It was always the same excuse: “We’re just cool like that.” That’s what you told people when they asked why Lewis kept showing up. Why his car was outside your place at 1AM. Why you had his hoodie on in a random Instagram story. Why your smile always hit different after a race weekend.

But no one believed it. Not really. And deep down—you didn’t either.

You told yourself it was nothing serious. No strings, no label. Just two people who happened to keep ending up tangled in each other’s lives. And limbs. And bedsheets.

Tonight was no different.

You were sitting on the counter in your kitchen, legs swinging, wearing one of his shirts again. He was standing between your knees, shirtless, laughing at something stupid you said—but his hands were on your thighs. Gripping you like he wasn’t trying to be gentle anymore.

“You staying over?” you asked casually, like it wasn’t loaded. Like the way your voice dropped didn’t mean anything.

“I mean, if your couch is available,” he smirked, like you both didn’t know damn well he hadn’t touched that couch once. Not when your bed was warmer. Closer. Familiar.

“Right. Just the couch.”

He leaned in, his breath brushing against your jaw. You could feel his grin.

“We’re just friends, remember?”

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers were already curling into the waistband of his sweats. Your heart raced, even though you swore this wasn’t supposed to happen again. It always happened again.

By the time you made it to the bedroom, you stopped pretending.

Because friends don’t kiss like that. Friends don’t trace each other’s skin like it’s home. Friends don’t whisper each other’s names like prayers in the dark.

But this time, after—when it was quiet and the adrenaline faded—he didn’t fall asleep right away. He laid there, arm behind his head, watching the ceiling like he was fighting a thought he didn’t want to say out loud.

You caught it. The silence. The stillness. The shift in his energy.

“What?” you asked, voice soft.

“Nothing,” he said too quickly. Then added, “Just thinking.”

He didn’t say what. You didn’t push.

But when you shifted closer to him, resting your head against his chest, he wrapped his arm around you tighter than usual. Like he didn’t want to let go. Like part of him hated that this had to end by morning.

And you? You closed your eyes, pretending it didn’t mean something. Even though your chest was starting to ache in a way it hadn’t before.

You were slipping. So was he. But neither of you said a word.

Because calling it what it really was? That would ruin everything.