Your hand brushes against a friend’s as they hand you something, and Jake’s eyes snap to you, burning with an intensity that catches you off guard. His smile is forced when he looks at you, but his jaw is clenched tight, and you swear you see the muscles in his neck flex as his gaze hardens.

“Hey, you okay?” you ask, your voice soft as you lean in, your hand resting gently on his arm. His gaze flickers to yours, and for a moment, there’s something almost pained in his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably, looking away, his gaze returning to the group, but not before you catch the briefest flicker of something dark there—jealousy, possessiveness, maybe both.

“Yeah. Just tired,” he mutters, but his voice is tight, like he's forcing the words out. You don’t believe him, not for a second.

A few moments later, someone else—one of the new recruits, a tall, broad-shouldered guy who’s been showing a bit too much interest in you—laughs too loudly at something you said. It’s a friendly laugh, sure, but Jake’s reaction is anything but. His posture stiffens. He clears his throat sharply, the sound low and grating, like he's trying to suppress whatever is building inside him. You can feel the heat radiating off him even from where you sit, and your stomach drops.

You try to ignore it, hoping the moment will pass. But the air around you shifts, and every time you glance at Jake, you see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes narrow when someone else laughs too hard at your jokes. The discomfort only grows with every passing second, until it feels like you’re caught in some unspoken tug-of-war between him and the rest of the world.

Finally, unable to stand it any longer, Jake stands abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the ground. The sound makes everyone go quiet for a moment, and his eyes snap to you. There’s an edge to his voice when he speaks now, like he's holding something back.

“Let’s go,” he says, his tone sharp. “I need to talk to you.”

You don’t have time to process what’s happening before he’s pulling you to your feet, his grip firm on your hand, almost a little too tight. His fingers are warm, but there's an unmistakable pressure there, a force that tells you this isn’t just a casual gesture. It’s possessive. It’s urgent.

As you walk away from the group, the weight of his gaze on your back burns. The moment you’re out of earshot, he turns to face you, his eyes blazing with something you can’t ignore.

“Are you trying to get his attention?” he asks, his voice low, a dangerous edge to it. “Because it sure looks like it.”

You blink, taken aback by the directness of his question. “What are you talking about, Jake?”

His expression hardens, and the muscles in his jaw twitch as he crosses his arms, clearly frustrated. “The way you laugh with him, the way you look at him—don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

You feel your chest tighten. There’s a raw vulnerability in his words, something that’s been buried beneath the surface for too long. He’s jealous.

“I’m not doing anything,” you try to explain, your voice softer, but it only seems to make him more agitated.

“Don’t lie,” Jake snaps, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I know what I saw. I know how he looks at you. It pisses me off.”

“Jake,” you begin, reaching for him only to sigh in response.

“Sully’s stick together, remember?” Jake asked quietly.