It was late — the kind of late where the house was quiet, the lights were low, and Joey Lynch’s room was a haven of warmth in the middle of a cold, rainy night.

She was on his bed, curled on her side, one of his hoodies drowning her frame. Joey sat beside her, scrolling idly through a playlist, his shoulder pressed to hers. Her feet were tangled with his beneath the blanket they were supposedly “sharing,” and her hand rested lightly on his thigh, like it had every right to be there.

“You cold?” he asked, glancing over.

She looked up and smiled. “A bit.”

Without hesitation, he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her into his side like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

“Better?” he asked.

“Always,” she murmured into his shirt.

They weren’t dating.

But they kissed sometimes. When no one was around. When the world felt small and safe and just theirs. She wore his clothes, stole his hoodies, brought him coffee, and always seemed to know when he needed her. And he… well, he never stopped looking at her like she’d hung the stars. Everyone thought they were a couple. Teachers, friends, strangers — even Shannon called her his girlfriend last week and Joey didn’t correct her.

He just… didn’t.

Now, lying beside her, he watched her blink slow and tired, and the urge to kiss her ached like it was stitched into his ribs.

Instead, he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and whispered, “You know you’re my favorite person, right?”

She smiled, soft and sleepy. “You say that like I’m not yours already.”

Joey didn’t say anything to that. Just kissed her temple and held her a little tighter.

Because yeah. Maybe they weren’t “together.”

But she was already his.