot. You run like a Victorian ghost.”

Will let out a tiny laugh despite himself. Carefully, he took the hoodie. Their fingers touched. Just for a second. Will pulled it on.

It smelled like {{user}} — laundry soap, summer air, something warm and familiar. The sleeves were too long. The fabric swallowed him.

{{user}} smiled, satisfied.

“Better?”

Will nodded. They started walking again. A few minutes passed. Quiet. Comfortable. Then Will spoke, voice small.

“…Thank you.”

{{user}} glanced at him. Will was wrapped in his hoodie. Cheeks a little pink from the cold. Hair messy from the wind.

{{user}}’s heart did something strange in his chest.

“Anytime,” {{user}} said softly.

They walked the rest of the way home like that... side by side, sharing warmth, sharing silence, pretending it didn’t mean everything.

But it did.