Chapter Text
The sweater was not hers.
It was, unmistakably, his—thick-knit, faintly frayed at the collar, with the scent of starch and old cologne still clinging to the seams. The urchin had found it folded amidst fresh laundry, nestled between his scarves and shirts, all stacked with gentlemanly precision by a dutiful housemaid. A simple mistake, she told herself. Or fate. One or the other. The lines were always blurred in this house.
It called to her.
Not in words, no. But in warmth, in weight, in the way it pooled over her hips like a memory. She slipped it on like a second skin, tugging the hem down with cautious reverence—until the sleeves dangled past her hands and the collar grazed her jaw and she felt, for the first time that morning, entirely at peace.
It was heaven. A woollen heaven that swallowed her whole.
Which was precisely the problem.
Because Phileas—perceptive, maddeningly so—would know. He always knew. The way her breathing shifted, the way she fidgeted with guilt. And this was certainly guilt. Or something close enough. She hadn’t asked. Hadn’t intended to steal it. But it was now very much on her body, and she had no plans of taking it off.
So she did what she always did.
She wrapped herself in the blanket.
She shuffled from her room cocooned in thick wool and thicker wool, with only her nose peeking out between layers. Not suspicious at all. Nothing out of the ordinary. The urchin always loved her blanket. Everyone knew that. It was armour. It was safety. It was most certainly not cover for petty theft.
And yet, despite her greatest efforts, the gentleman noticed.
He was seated by the hearth when she entered the study, spectacles perched low on his nose, morning paper in hand. His hair, still damp from his bath, curled slightly at the temples. He did not glance up at first. But the moment her foot hit the rug—
“Little one,” he said mildly, “is it cold enough indoors to warrant an expedition-ready ensemble?”
She paused, mid-step. “Yes.”
He looked up.
There was a beat. Two.
And then his gaze swept over her—the mound of blanket, the bare toes peeking out below, and finally, the familiar cuff trailing from beneath the folds, brushing her knuckles like an accusation.
His brow lifted.
“Is that my sweater?”
“No,” she said, immediately.
“Mm.” He folded the paper.
“I found it.”
“In my pile.”
“It’s very comfortable.”
“I see.”
There was a long silence, in which the urchin shifted, wrapping the blanket tighter—as if that would make the crime less visible, as if hiding meant he might forget what he saw. He did not. He only reached for his cup, took a sip, and asked, entirely too gently:
“May I have it back, then?”
“No,” she said again, unwavering. “It’s mine now.”
“Yours?”
“Finders keepers.”
Phileas blinked.
And then, the corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite disapproval. A thing between.
“Darling,” he said dryly, “you’re reoffending.”
The urchin huffed, marching toward the settee with all the dignity her blanket-bundle allowed. She flopped down with a heavy sigh, tugging the collar up to her chin and glaring at him from beneath the hem.
“I’m reformed,” she muttered. “Mostly.”
The gentleman sighed, as if burdened by the sheer injustice of it all. Then he leaned forward and plucked the spectacles from his nose, setting them aside with exaggerated calm.
“You do realise,” he said, “I’ll be cold now.”
“I’m not stopping you from finding another sweater.”
“That was my other sweater.”
“Well. Get a third one, then.”
A pause. A thoughtful sip of tea. And then, softly, almost indulgently:
“You’re not giving it back, are you.”
She shook her head beneath the blanket.
Phileas regarded her for a long moment. The blanket was shifting from her fidgeting, the collar riding up her jaw, the sleeves still swallowing her wrists. His sweater looked far too large on her. Far too right. And something in his chest ached at the sight.
At last, he sighed.
“Keep it,” he said. “But if you plan to make a habit of this, I’ll need to start sewing my initials into the cuffs.”
“You can try,” she said smugly, “but I’ll just pick them out.”
His laugh was quiet. So was the fondness in his gaze as he watched her curl into the cushions, blanket slipping just enough to reveal a shoulder, a collarbone, the unmistakable shape of his sweater’s stitching stretched over her chest.
“I should be sterner about this,” he murmured.
“You should,” she agreed.
But neither of them moved.
And the sweater, it seemed, was hers for good.