Jay didn’t come here for you.

That’s the first thing he tells himself when he steps into your house, shrugging off his jacket, greeting your brother like it’s any other night. Same routine. Same place. Nothing new.

Except you’re there.

Of course you are.

Hovering a little too close to the kitchen doorway, pretending to be busy while clearly listening in, eyes flicking toward him every few seconds like you don’t realize how obvious it is.

He notices immediately.

Annoying.

That’s what Jay decides, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed as he watches you out of the corner of his eye. You’ve always been like this—too quiet, too careful, always looking at him like there’s something more to see.

There isn’t.

Or at least, there shouldn’t be.

“You always this awkward,” he mutters when your brother steps out of the room, voice low enough that it’s just for you, “or you puttin’ on a show tonight?”

It’s mean.

He knows it is.

But he doesn’t take it back.

Instead, his gaze lingers a second too long, sharper now, like he’s trying to figure out why you haven’t looked away yet.

Why you don’t.

And why, for some reason, he doesn’t hate it as much as he should.