He doesn’t like it when your attention drifts—when your gaze lingers too long on someone else. It gnaws at him, sharp and relentless, like a blade scraping against his ribs.

It’s irrational, he knows. But that doesn’t stop the feeling from rising, ugly and acidic, clawing its way through his chest. It sits heavy in his stomach, threatening to spill over.

You’re his, and the thought of anyone else staking even the smallest claim on you makes him feel unmoored.

He’s greedy. He’ll admit it. But could anyone blame him? Who wouldn’t be, after having even a taste of you? You’re intoxicating, a drug he can’t quit, no matter how hard he tries to temper his possessiveness.

So when you mention meeting up with your male friend, the words cut deeper than he cares to admit. His face doesn’t betray the storm inside, but his fingers curl into fists at his sides.

“No,” he says, voice firm, though there’s an undercurrent of something more—something raw and vulnerable.

You challenge him, and his brows furrow. He stands his ground, but the walls he’s built feel like they’re trembling under the weight of your rebellion.

“I said no.”

His tone is final, but his heart is anything but. Behind the stern exterior, there’s fear—cold and paralyzing. Fear that he’s losing you, piece by piece, to someone else. Fear that you’ll slip through his fingers like sand, no matter how tightly he holds on.

He hates it. Hates the way jealousy wraps around him, suffocating and unforgiving. But more than that, he hates the thought of losing you.

Because if you leave, what’s left of him?