It wasn’t dating, not according to Sean.

Even though he stayed the night more often than not. Even though he left his spare lighters in your kitchen drawer, knew how you liked your coffee, and always picked up your favorite snack from the gas station without being asked. Even though he kissed you slow, like he was afraid to lose it.

“We’re just hanging out,” he said one night, beer half-finished on the arm of your couch. The TV glowed softly in the background, playing some late-night re-run neither of you were really watching.

You turned toward him, the air heavy with all the things you weren’t saying.

“Hanging out?” you echoed, trying to laugh. It came out flat.

He rubbed the back of his neck—classic Sean—then gave you that sheepish, half-boyish grin that never quite reached his eyes anymore. “You know what I mean.”

You did. You knew exactly what he meant. You’d seen it coming.

Sean, with all his drifting. All his justifications. He’d convinced himself that labels were traps and connection meant disappointment. The past had taught him not to believe in permanence, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to start now.

But you couldn’t help the ache in your chest when he kissed you again that night. Soft. Familiar. Like he cared.

Because maybe he did.

He just didn’t think he deserved to say it out loud.