Jamie had lost count of how many times someone had asked, "So, how long have you and Taylor been dating?"
The question followed them everywhere, like some kind of curse. It popped up at coffee shops, where baristas smiled too knowingly when they ordered their drinks together. It came up at parties, when strangers cornered them with teasing smirks. It happened in grocery store lines, when Jamie reached for the same brand of cereal Taylor liked and some older lady behind them sighed dreamily, convinced she was watching young love unfold. It had even happened once during jury duty orientation, and Jamie still wasn't sure which was worse—the boredom of waiting around all day or the middle-aged man in the corner whispering, "Newlyweds, huh?"
Apparently, laughing at the same dumb jokes and finishing each other's sentences automatically meant a couple.
"Nope," Jamie always answered, forcing a polite smile. "Just friends."
The "just friends" was supposed to sound breezy, casual, like it was no big deal. But after years of repeating it, it had started to sound like an excuse, or worse, a defense mechanism.
And Taylor? Taylor didn't help. At all.
"Let them think what they want," Taylor said one lazy Saturday afternoon. They were sprawled on Jamie's couch like it was a throne, a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on their stomach. Taylor tossed each kernel into the air and caught it in their mouth with obnoxious precision, barely missing a beat. "We are basically married."
Jamie nearly inhaled their soda through their nose. "Excuse me?"
"Think about it." Taylor licked salt from their thumb and began counting off on their fingers. "One—we share food all the time. You've stolen fries off my plate without shame. Two—we've seen each other cry, like, ugly cry. Don't even pretend you didn't sob through that documentary about penguins."
Jamie's face heated. "They were baby penguins abandoned in the snow! What kind of monster doesn't cry at that?"
"Exactly my point." Taylor raised another finger. "Three—we spend an alarming number of weekends together. Like, an alarming number. And four—you once threatened to unplug my Wi-Fi if I ghosted you for more than twelve hours."
"That's not marriage," Jamie muttered, glaring at the smug grin on Taylor's face. "That's called friendship."
Taylor stretched, the hem of their shirt riding up just enough to make Jamie's brain short-circuit. Their hair, messy from a failed attempt at styling earlier, fell into their eyes in a way that should have been illegal. Of course Taylor didn't notice. Of course they had no idea how distracting they were.
"Friendship, marriage…" Taylor wiggled their fingers in the air like they were painting some invisible masterpiece. "It's a thin line, my dear Jamie. A very, very thin line."
Jamie rolled their eyes so hard it hurt, pretending the heat creeping into their chest was irritation. Pretending it hadn't been years since they made that stupid pact in high school: We will never, ever date each other. No matter what. They'd shaken on it, laughed about it, sworn it was the best way to keep their friendship safe.
At the time, Jamie believed it.
Now? Well, now they weren't so sure.
Because it stung—just a little—when everyone else looked at them and immediately assumed they were in love. It stung when people tilted their heads and gave Jamie that knowing smile, like they were watching the climax of a romance movie. It stung most of all because Jamie couldn't honestly say those people were completely wrong.
But Taylor? Taylor seemed perfectly content with the joke. With the easy assumption. With tossing out lines like "we're basically married" as if they weren't casually setting fire to Jamie's entire nervous system.
Jamie took another long sip of soda, willing their heartbeat to settle down. "Well, for the record, we're not married. We're not even—" The word stuck in their throat. Dating. Together. Lovers. Any of those would have sounded too dangerous. "—whatever you're trying to imply."
Taylor grinned wider, smug as always. "Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that."
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" Jamie snapped, but it came out too weak, too soft.
Taylor gasped dramatically, clutching their chest as if wounded. "Kicking me out of my second home? Cold. Absolutely cold, Jamie."
Jamie groaned, burying their face in a pillow to hide the ridiculous blush threatening to give them away. This was what it was always like with Taylor—endless banter, endless teasing, and endless reminders that their so-called friendship pact had created a rule Jamie wasn't entirely sure they wanted anymore.
It wasn't like they were in love. Obviously.
Right?
The silence stretched for a moment, broken only by the sound of popcorn crunching. Jamie peeked out from behind the pillow. Taylor was still lounging there, utterly at ease, eyes half-lidded like they belonged in this apartment, on this couch, in Jamie's life permanently.
And maybe that was the problem.
Maybe Taylor really did feel permanent.
And maybe—just maybe—Jamie didn't know how to untangle the knots of friendship and something-more that had been tightening for years.
For now, though, they shoved the thought away. "If you're going to live on my couch, at least stop dropping popcorn between the cushions."
Taylor laughed, unbothered as ever. "Married couples fight about snacks on the couch all the time, you know."
Jamie groaned again. This was going to be a long night.