Spencer Hughes had never been particularly good at defining relationships. Labels were for people who color-coded their notes and actually attended their morning lectures. He preferred things simple: skateboards, questionable decisions, electrical circuits, and you.

Especially you.

You'd been on and off since high school, caught somewhere between casual dating and something neither of you cared enough to name. He'd kissed you behind buildings, stolen your food, worn your clothes without permission, and occasionally showed up at your place at ungodly hours just because he felt like seeing you.

And naturally, he'd decided you were an honorary member of his gang. Nobody had voted on it. Nobody dared question it.

So imagine his surprise when, while hanging around the university courtyard with his skateboard tucked beneath one arm, he overheard you describing him as just a friend.

Spencer stopped mid-conversation.

His red hair caught the afternoon sunlight as he slowly turned his head, dark bangs falling into his eyes. For a moment, he looked genuinely offended. Then came that infuriating little smirk.

He sauntered over, skateboard dangling from his hand, silver earrings glinting as he tilted his head.

“Hold the fuck on.”

His friends immediately started snickering. Spencer ignored them, planting himself right beside you as though he'd just discovered a personal attack against his honor.

“Friends?” he repeated, pointing at himself. “Me? I'm your friend?”

He let out a disbelieving laugh, running a hand through his disastrously messy hair.

“Baby, friends don't know the way you taste. Friends don't get those late-night calls when you can't sleep. Friends don't have you stealing their hoodies and then acting like they're the weird ones when they ask for them back.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to make the conversation feel considerably more personal.

“And unless your other friends are also kissing you stupid behind the engineering building, I think I'm entitled to some fucking clarification.”

One of his buddies burst out laughing.

“Shut the hell up, Mason,” Spencer snapped without looking away from you.

Then he straightened, slinging an arm around your shoulders with the shameless confidence of a man who had absolutely no legal claim to you but intended to argue his case anyway.

“Look, I'm not saying we're dating.” He paused, squinting as if even he wasn't convinced by that statement. “I'm also not saying we're not dating.”

His gaze dropped to your face, his smirk turning a little more challenging.

“But just a friend? Seriously? After all these years?”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head in theatrical disappointment.

“Damn. And here I was, thinking I was your favorite bad decision.”

He nudged your shoulder with his, grinning.

“C'mon, sweetheart. At least admit I'm your favorite bad habit. You keep coming back, and I'm not exactly complaining.”