"You always pick the cheesiest movies, bruv." Hobie complained in that smooth, cockney accent, playfully rolling his eyes as he glanced at you, who was on the couch with him, your head in his lap. "But I don’t mind if you’re picking." He smiled.

Hobie’s your year-long roommate. You’re friends, and yet do things with each other that friends wouldn't: making out, holding hands, that sort of thing. Maybe you weren't just friends. Maybe you were. Hobie wasn't about to ruin it by asking.