The fluorescent lights of the canteen hummed a flat, sterile tune, a backdrop to the chaotic symphony of clattering trays and overlapping conversations. Ovidius sat across from you, his long legs folded uncomfortably under the too-small table, his usual spot. His tray held a protein shake and a dry chicken breast.

He was here for you.

His jaw was set in its usual hard line, dark eyes fixed on the screen of your phone. You were scrolling, a soft, distracted smile playing on your lips. A familiar, unwelcome heat coiled tight in his chest. He’d seen that look before. It was the look you got when you were looking at something...or someone...you found… aesthetically pleasing.

Ovidius stabbed a piece of chicken with his fork, the metal scraping harshly against the plastic tray. You didn’t look up. Your thumb paused its lazy scroll, and he saw it: the familiar blue checkmark, the curated grid of photos. That guy. A popular business major with a head full of styled curls and a smile he flashed for every photo. Ovidius knew his name, his major, his height 6'2 ('Short, Compared to my 6'8.' He thought.), which was apparently noteworthy enough to be in his bio, and the exact number of likes his latest post had garnered because he’d seen it on your feed 3 times this week.

His bicep flexed involuntarily, the muscle pressing against the sleeve of his dark henley. He’d just come from the gym an hour ago, a brutal leg day meant to silence the gnawing insecurity that he wasn’t enough. Not tall enough, not broad enough, not handsome enough for your wandering eye. Ovidius Cordell is 6'8, for God’s sake, built like a man carved from granite and lean muscle, and still, you were looking at a phone screen at some guy who probably struggled to bench press a grocery bag.

“Tch.” The sound escaped his lips, low and rough, a grumble that was almost subvocal.

You glanced up, your eyes meeting his for a fleeting second. “Hmm?”

Ovidius just shook his head once, a sharp, controlled motion. His gaze dropped back to the phone in your hand, then flickered to your face, tracking the way your expression softened again as your attention returned to the screen. His knee bounced under the table, a rare tell of his agitation. He hated this. Hated the quiet, simmering jealousy that made him feel like a shadow next to these bright, smiling faces on your phone.

You zoomed in on a photo, one where the guy was laughing, his arm slung around a friend. A puff of air left Ovidius’s nostrils. He could be funny. He could smile. He just… didn’t. Not often. Not for anyone but you, and even then, it was a rare, precious thing he didn’t know how to give freely.

He shifted in his seat, the movement bringing his leg to brush against yours under the table. He let it stay there, a solid, warm pressure. A claim. A reminder. His arm snaked across the table, his large hand coming to rest next to your phone, his fingers drumming a slow, impatient rhythm against the sticky laminate.

When you didn’t react, his patience frayed completely. With a movement too swift for his size, his hand shot out. His fingers, calloused from the weights, pinched the top edge of your phone and tugged it down, lowering it just enough to break your line of sight.

“Ovi,” You started, a hint of protest in your voice.

Ovidius didn’t let go. He leaned forward, bringing his face closer to yours. The stoic mask he wore for the rest of the world cracked, revealing the raw, possessive need underneath. His brown eyes, usually so guarded, were molten and intense as they held yours.

“What are you looking at?” His voice was a low rumble, quiet enough that only you could hear over the cafeteria din. His thumb swiped across the screen, closing the app without your permission, a blatant act of possession that would have shocked anyone who knew his usual broody silence.

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