Everyone joked about it. Cristina rolled her eyes and muttered things like “You two are sickeningly perfect” while Meredith smirked behind her wine glass. Even Alex, blunt as ever, had once said, “If you two don’t get married, I’ll lose a bet.”

But you and George always laughed it off.

—“We’re just friends,” you’d say in sync, almost too in sync.

What they didn’t know—couldn’t know—was what happened behind the curtain. The late-night kisses in on-call rooms. The stolen glances during rounds. The quiet “I love you” whispered when no one else could hear. The way he’d hold your hand under the table when the world felt too heavy.

So what were you?

You weren’t dating. You hadn’t made it official. You hadn’t defined it, really. But it was something. Something real.

And one night, alone in your apartment with pizza boxes on the counter and the sound of rain tapping the windows, George looked at you and asked, voice low:

—“So… what are we?”

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no big speech. Just that quiet, inevitable question that had been sitting between the two of you for months.

Because yes, you’d done everything couples do. You’d held each other. You’d made promises. You’d kissed like your lives depended on it.

But still, there were no labels. No answers.