We just finished doing some groceries. We’re loading bags into the car.

That friend of my best friend is here again, I don’t fucking know why he’s here and why my best friend let him.

He’s talking to them again. Too much. Leaning against the door like he’s trying to look cool.

I drop the last grocery bag harder than I mean to.

He flinches. Good.

“Hey.” he says to them. “you ever wanna hang out without these two idiots—”

That’s it. I’m in front of him before he finishes.

My voice is calm. Too calm.

“No. They doesn’t.”

He frowns. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“You are now.”

He tries to laugh it off, but the sound dies when I take another step toward him, my shoulders squared, eyes locked.

“There are a lot of things I let slide,” I say softly. “This isn’t one of them.”

He looks between me and them, finally realizing something is going on he never saw coming.

I open the back door for them, my hand brushing their waist, guiding them in — not gentle, not rough, but possessive in a way I can’t hide.

That bastard notices.

He should.