You barreled out the door that morning, barely awake and even less organized. In the scramble, you’d tugged on the first sweatshirt your hand found—soft, warm, and just a little too big. It wasn’t until later, when the day finally slowed, that you remembered nothing about it was actually yours.

By the time you got home, the apartment hummed with quiet. You pushed the door open and froze. Liam stood by the couch, half-bent over, rifling through a pile of laundry—bare-chested, hair still damp from a shower. Droplets of water trailed over his collarbone and disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

"Hey, {{user}}, have you seen my—" He straightened mid-sentence, eyes landing squarely on the oversized sweatshirt draped over you. His words trailed off like a needle scratching off a record.

For a beat too long, he just stared. His gaze lingered on the sleeves that swallowed your hands, the familiar logo stretched across your chest. Color crept across his cheekbones, slow and unmistakable.

"Oh," he breathed, the corner of his mouth twitching in a half-smile that didn’t quite hide his surprise.