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It was raining that afternoon, a soft, steady drizzle that blurred the windows of Nevermore and made the entire world outside look faintly watercolor, edges fading into grey. Wednesday had returned from class to find a small, poorly wrapped package sitting squarely on her desk. She observed it, hoping it was a bomb or something to make her day more interesting, but it was too flat to be one.
The brown paper was creased and uneven, one corner held down by what looked suspiciously like duct tape, and her name was written across it in an almost illegible scrawl that made her eyebrow twitch. Thing signed something smugly in her peripheral vision, as if to say that he already knew exactly who it was from, but she ignored him, running her thumb across the ripped tape and peeling it open.
Inside lay a folded black corduroy hoodie, the kind of heavy material that felt durable, soft in a lived-in way. There was a faint scent clinging to it, one she recognized immediately and pretended not to. Cedar, coffee, a little cinnamon from that candle he always had burning in the Weathervane.
Tyler.
She unfolded it, inspecting the uneven stitching along one cuff, the slightly faded fabric at the elbows, stupid imperfections that spoke of something that had already been worn and loved. A small scrap of paper slipped out from inside the fold, and she caught it before it hit the floor. The handwriting was the same messy tilt, no punctuation, just three words that made her lips twitch against her will: 'Thought you’d like this.'
She stared at it for a long moment, fingers tightening slightly around the note, her expression carefully neutral as if trying to convince even herself that she felt nothing about it at all. Thing tapped meaningfully on the desk, gesturing toward the hoodie and then to her heart in a way that made her narrow her eyes.
“It’s a garment, not an emotional revelation,” she muttered. But when she brought it closer, pretending to check the stitching again, she found herself breathing in that familiar scent, one that had clung to the air in his car, one that made something uncomfortably warm flicker in her chest. She folded it neatly again, as though she had no intention of wearing it, and placed it at the foot of her bed.
Tyler appeared later, knocking softly before poking his head into her dorm, his hair damp from the rain and curling faintly at the edges. “You got it,” he said, smiling in a casual way that always looked a little too hopeful.
“You didn’t have to,” she replied, voice even, eyes not leaving her typewriter. “I could have simply continued confiscating your own.” He grinned wider, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Yeah, I noticed that. Thought I’d save you the effort.” She shot him a look that might have been a glare, or maybe the closest she came to amusement. "Don't you take allergy medication when you wear my brown ones?!" he teased. Wednesday wished for death as she blushed. She did, and it was not her proudest moments.
“Do you think I steal your hoodies for sentimental reasons?” she asked to change the subject, tilting her head. “I figured it was either that or a weird textile-based crime spree,” he said, leaning against the wall, his voice light. “Besides, I wore that one for a while, so it’s basically pre-approved by you. It smells like me. Which, you know, might save you the trouble of sneaking into my closet next time.”
She stared at him flatly, though a faint color had crept into her cheeks. “You have a high opinion of yourself, Galpin. I only took them because they’re warm and practical.” Tyler raised an eyebrow as he scooted closer. “Sure,” he said, drawing out the word, his smile softening a little. “Totally practical.”
The room wasn’t cold at all; in fact, the heater hummed gently from its corner, and the dusky moonlight spilled in through the window in slanted silver. But somehow, she found herself shivering anyway, or maybe pretending to. She looked away from him with deliberate disinterest, her hand brushing the folded hoodie at the end of her bed, as though she had only just noticed it sitting there. “It’s chilly,” she announced suddenly, in a tone so flat it was almost defensive. Tyler blinked, then glanced toward the heater, then back at her.
“Is it?”
“Obviously,” she replied, tugging it from the bed and inspecting it with exaggerated scrutiny, as though she hadn’t already spent several minutes earlier in the day committing its scent to memory. “You didn’t wash it.” She sighed. “You’re welcome,” he said lightly, watching her slip it over her head. It draped over her in an infuriatingly perfect oversized way, the fabric gathering softly at her wrists. She adjusted the collar unnecessarily, trying not to seem too aware of how comfortable it felt, or how the smell of him immediately seemed to fill the room.
Tyler grinned, leaning against the desk. “You look really-”
“Don’t,” she said sharply, before he could finish, and he bit back a laugh. “Fine,” he said, mock surrender in his voice. “I wasn’t going to say anything.” he lied. “You were.” Wednesday defended. Tyler snorted as he fiddled with a broken seam on his sweater. “Maybe.”
“Then stop.” He did not, of course. “You know, I think you’re actually blushing,” he said quietly, eyes glinting. “You must be really warm now.” he said with a slight mirth. “Your observation skills are as dull as ever,” she replied, almost smiling. She crossed her arms, sleeves puffing slightly where the extra fabric bunched at her wrists.
The smallest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he studied her, his gaze soft rather than teasing now, and it made her nervous enough to fidget, which was something stupid only Enid's romcom characters did. “You’re doing that thing,” he said suddenly. “What thing?” she snapped. “The thing where you pretend you’re not happy but your eyebrows give you away.” Wednesday paused at his correctness. “My eyebrows are not capable of emotional betrayal,” she said primly, but he was already laughing under his breath, and she could feel it stirring something light in her chest that she didn’t have the energy to smother.
He scooted closer before she could think to stop him, hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets. “You can tell me to go away,” he said, voice low and uncertain now. And then he wrapped his arms gently around her, like he expected her to stiffen or step back.
Her chin tilted up, eyes flickering briefly toward his, her body caught somewhere between surprise and reluctant comfort. “You’re warm,” he murmured. “It’s the heater,” she said automatically, though her voice came out softer than she meant it to. He chuckled, just once, his breath brushing her temple, and she didn’t pull away. Instead, after a long, measured silence, her hands moved to rest lightly at his sides, not quite returning the embrace but not rejecting it either. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered. “And you smell like cinnamon.”
“You say that like it’s an insult.”
“It is.”
“You don’t seem too bothered by it.” he snickered. “I’m tolerating it for scientific purposes,” she replied, closing her eyes for just a moment that she would deny later. He smiled against her hair. “Totally practical,” he whispered, and she felt rather than saw the grin on his face. She didn’t answer this time, only let the warmth settle around her, hoodie soft against her skin, his arms steady, the air thick with the faint hum of something that felt alarmingly close to contentment. How stupid.