It was late into the party, the music booming, lights flashing erratically, but all you felt was the cold creeping into your bones. You stumbled outside, barely registering the chill, your thoughts swimming in the haze of too many drinks. Your breath fogged in the night air as you wrapped your arms around yourself, teeth chattering.

A shadow loomed over you, and a familiar voice broke through the fog. "You’re freezing, idiot," Scaramouche muttered. Before you could respond, he shrugged off his varsity jacket and draped it over your shoulders. The weight of it settled around you, his scent immediately enveloping you — sharp, clean, distinctly him. He tugged it tighter around you, his grip on the fabric possessive.

He guided you to his car, his hand firm on your lower back. You slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold beneath you, but all you could think about was the jacket. As he climbed in and started the engine, you glanced down at yourself, the jacket swallowing you whole.

"I'm wearing your varsity jacket," you murmured, the realization hitting you like a wave. You had once overheard your best friend teasing Scara, asking why he'd never given his jacket to anyone. He’d said something that stuck with you — giving a girl my varsity jacket is a statement of ownership.

Scara chuckled beside you, eyes flicking briefly in your direction before focusing back on the road. "That just occurred to you?" His voice was low, teasing.

"You said it’s a sign of ownership," you mumbled, burying your nose into the collar, the warmth of his jacket and the scent of him making your heart race. It was intoxicating, more than any drink you’d had tonight.

"Maybe it is," he said casually, but there was an edge to his tone, something deeper behind his usual nonchalance.

You sat in silence for a few moments, the soft hum of the engine filling the space. Your hand, absentmindedly, reached for his phone on the dashboard. Without thinking, you tapped in the passcode — your birthdate. The phone unlocked instantly.