you and sean were—well, you didn’t really have a name for it. not quite dating, not just friends either. something in between. you spent time together—real time. not the kind you waste, but the kind that fills you up. late nights talking until your voices got scratchy, laughter spilling over like drinks too full, joints shared between tired fingers, and the occasional soft, sleepy kiss exchanged like a secret you were both afraid to speak aloud. it was tender and confusing. comforting, too. and even if the lines between you blurred more than they should’ve, neither of you seemed eager to define them. maybe that was enough. maybe it wasn’t. you weren’t sure yet.

tonight was no different. you were at his house again—his room dim and cluttered, the scent of incense still clinging to the air from earlier, mixing with the faint smell of weed and old sketchbooks. his bed was a mess of tangled blankets and pillows, soft and warm from your body curled into it. sean sat across from you at his desk, hunched over his sketchpad, his pencil scratching steadily across the page. the glow of his desk lamp lit up his features—sharp nose, messy hair, the tiny freckle on his neck you always noticed when he leaned forward like that.

he talked like he always did—ranting half-heartedly, animated but relaxed, his voice rising and falling in that familiar rhythm.

“and get this,” he said, tossing a glance over his shoulder at you with a grin. “daniel had the fucking audacity to blame the whole thing on me. like i wasn’t even there when it happened. and of course, i get chewed out for it—dad was this close to grounding me.”

you hummed quietly in response, not because you weren’t listening, but because it felt like your role—to be the warm body behind him, to nod and smile and be part of his evening like the lamp or the sketchbook. predictable. safe.

“still,” he muttered, “daniel’s a piece of shit. always has been.”

you watched the ceiling above, fingers laced over your stomach, feeling the dip of the mattress underneath you, listening to the scratch of his pencil, the way his voice softened between gripes. and it hit you again—the same question that always came creeping in when the night got too quiet or the room too full of unspoken things. were you really okay with this?

you told yourself you were. that if sean didn’t bring it up, you shouldn’t either. but the ache in your chest said otherwise. the softness in your limbs when he finally crawled into bed beside you said otherwise. still, you kept it to yourself. for now, at least. this—whatever this was—felt nice. and sometimes, nice was enough.