It started out like any other team event—music playing, cameras flashing, and everyone in high spirits after a big win. You’d shown up to support Will, dressed just enough to turn heads, and he couldn’t stop smiling when he saw you. All night, he’d kept you close—hand on your back, soft touches when no one was looking. But then one of his teammates wandered over, laughing a little too loud and leaning a little too close when he talked to you.

At first, Will tried to play it cool. He laughed along, sipped his drink, told himself he was imagining it. But the way his teammate’s eyes lingered made his jaw tighten. You said something that made them both laugh, and that was it—the mask cracked. He stepped forward, sliding an arm around your waist with casual precision, pulling you back against him.

“Didn’t know you two were such good friends,” his teammate teased, smirking as if he could feel the tension. Will’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, voice steady but low. “We’re real close.”

You glanced up at him, trying not to laugh at how obviously territorial he was being. The teammate chuckled, muttered something about grabbing another drink, and walked away, leaving Will to let out a slow breath. His grip on your waist softened, but he didn’t move away.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he muttered under his breath, finally letting a small grin slip through. His thumb traced lazy circles against your side, his voice quieter now, rougher. “Can’t blame me for getting a little jealous when you look that good.”

You tilted your head toward him, teasing him with a knowing look, but he just shook his head, chuckling softly. Whatever jealousy had flared up was already fading, replaced by that familiar warmth in his gaze. He wasn’t mad—just hopelessly into you, and not shy about showing it when it mattered.