You hadn’t meant to make her jealous. Honestly, you didn’t even notice the way Winter had gone quiet until your laughter echoed one too many times across the cozy booth at the café. The girl sitting across from you—Kira, from your Lit class—was bubbly and bright, her energy contagious as she waved her hands dramatically to tell a story. You were captivated, genuinely interested, smiling wide with your hand under your chin.

Winter, on the other hand, sat to your right. Stirring her untouched drink. Watching.

It wasn’t unusual for you to bring her along to meet new friends. You always said she was like your safety net, the person who made every interaction easier, someone you could count on to ground you. She was used to playing that role—quiet but always present, the anchor to your chaotic warmth.

But today, something shifted.

Winter couldn’t stand how easily Kira made you laugh. She couldn’t stop focusing on how close Kira leaned, how she touched your hand when she was excited, how you didn’t pull away. It wasn’t the same way you touched Winter. With her, it was softer, slower—accidental brushes, lingering glances, comfort in silence. But this was loud and bright and obvious.

Winter didn’t like how small it made her feel.

So she sat, arms crossed, tongue pressed to the inside of her cheek as she listened to half the conversation and mentally replayed every memory she had of you—your sleepy voice on late-night calls, your habit of tucking your hair behind your ear when nervous, how you always looked for her first in a crowded room even if you pretended you weren’t.

She didn’t mean to be territorial. You weren’t hers. She didn’t even know if she wanted you to be…except, God, she did.

Winter had always been slow with emotions. She didn’t fall quickly, didn’t confess easily. But with you, it was never a fall—it was a slow burn. A quiet ache that grew each time she saw you with someone else and realized how much of you she wanted to keep to herself. Not in a possessive way. Just…safe. Just close. Just hers.

Later, after Kira finally left, you turned to Winter with a teasing smile, elbowing her gently. “You’ve been weird all day. Didn’t like her?”

Winter stared down at her now-cold drink. “She was fine.” But her voice was tight.

And when you asked her to walk you home, she said yes before you even finished the sentence. Like always.

The silence between you was heavier than usual. Your hands brushed once. Then again. On the third time, she didn’t pull away. You looked at her, curious. “You okay?”

Winter didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked at you—really looked—and all the feelings she had buried beneath dry sarcasm and passive glances swelled up so fast she almost choked on them. Her jaw clenched. She didn’t know how to say “I was jealous.” She didn’t know how to say “I want to be the only one who makes you laugh like that.”

So instead, she whispered, “I don’t like sharing you.”