It was just a photo.

That’s what he kept telling himself. Just a harmless selfie. Just a guy. But Arthur’s been looking at his phone like it personally offended him, thumb hovering over the screen like it might explode if he taps it too hard.

You’d posted it earlier — you and your cousin, arm slung around your shoulder at a gig, grinning into the lens with cheeks still flushed from dancing. It felt casual. Nice. But clearly, Arthur’s not seeing it that way.

“Mate, you alright?” George asks, squinting at Arthur over his pint. “You’ve been staring at your phone for five minutes like it owes you rent.”

Arthur flips it screen-down and shrugs. “Fine.”

“Uh huh,” Isaac adds from the booth, “That ‘fine’ was soaked in shit, mate.”

Arthur grumbles something under his breath. You catch your name, though — and the word photo.

You approach the table just in time to watch him sink lower into his hoodie like a sulking teenager. Everyone greets you except him.

“Nice picture,” he mumbles, still not looking at you.

You pause mid-step. “Sorry?”

“The selfie,” he says more clearly, but still without eye contact. “With your new boyfriend or whatever.”

You blink, then laugh. “My cousin?”

Arthur’s head snaps up so fast you’re worried he’s given himself whiplash.

George spits his drink. Isaac nearly drops a chip.

“Oh,” Arthur says, like the ground just opened up under him. “Right. Cousin.”

You lean against the edge of the table, arms crossed, thoroughly amused. “Were you jealous?”

“No,” he blurts. “Just didn’t want people getting the wrong idea. Y’know. Thinking you’re taken or… something.”