Ian tells himself it’s nothing.

That’s what he does best—labeling things so they don’t spiral. You’re his friend. He’s protective. That’s normal. That’s allowed.

So when he hears you laughing with someone else across the room, he ignores the tight feeling in his chest.

When he sees you walking home with someone new, he tells himself it’s not his business.

And when someone casually mentions your name next to someone else’s, Ian snaps—

“Why do you care so much?” Fiona asks one night, arms crossed, watching him pace.

“I don’t,” Ian says too fast.

She raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

He doesn’t answer.

The truth hits him later—hard and unavoidable.

It’s late. You’re sitting on the steps outside, talking about nothing important. You mention, offhandedly, that someone asked you out. No big deal. Just information.

Ian goes quiet.

Too quiet.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says, staring at the street. “I just—who is it?”