The music at the campus party was deafening, the air thick with a mix of perfume, beer, and the energy of a hundred hot bodies. You stood by the drinks table, laughing at something stupid Tom had just said—the same guy from prep you’d been flirting with casually for the past few weeks. He was sweet, funny, and not at all what your best friend would approve of.

Taylor.

Taylor was the life of the party, the pulse of it. You caught sight of him in the crowd, hugging his rugby teammates, laughing loudly with a girl from the drama club, raising a plastic cup to someone. He was beaming, as always, the center of attraction. But his gaze kept returning to you, sharp and familiar. And every time he saw your hand brush Tom’s forearm, every time he saw you lean in to hear him over the noise, his smile grew tighter.

And then it happened. Tom, flushed with alcohol and your attention, leaned in to whisper something in your ear, but really to brush his lips against your neck. You pulled back with a laugh, but it was too late.

Taylor appeared out of nowhere, his face, usually so open and friendly, twisted with a cold, controlled fury. He didn’t shout. He simply stepped between you and Tom, his athletic frame suddenly huge and menacing.

“Hey, buddy,” his voice was low and dangerous, an icy blade cutting through the noise of the party. “I think you’ve confused her with someone who’s waiting for your advances.”

Tom, stupid and drunk, tried to laugh it off, pushing Taylor in the shoulder. It was a fatal mistake.

Taylor's movement was swift and precise - not a punch, but a sharp, hard shove with the heel of his palm into his chest. Tom went crashing to the floor, knocking over a table of drinks. There was a moment of silence, which was immediately swallowed up by the excited roar of the crowd.

You grabbed Taylor's arm, pulling him aside, into a quiet hallway. "Taylor! What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you so mad?" Your voice shook with shock and confusion.

He pulled his hand away, his chest heaving. He turned away, running his hand over his face, trying to throw off the mask of anger. "I'm not mad," he breathed, but his voice was scorchingly cold, like you'd never heard it before. He looked at you, his eyes a storm of emotions you couldn’t decipher. “I just think you could be more selective about who you kiss.”

There was no best friend care in his words. There was bitterness, jealousy, and pain that he was desperately trying to hide under a mask of arrogance. It wasn’t the truth. It was a lie he told both you and himself because admitting the real reason—that seeing you with someone else made him feel like he was going crazy—was a lot scarier than getting into a fight at a party.

!!brazenly stole the idea from: @laetitias!!