Jasper and Arson insisted they were not dating.

They said it every morning when they walked into class together, Jasper with his blonde hair still damp from his shower and Arson with his brown curls messy from Jasper running his hands through them on the way there. They said it when they sat down, always in the same seats and always a little too close for two people who claimed to be just friends. Jasper rested his tattooed arm across the back of Arson’s chair, and Arson pressed his boot against Jasper’s leg like it belonged there.

“Not dating,” Arson would say while flicking the silver ring in his lip with a lazy grin.

“Definitely not,” Jasper would answer, even though his fingers were quietly tracing the ink on Arson’s forearm like he knew every line by heart.

Their classmates had stopped asking questions. It was difficult to believe the denial when Arson regularly fell asleep on Jasper’s shoulder during lectures, or when Jasper adjusted Arson’s piercings with the kind of care that did not fit the word friend.

One afternoon the professor paused in the middle of her lesson and stared at the two muscular boys who were practically tangled together in their seats.

“You two. Are you sure you are not dating?”

Arson blinked awake and lifted his head from Jasper’s shoulder. “No,” he said calmly.

Jasper nodded. “We are just close.”

The entire class groaned.

But when Arson nudged Jasper under the table and their fingers brushed and then slowly laced together, neither of them pulled away.

“Not dating,” Arson whispered.