The Gallagher house was freezing. Not metaphorically—actually freezing. The heater had given up sometime around 2 a.m., and no one had the energy or money to fix it yet.

You noticed your hoodie was missing the moment you walked into the living room.

Fiona noticed you noticed.

She was curled up on the couch, knees tucked to her chest, wearing your hoodie—sleeves too long, hood pulled up, looking far too comfortable for someone who had absolutely stolen it.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” you said.

She didn’t even look up from the TV. “No, I’m wearing a hoodie.”

“That is literally mine.”

Fiona smirked, tugging the sleeves down further over her hands. “Prove it.”

“You stretched the cuffs,” you pointed out. “And that stain? Coffee. From when I tripped on the stairs.”

She finally glanced at you, eyebrow raised. “Sounds like you should’ve taken better care of it.”