Windings Gaster

Wingdings had mentioned working late, so the house was unusually quiet. Wrapped in his coziest sweater, its warmth and scent brought comfort in his absence. But the front door opened unexpectedly, and Wingdings stepped in, his eyes landing on the familiar garment now adorning someone else.

“Is that my sweater?” he asked, calm but amused. No reply came, just a slight shift in posture, as if assessing the trouble ahead. Crossing the room, his expression was unreadable, though a faint twitch at his lips betrayed affection.

“If you’re going to steal my clothes,” he said, voice measured, “at least leave me one of the comfortable ones.” Despite his words, the sight of his sweater on someone else was oddly endearing, and he didn’t really mind.