He didn’t mean to be the jealous kind.
That’s what Noel told himself as the city lights smeared across the windscreen.

London humming like an old amp that refused to cool down. Every street felt familiar, yet wrong, as if he’d walked it a thousand times but missed the turn that mattered.

Fame had taught him plenty of things—how to write a melody that stuck, how to pretend indifference when the world leaned in too close—but it hadn’t taught him how to say sorry without choking on pride.

That part still caught in his throat, sharp and uncooperative. He replayed the moment again, the way one does when sleep won’t come. The look in her eyes—not anger, not even disappointment, but something quieter. Hurt that didn’t shout. Hurt that didn’t need to. He’d filled the silence with his own voice, too loud, too certain, afraid that if he stopped talking he’d have to listen to what was breaking.

Jealousy was a funny thing. It dressed itself up as protection, as truth-telling, as righteousness. It told him he was right to question, right to push, right to demand reassurance like it was owed. Only later, alone with the echo of his own words, did it strip itself bare and leave him staring at what he’d done.

The radio played low, some old tune about regret and wanting to be better than you are. He almost laughed at the timing. Almost. Instead, he reached out and turned the volume down, as if the song might look straight at him if he let it run.

He wasn’t a cruel man. Not by design. He loved fiercely, and when love mixed with fear, it came out sideways. Sarcastic. Defensive. Sharp. He’d learned how to build walls out of wit and chords, but he’d never learned how to stop someone from getting cut when they leaned too close.

Tonight, though, the bravado felt thin. The words he’d thrown around earlier—careless, heavy—hung in the air like smoke that wouldn’t clear. He imagined the words settling on her shoulders, weighing her down, and the thought made his chest tighten.

If he could rewind, he wouldn’t change the feeling. He knew jealousy was human. But he’d change the way he handled it. He’d choose quiet over noise. Listening over accusation. He’d tell her that the fear wasn’t about her at all—it was about losing the one place he felt understood.

The car slowed at a red light. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, restless, restless always. An apology formed in his head, imperfect but honest. Not a grand gesture. Just the truth, stripped back, acoustic and bare. He didn’t know yet if she’d forgive him. He only knew that for once, he wanted to be the man who admitted he was wrong before the song was over.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to start again.