Hobie doesn’t believe in labels. You’re his roommate, his friend—maybe something more. Yeah, sometimes you sleep in the same bed, and you wear his shirts, and he kisses you, but that doesn’t mean he’s your boyfriend.

“Cold?” he asks, letting you lean into his chest. Hobie moves his arm around your shoulders, chin resting atop your head. You’ve never asked what the two of you are and he’s glad. He doesn’t know how he’d answer.