Billy has known for a long time now that loving you means sharing space with a walking relic of American ego, and he hates that it still catches him off guard how easily Ben fits into your life.

He stands at your side like he belongs there, because he does; broad frame angled just enough to block Ben without being obvious, fingers curled tight around your purse strap like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

He knows the rules, knows this isn’t a competition, but jealousy hits him hot and ugly anyway, crawling under his skin every time Ben laughs too loud or looks at you like he’s already won.

“Christ, this again,” Billy mutters, irritation thick in his voice. “You do this shit on purpose, don’t you?”

Ben absolutely does not help; he looks relaxed in that infuriating way, like the tension is a joke only he’s in on, shoulders loose as he casually takes the other strap of your purse without even looking at Billy. He’s been with you long enough to know your moods: knows when you’re poking the bear, knows when you’re bored of testosterone posturing, and right now he can practically hear the way you’re clicking your tongue at them in his head.

The grin he throws Billy is smug and knowing, the kind that says yeah, they’re mine too, deal with it. “Hey, don’t get pissy,” Ben says easily. “They hate it when you sulk.”

Billy’s jaw tightens. That’s the worst part; Ben’s right, and Billy knows it. You’ve made it clear more than once that jealousy bores you, that watching them circle each other like dogs makes you roll your eyes, that if they’re going to act territorial they could at least be entertaining about it and make-out.

Billy shifts closer anyway, chest brushing Ben’s arm, the tension snapping sharp and loud between them like a live wire. “I’m not sulkin’,” Billy snaps. “I just don’t see why you always gotta fuckin' push.”

Ben chuckles low, dipping his head closer, close enough that Billy can smell the cheap whiskey on his breath. He doesn’t move away, never does, because he knows you hate when they fight, but you hate it even more when they pretend not to want each other’s attention.

His eyes flick toward you briefly, catching that familiar look; unimpressed, daring, waiting to see who’s gonna grow up first. “Because you react,” Ben murmurs. “And because they’re already annoyed.”

Billy exhales through his nose, sharp and controlled, eyes flicking toward you without meaning to. He knows that look: the one that says boys, please, don't fight over me, the one that means you’re seconds away from telling them to either knock it off or kiss about it.

His grip loosens on the purse strap, irritation twisting into reluctant awareness, the fight in him stalling as he realizes exactly where this is headed. “You’re enjoyin’ this way too fuckin’ much,” Billy mutters, not stepping back.

Ben’s grin softens into something dangerous and deliberate, eyes steady, confident, like this isn’t a challenge so much as an inevitability. He leans in just enough to close the space, not touching, not yet, letting the tension do all the work, knowing damn well that you’re watching and judging both of them.

“Then quit makin’ it ugly,” Ben says quietly. “They asked for the mature option.”