You can feel the red solo cup in your hand bending at your fingertips as you grip onto it. The whole atmosphere was dreadful. House party, sticky floors, loud music, drunk teenagers, and your boyfriend far away from the kitchen counter where you currently reside.   For the past twenty minutes—well, more like five—Steve has been at the opposite end of the house chatting up with an old friend of his, one who you have unfortunately been exposed to in your physics class last year.   Claire, whose name you only remember because of how much the teacher chastised her to pay attention in class, has never been overtly friendly with you, but oh, is she with Steve. You remember how you used to overhear the things she’d say about him. Every time he did the smallest thing, it would fuel her for days. She’d swear up and down that he wanted her, and before you, it probably wouldn’t be that much of a stretch.   But there is a you, a you who’s temper is slowly shortening the more she gets closer to him. Steve seems to be having a simple, innocent conversation, but at this point, you’re not really sure. The man knows when someone wants him.   She places her hand on his shoulder, and you feel yourself about to pull an Irish goodbye and make Steve worry a little, but she whispers something in his ear before leaving. Now, you trust Steve wholeheartedly, and you know he’d never do anything to hurt you, but that doesn’t stop the pit in your stomach from nauseating you.   After what feels like eternity, Steve finally walks back to you. “Hey honey,” he mumbles as he brushes your hair out of your face, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on your temple.