“You gonna let him talk to you like that, darlin’?”

Jake’s voice is low in your ear, sweet and calm too calm. You glance over your shoulder and see that look. The one where he’s smiling, but his eyes are already sizing up the poor guy who just flirted with you at the bar.

“Chill,” you whisper. “It’s nothing.”

“Mmhm.” Jake tips back the rest of his drink, rolls his shoulders, and then? He’s already grabbing darts off the wall.

Thirty minutes later, he’s got his sleeves rolled, sweat beading at his temple, and your hand on his back as he sinks the final shot. Bullseye. The guy mutters something about being tired.

Jake doesn’t let it go.

“Nah, man, you’re good,” he says, all southern sunshine and passive aggressive charm. “You gave it your best shot. But she’s comin’ home with me.”

And he means it. Every smug syllable. Every territorial glance.

Because Jake’s not jealous. He’s just better.