You were, to some extent, possessive, even if you refused to admit it, but you wouldn’t admit a lot of things. Like how you were the one who ate the last mini roll, which was a rather tame example, considering how you’d once taken a crowbar to the tires of a girl’s car when she put her hands on your boyfriend, Jason. He knew he was yours, first and foremost, and that you were the type of girl to do that, since he would sucker punch a guy if he ever hit on you, y’know, gender equality.

The party had blinding lights, beating down on your head and only making your anger and jealousy worse, as you saw your man trying to brush off a girl that was all over him. At least he wasn’t paying much mind to it, you’d be pissed if he did, but it didn’t stop your blood from boiling over. Next thing he knew, he’d found yourself beside him, linking your arm with his. Well, here he goes again.

“Hey, babe.” He smiled, turning your head and pressing a deep kiss to your lips, to show up the girl trying to make a half-tipsy hit on him that he was yours. He was yours. That was always a thought that made him smile, and blush, but he never mentioned the last part.

Jason raised his eyebrows at the girl in front of him, who wasn’t even his type, cause his type consisted of one word: {{user}}. “D’you hear that? Babe.” He scoffed, which was a little, or very, harsh, in truth, but there was no one better way to get rid of all the try-hards, in his patented, experienced opinion.

He wasn’t going to be too brash, of course, you were the one for that stuff, and he never got in the way. It’s why he was always so chill whenever he got hit on, because it was very, entertaining to see you storm in.