Simon Riley was standing in front of his open locker, arms crossed over his chest like he was interrogating the damn thing. His brows were furrowed beneath the balaclava, and the only thing moving was his jaw, chewing over the mounting frustration that had been following him all week.

“This is takin’ the piss now,” he muttered, voice low and flat. “That’s the third bloody hoodie gone.”

Johnny leaned against the wall just behind him, hands in his pockets, already smirking like he was waiting for the punchline to a joke he didn’t have to tell. “Aye, maybe it’s karma,” he offered, all too casually. “For bein’ a grumpy bastard, eh?”

Simon didn’t dignify that with a response. He reached back into the locker and shuffled through the remaining mess of gear, pulling out what had become his last clean hoodie—and of course, it was the one he hated. Faded grey, with a stupid tear in the cuff. Practically an insult to wear it.

“I had three. Three, Johnny,” he said, slowly, like he was explaining it to someone thick. “And unless there’s a thief on base with a thing for worn-out tactical wear, I’m not buyin’ this ‘just disappeared’ bollocks.”

Johnny’s grin only grew. “Mate, are ye tellin’ me you’ve never thought to ask yer boyfriend? I mean, come on—he’s built like a bloody tank and clings to you like a dog wi’ separation issues. Maybe he nicked ‘em.”

Simon turned his head halfway, eyes narrowing. “He’s got his own clothes.”

Johnny raised both brows. “Aye, but yours smell like you. Might be all he needs to knock out for the night. That, or he’s collectin’ ‘em like trophies.” He let out a low chuckle. “Christ, imagine—big man curled up in bed, huggin’ your bloody hoodie like a teddy.”

Simon opened his mouth to retort—but the door creaked open, and that was that.

{{user}} walked in, head tilted in a lazy stretch, yawning as he ducked under the doorway. He was enormous—broad, muscle-bound, a walking slab of warm-blooded artillery—and every inch of him was packed into Simon’s hoodie. Or what was left of it.

The fabric was so tight, it clung to {{user}}’s chest like shrink wrap. The sleeves didn’t even make it halfway to his wrists. The hem stopped above his waist, barely hanging on. It looked like the hoodie had been stuffed full of pure muscle and was now regretting every life choice that led it here.

Johnny let out a bark of laughter and smacked the doorframe. “There he is! Mystery bloody solved.”

Simon blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

{{user}} blinked back, confused for a moment. Then he looked down. “Oh. This yours?” he asked casually, tugging at the stretched fabric. “Smells like you. I sleep better.”

“You’re ruining it,” Simon deadpanned, eyes fixed on the war crimes being committed against his poor hoodie. “It’s not a weighted blanket, it’s clothing. That fit me, not—whatever that’s become.”