Kyle's sprawled on the couch with his phone when you walk in, wearing your hoodie this time — sleeves pushed up past his wrists, hood pooling loose around his neck. He doesn't look up right away, just keeps scrolling, one leg folded under him in that casual way he has of making every piece of furniture seem designed specifically for him.

Finally he glances over, catches you staring.

Oh, hey, he says. I know. I know what you're gonna say.

He sits up a little, pulls the hood forward to frame his face, then drops it back with this careless grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes — like he's testing to see if you'll call him on it.

But look, he continues. You left it hanging in the bathroom all damp and sad. I was doing you a favor, basically. Drying it. With my body heat. It's a service.

The light from the window hits him sideways, catching the edge of his jaw and the way his hair's still damp from the shower he must've taken earlier — probably yours, too, considering the faint smell of your shampoo lingering in the air between you. His fingers tap a rhythm against his thigh, some nervous habit he pretends he doesn't have.

You're not mad, right? he says. I mean, you're never actually mad. You just do that thing where you stand there and stare like I'm some kind of criminal mastermind.

He stretches his legs out, bare feet tucking under the coffee table, and the hoodie rides up just enough to show the waistband of his sweats — also probably yours, but he's not admitting to that yet.

Besides, he adds, softer now, you weren't home. And I hate wearing my stuff when I'm just… hanging around.

He doesn't finish the thought. Just looks back at his phone, thumb swiping slow across the screen, attention pretending to shift even though his shoulders are still tense, waiting for your reaction.