The party was loud. Music thudded through the floor, lights pulsed with every beat, and you were laughing—genuinely laughing—with someone Jesse St. James had never seen before. That annoyed him more than he cared to admit.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, nursing a drink he hadn’t touched in fifteen minutes. His eyes kept drifting back to you. You were supposed to be off-limits. His best friend’s little sibling. The rule had always been simple: don’t even look twice. And for a long time, Jesse hadn’t.

Until recently.

“Dude, you’re staring,” Puck said beside him, smirking over his red solo cup.

“Am not,” Jesse muttered, tearing his eyes away.

Puck chuckled. “If looks could kill, that poor guy flirting with her would be toast.”

Jesse didn’t respond, jaw tightening as he watched the stranger lean a little closer to you. You were smiling too much. He hated how easily other people made you laugh like that.

When you excused yourself and walked toward the kitchen, Jesse stood up straighter.

“You good?” you asked, grabbing a bottle of water.

“Peachy,” he said shortly, then added, “You dating that guy?”

You raised a brow. “What, Trevor? No. Why?”

He scoffed. “Didn’t look like nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Jesse lied.

“Really? Because you’re acting like a jealous boyfriend.”

The silence stretched. Jesse swallowed.

“I’m not your boyfriend,” he said, voice low, “But maybe I wish I could be.”