You and Shane were stuck in that complicated friends with benefits thing — and honestly? It worked. Too well.

It was hard to believe that two people so different could be so… in sync. Especially in bed. But you were. Ridiculously so.

And Shane liked you.

More than he’d ever liked any other girl he’d slept with. He didn’t usually lie around talking afterward. Didn’t stay wrapped around someone, listening to dreams that had nothing to do with his world.

With you, he did.

But then you left.

And that was the deal. No expectations. No promises. Just fun. Casual.

That afternoon, he did what he always did — texted you. You’d mentioned last time that your parents would be traveling, so the logic was simple: empty house, long night, the two of you doing everything except sleeping.

But you didn’t answer.

Minutes turned into hours.

Shane tried to tell himself he didn’t care. That you were probably busy. That maybe you’d changed your mind.

Lies.

He swallowed his pride and called.

No answer.

Again.

Nothing.

That wasn’t you. You never stood him up. You never disappeared like that.

Something was wrong.

So he got on his bike.

When he stopped in front of your house — too big, too perfect, straight out of a magazine — he noticed the living room light was on. Your parents’ car wasn’t in the driveway.

He rang the doorbell, already wondering if he was being pathetic. Maybe you were just sick of him.

But when you opened the door…

He froze.

You looked awful.

The hair that was always perfect was twisted into a messy bun. Your pajamas were wrinkled like you’d spent the whole day drifting between the couch and the bed. A blanket draped over your shoulders. Your nose pink, eyes dull.

“Hey,” he said, trying to sound casual. “What happened to the hot girl who lived here?”

“Go to hell.”

He almost laughed when the insult came out wrong, dragged down by your stuffed-up voice.

“I’m sick.”

“I noticed, kitten.”

And he really had.

You looked so wiped out it was almost… worrying. Almost cute, if his chest hadn’t tightened in a way he didn’t like.

Without even realizing it, Shane stepped closer.

Then closer.

Before he knew it, his hand was on your forehead.

Too hot.

His expression shifted before he could stop it.

“You’ve got a fever.”

And then he was already walking inside, like it was obvious. Like it made sense. Like taking care of you was part of the arrangement.

He could do that, right?

You were… friends.

Friends who slept together.

Friends who knew each other naked and laughing and breathless.

That’s all.

But as he shut the door behind him and watched you bundled in that blanket, looking too small in the doorway…

…Shane realized it was getting harder and harder to believe that version of the story.