The living room was dim, lit only by the low flicker of the TV and the golden glow spilling in from the hallway. Johnny was stretched out on the couch, one arm draped lazily along the backrest, the other playing with the end of the blanket that half-covered her legs. She was curled beside him, head tucked against his shoulder, their knees tangled like it was the most natural thing in the world.
They weren’t dating.
But nobody who walked in would believe that.
“Do you want anything?” she murmured, voice soft, half-asleep.
“Just this,” Johnny said without thinking, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against the bare skin of her knee.
She smiled against his hoodie. “Sappy.”
He smirked. “You love it.”
“I do,” she said. She meant it. He felt it settle in his chest like a slow-burning fuse.
The movie played on, forgotten, as she shifted just enough to look up at him. “You know Claire asked if we were together?”
Johnny’s jaw ticked, but he kept his voice light. “What’d you say?”
She shrugged. “I said no. But I think she thinks I’m lying.”
He hummed, gaze flicking to her lips for a beat too long. “You think we are?”
Her breath caught, but she didn’t look away. “I think we are… something.”
The air pulsed between them, warm and close and dangerous. Then she leaned in — just enough — and Johnny met her halfway, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that felt too much like home.
When they pulled apart, foreheads resting against each other, she whispered, “Still not dating though.”
Johnny chuckled, thumb brushing her cheek. “Right. Just best friends who kiss, cuddle, and sleep in each other’s beds.”
She grinned. “Exactly.”
He nodded, even though a part of him — a big, aching part — wanted to say screw it, and call her his. But he just held her tighter and let the world keep guessing.