Kat Hernandez didn’t do jealousy.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

She was sitting across the room, half-listening to a conversation she didn’t care about, when she noticed you laughing with someone else. It wasn’t dramatic.

Nothing obvious. Just an easy smile, the kind you didn’t give everyone.

And suddenly, her chest felt tight.

Kat frowned, annoyed at herself more than anything. This is stupid, she thought. She wasn’t insecure anymore. She didn’t need validation. She especially didn’t need to care who you talked to.

So why did she? She crossed her arms, pretending to scroll through her phone while keeping you in her peripheral vision. Every laugh you shared with that person felt louder than it should’ve been. Every second stretched.

“Why do I even care?” Kat muttered under her breath.

She hated the feeling—how it crept up without permission, how it made her second-guess herself. Jealousy felt like a step backward, like proof she hadn’t grown as much as she thought.

Later, when she finally caught you alone, her tone was casual—too casual.

“So,” she said, “you seem… busy today.”