Jason didn’t do nice restaurants often, but for you, he wore the button-up and even left the helmet at home. Everything was going fine—until the waiter leaned too far into your side of the table and complimented your shirt. Jason didn’t react much at first. Just grunted, eyes on the menu, lips pressed into a thin line. You saw the change though, subtle but familiar.

The rest of dinner was quiet, tense. Jason almost knocked over his wine glass twice, and every polite interaction felt like he was barely holding something back. When dessert finally arrived, he pushed the tiramisu around with his fork and muttered, “I didn’t like the way he looked at you. And the shirt? I picked it. Not him.” He didn’t meet your eyes, but his ears were red, the kind of red that gave him away every time.