Illumi Zoldyck’s jealousy isn’t something that’s loud. It’s not something you’ll ever hear in his voice or see in his words. But it’s there. Quiet. Unspoken. And it creeps into his actions when you least expect it.

He doesn’t yell or demand. He doesn’t storm in to confront you about anything, because that would mean acknowledging something he refuses to admit. Instead, his jealousy slithers into the little details—like the way his gaze lingers on you just a second too long when you’re talking to someone else. When the conversation drags on, you notice the tightening of his jaw, the almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes. It’s like a flicker of something cold beneath his usual indifference.

You catch it, of course. He’s never obvious about it, but there’s an undeniable tension that hangs in the air when others get too close. He’ll say nothing, but his body will subtly shift—just enough to let you know that he’s watching. A hand casually placed on your lower back as you walk by him, an arm that brushes yours just a little too deliberately. You’ll glance up at him and he’ll be completely unreadable, but there’s something in his presence that says everything you need to know. He’s claiming you without saying a word, and yet, he’ll never admit to it.

He never says anything when someone else touches you. Not directly. But if they keep it up, he might take a slight step closer, never too close to be noticed, but close enough that you can feel the weight of his presence behind you. It’s like he’s marking his territory, but it’s all in the small, unnoticed gestures. The shift of his posture, the way his eyes flicker with a brief, sharp glint, and then—nothing.

One day, you mention to him casually, “You look a little… jealous back there.” His response is immediate, but cold. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t flinch. “I’m not jealous,” he states plainly, his voice unwavering, as if the very suggestion was preposterous. But the way he’s holding his silence, the way his gaze stays just a little too intense on you, tells