You and Ian are “just friends.”

At least, that’s what you say.

It’s what you say when people point out how close you stand. When someone comments on the way Ian always checks if you got home safe. When you automatically reach for him in a crowded room.

“We’re just friends,” you insist.

No one believes you.

“Yeah, okay,” Lip mutters one afternoon, watching Ian hand you his jacket like it’s second nature. “Sure you are.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Mind your business.”

But the looks don’t stop.

Debbie raises an eyebrow every time Ian sits next to you instead of anywhere else. Fiona smirks when you show up together without meaning to. Even strangers clock it immediately.

You feel it too—every almost-touch, every look held a second too long.

The lie gets harder to maintain.

One night, you’re walking home together, arguing about something stupid. Ian stops suddenly, frustration spilling over.

“Why does everyone keep sayin’ stuff?” he snaps. “It’s not like we’re—”

“—together?” you finish.

He freezes.

The silence says everything.

You cross your arms. “Ian… if we’re really ‘just friends,’ why does it bother you so much?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Runs a hand through his hair.

“Because,” he admits finally, voice low, “maybe we’re the only ones still pretending.”