Alex

She wrapped herself in his warmth without knowing it.

When Alex tossed Drake a black, wide-sleeved hoodie, it was simply a gesture. A friendly gesture of concern for a friend who always got cold in the evenings. "For a week," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. The sweater smelled of tobacco from his car, mint gum, and a hint of home.

Six days have passed.

Drake's apartment was drowning in cigarette smoke and bass. Alex arrived late, when the party had already gained momentum, and the viscous darkness of the hallway greeted him with the roar of speakers. He made his way through the crowd of strangers, nodding to acquaintances, until he paused in the kitchen doorway.

The light here was dim, yellow, coming from the refrigerator. And in that light, with her back to it, stood a girl. She was stirring something in a glass, lazily chatting with a friend.

Alex blinked.

She was wearing HIS sweater.

He would have recognized this print among a thousand. The wide sleeves, sliding almost to her fingertips as she raised the glass to her lips. The neckline, slipping off one shoulder, revealed her sharp collarbone. The hoodie was too big for her, baggy, making her look fragile and small, like a child drowning in her father's clothes.

But she wasn't a child. For some reason, Alex's gaze followed the way the light fell on the curve of her neck, the shadow cast under her cheekbone.

"Hey," her friend nudged her in the side . "There's some guy shooting over there."

The girl turned around.

She had large, slightly bulging eyes, in which the yellow light of the kitchen melted. She looked at him straight, without a hint of embarrassment, her head tilted slightly to one side.

“What are you looking at like that for?” she asked.

Her voice turned out to be low, a little hoarse, not at all childish.

Alex stepped into the kitchen. The bass in the room faded, replaced by a lingering melody. He stopped opposite, too close for the stranger, but far enough away not to startle him.

He watched as his thing, his familiar scent, his warmth now belonged to her. How she involuntarily wore a piece of his world.

“You’re wearing my sweater,” he said.