You and Coriolanus had a weird relationship.

Behind closed doors, it was everything you ever wanted—soft hands, warm whispers, plans for futures you didn’t dare speak aloud in the daylight. He told you he loved you when no one else could hear it. He’d cup your face in his hands like it was the most delicate thing in the world, press his lips to your forehead and murmur, “You know you’re it for me, right?” And you believed him. How could you not, when he looked at you like that?

But once the sun rose, everything changed.

“Are you guys dating?” someone would ask, maybe one of his friends from the Academy, or a classmate at university.

He’d glance at you, almost as if checking your reaction, and then shrug. “Nah,” he’d say, flashing that practiced smile, “just friends. Casual stuff.”

Every single time, it made your chest cave in just a little more.

Once, after one of those moments, you confronted him. You were still sitting on the barstool at his kitchen counter, legs tucked under you, your coffee untouched.

“Why do you keep doing that?” you asked quietly.

“Doing what?”

“Calling us casual. Pretending I’m just your friend.”

He ran a hand through his hair and looked away. “Because that’s what we are, aren’t we? I mean… it’s not like we’re married.”

You stared at him. “You talk about marriage more than anyone I know.”

“That’s when I’m tired,” he said, trying to smile it off. “You know I say stuff when I’m half-asleep. I’m not always thinking straight.”

“But when you’re touching me? When you tell me you love me—what, is that all sleep-talk too?”

He didn’t answer.

That night, he still pulled you into his arms. Still whispered into your hair, “I don’t want anyone else. You know that, right?”

But the next morning, when you reached for his hand in front of his friends, he pretended not to notice.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way he made space for you in his life… but never gave you a name. Your toothbrush sat beside his. Your favorite bra was folded neatly in his drawer. Your books were scattered across his shelves, your heels lined up at the door next to his polished shoes. You brought wine over on Fridays, cooked breakfast on Sundays. You kissed him like he was yours. He kissed you like he belonged to you.

But still—still—he told the world, “It’s not serious.”

His mom knew better.

“Are you coming to Long Beach with us next weekend?” she asked you over dinner one night, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Before you could even answer, Coriolanus cut in. “Mom, she doesn’t have to come. It’s not like we’re… y’know, official or anything.”

You didn’t say a word. Just swallowed the lump in your throat and smiled at his mom. “I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, when it was just the two of you tangled in his sheets, he sighed and whispered, “I didn’t mean it like that.”