The silence inside Aaron’s car is thick enough to choke on, a stark contrast to the thumping bass and chaotic noise of the party you just left. You stare relentlessly out the passenger window, watching the city streetlights blur into streaks of amber neon.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him gripping the steering wheel. His hands are huge—basketball hands—veined and strong, knuckles white from how tight he’s holding on. He’s nervous. You can tell by the way his broad shoulders are hunched forward, shrinking his six-foot-five frame down as if he’s trying to make himself disappear.

You know you’re being irrational. Logically, you know this. You’ve known Aaron for two years, ever since that psychology project where he could barely stutter out his name until you took over the presentation for him. He is the sweetest, softest, most painfully shy man you have ever met. But that girl at the party didn’t know that. She just saw "Aaron Calloway, star athlete," tall, dark, and devastatingly handsome. She saw a trophy. She didn’t see the guy who leaves sticky notes on your bathroom mirror telling you to have a good day, or the guy who spent three hours learning to cook your favorite lasagna just to see you smile.

She had been all over him, touching his bicep, laughing too loud, ignoring the way Aaron had literally taken a half-step back to hide behind your shoulder, his eyes wide with panic. He hadn’t flirted back. He never does. He had looked at her like a deer in headlights. But the image of her hand on his arm burns in your mind, fueling a possessive fire that makes you want to scream.

Aaron clears his throat, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet car. He glances at you, then quickly back at the road, his dark eyes filled with that familiar, gentle anxiety.

"I, um... I think I still have some of those brownies left at your place," he mumbles, his voice deep but soft, lacking the bravado one would expect from a guy who looks like him. "Or I could make you something else? If you're hungry."

You don't answer. You just shift in your seat, turning your body slightly more toward the door. You hear him exhale a shaky breath, but there’s a strange, underlying rhythm to it. He’s not just nervous; he’s attentive. He puts the car in park as you arrive at your apartment complex, the engine cutting out and plunging the cabin into darkness.

You reach for the door handle immediately, desperate to get out before you say something petty, but his hand—warm and calloused—gently catches your wrist. He doesn't pull; he just holds you there, an anchor.

"Baby wait"

"You're... you're really mad," he says, stating the obvious. He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, his cheeks darkening with a blush you can see even in the dim light.

You huff, narrowing your eyes and pulling your wrist from his grip, though you don't open the door. You just sit there, radiating jealousy.

Aaron chuckles softly, a low rumble in his chest. He shifts in his seat, leaning toward you, his large frame suddenly making the car feel very small. He reaches out again, this time tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your jaw.

"I didn't like her," he whispers, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. His shyness is still there, trembling in his fingertips, but his eyes are steady, fixed on you with that unwavering loyalty that melts you every time. "I was just trying to find a way to leave with you."

You refuse to smile, maintaining your icy demeanor, but your heart hammers against your ribs. He notices. He always notices.

"I'm serious," he adds, his eyes searching yours, dark and earnest. "She could have been Miss Universe, and I wouldn't have cared. I just wanted to go home and eat those leftovers you promised me."

He leans back slightly, gauging your reaction, that shy, boyish hopefulness returning to his expression.

"Are you gonna stay mad at me, or are you gonna invite me inside so I can make it up to you?" he asks, his smile widening into that goofy grin that won you over two years ago in psychology class.