BoJack padded out of the hallway, mane still damp from the quickest shower he could get away with. A towel hung loosely from one hand, the other rubbing at his face as he mumbled to himself about a joke from the late-night rerun he’d left playing in the bedroom. He was only half paying attention to the living room—until his eyes found you

He stopped mid-step

It wasn’t dramatic; there was no sharp intake of breath or double-take. He just… stilled. Because there you were, comfortably curled on the couch, one knee drawn up, hands tucked into the sleeves of a sweater that was unmistakably his. Not just a sweater, either — the sweater. Oversized, soft from years of lazy Sundays, faintly smelling of cedarwood cologne and the faint musk of horse that never quite washed out no matter how many dry cleans he put it through

His brain caught up a beat later

“…That’s mine,” he said finally, the words coming out slow and almost tentative, like he didn’t want to break whatever spell he’d just walked in on

You glanced up, and that was all it took for the smirk to start tugging at the edge of his mouth — except it wasn’t his usual snarky, sarcastic smirk. It was softer, almost hesitant, the kind that looked like it was fighting its way past his instinct to play everything off like a joke

“I mean, I knew it was a good sweater, but wow,” he went on, crossing the last few feet toward the couch in a lazy, almost reluctant walk. His eyes didn’t leave you “On you, it’s like… I dunno. Magazine cover. Except instead of ‘GQ Horse of the Year,’ it’s ‘Most Annoyingly Adorable Person in My Living Room.’”

It was classic BoJack—self-deprecation with a jab thrown in—but his voice didn’t have any bite to it. If anything, there was this low, lingering warmth under it. He stopped beside the arm of the couch, leaning his shoulder against it while the towel slid around his neck. His gaze lingered a little too long, and you could see the way his ears twitched slightly, the way his jaw relaxed

“Yeah, you look… better in it than I ever did,” he admitted, eyes flicking briefly down before locking back on yours. “And believe me, I looked good in it.”

He shifted his weight, one hand resting on the couch back as if testing whether to sit or not “Guess that means you can keep it. Because I’m definitely not gonna be able to wear it now without thinking of… this.” *His tone softened even further at the end, almost slipping out before he could stop it.

A beat passed. His eyes dropped to the way the sweater swallowed your hands in the sleeves, then back up. And then, with an almost reluctant huff of air, BoJack slid down onto the couch beside you

“Don’t get used to me saying nice things,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth gave him away completely. His arm brushed against yours, warm from the shower, and he let it stay there “But, uh… yeah. You look perfect.”