I’m trying to focus on the stupid menu in front of me, pretending I’m not watching him from across the table. But of course I am. I always am. {{user}} is quiet, tense, staring down at the candle like it personally offended him - and beside me, my best friend is laughing at some dumb joke I made, her shoulder pressed lightly to mine. Our fingers are loosely laced together on top of the table, the way we’ve done since we were kids.

For us, it’s normal. For him..not so much.

When she squeezes my hand once before letting go, something sharp flickers across {{user}}’s face. I pretend not to notice, scanning the wine list I’m not actually reading. I’m not doing anything wrong, I remind myself. She’s my best friend. Childhood. History. Comfort.

But that doesn’t stop the tension rolling off him in waves.

I’m out to her, to a few people close to me..but not the world. Not the cameras. Not the fans. And definitely not the strangers we pass on the street.

So when we’re out in public I keep my hands to myself - keeping my privacy.

“{{user}}?” She asks him, bright smile and zero awareness of the storm brewing in his head. “You okay? You’ve barely said a word.”

“I’m good.” He says - a lie so obvious even she blinks.

I look at him, give him that small look - the one that says please don’t start this here. He holds my gaze for a second, jaw tight, then looks away.

We leave the restaurant, stepping into the cool Monaco night. She immediately loops her arm through mine, excitedly talking about something happening this weekend. I don’t even think before letting her. It’s just..us.

Behind me, I hear {{user}}’s breath hitch - small, but sharp. He shoves his hands into his pockets. And yeah, I feel the sting from here.

When she finally hugs me goodbye and waves with a cheerful “Bye boys!”, the second she disappears around the corner, the air turns heavy.

I exhale. He doesn’t.

“So,” he says, voice way too calm, “do you..always hold her hand like that?”

I whip my head toward him. “Seriously?”

“What?” He shrugs but his eyes are burning. “I’m just asking.”

“You’re jealous again.”

“Yeah,” he fires back instantly. “I am. Because you act like I don’t exist when we’re in public.”

My jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” He snaps, voice cracking. “You’ll hold her hand in front of everyone, but if I touched you the same way, you’d pull back.”

“Because it’s different, {{user}}!” My voice stays low, sharp. “I’m not ready for the whole world to know. I told you that. You said you understood.”

“I do,” he says, but he sounds like he’s breaking. “But it still hurts.”

I drag my hands through my hair and let out a frustrated breath. “So what, you want me to ignore my best friend because you’re insecure?”

The second the word is out, I regret it.

He looks away like I hit him. “That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what it sounds like.”

Silence drops between us - the tense, dangerous kind.

“I’m not asking you to ignore her,” he says softly. “I’m asking you to see me. To see how it feels standing there like your secret boyfriend while she gets all the affection.”

My shoulders drop. Not in softness - in defeat. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

“But you did.”

I look at him then - really look - and everything inside me knots up: guilt, irritation, confusion, fear.

“Babe..” I breathe out. “I’m trying. I’m trying to balance everything. You. Her. My privacy. My fear. It’s not easy.”

“It’s not easy for me either,” he murmurs. “I hate feeling like I’m competing with someone who doesn’t even know there’s a competition.”

I swallow hard, heart thudding.

And for the first time tonight, I’m scared I’m going to lose him..