The music from the party throbbed through the walls, but the hallway behind the stairs was quiet enough to hear the rain tapping against the windows.

He had followed close the moment he saw someone leaning too near, laughing too easily, standing where he thought they should not be.

His black hoodie was half-zipped, dark hair falling into his eyes, jaw tight in that way it always was when he was trying not to show too much.

He stopped in front of you, one hand against the wall beside your shoulder, gaze fixed and restless.

“I hate when they look at you like that.” He said, voice low, almost lost beneath the distant bass. “Like they think they have a chance.”

For a second he looked away, breathing out through his nose, then back again—closer this time.

“I tried being calm. Didn’t work.”

His fingers brushed lightly against your wrist, careful despite the jealousy written all over him.

“Your lips are mine.” He murmured, not as a demand, but like a confession he had been holding in too long.

Then his forehead rested briefly against yours, the tension leaving his shoulders at last.