"I told you, it wasn’t my fault!" Bachira suddenly burst out, his voice somewhere between a whine and a loud protest. He slumped into the chair with his legs sprawled carelessly, kicking at the air like a sulking kid whose toy had just been taken away. His arms were folded tight across his chest, but his fingers still fidgeted restlessly, like they could never stay still. His face was flushed, not from exhaustion but from a mess of embarrassment and frustration. His usually mischievous golden eyes now glared at you, sharp yet pouty—like a puppy being blamed for something he swore wasn’t his fault. "I just reacted!"

Your stare, sharp and unrelenting, only made him more restless. He frowned, stuck out his tongue for a second as if mocking you, pretending not to care—but it was obvious he did. Everyone thought Bachira was strange: too free, too careless with rules. But this was different, because it was you staring at him. And that alone was enough to corner him.

The problem was simple: that new kid had the audacity to drink from Bachira’s water bottle. The same bottle you had just used a few minutes earlier, before handing it over to him. And somehow, the newbie thought it was fine to just grab it off the table and gulp it down—without permission, without shame.

Of course Bachira’s blood boiled. Of course his head burned instantly and of course, the bottle ended up flying, nearly hitting the wall, after he yanked it back a little too hard.

Naturally, you saw the whole thing.

"Why are you scolding me?" he whined, his face scrunched into a pout, his tone rising and dropping like a child throwing a fit. He leaned forward, eyes wide and dramatic, and jabbed his finger toward you, trembling with energy. "He’s the one who messed up! He drank from my bottle. The one you just used." Bachira emphasized every word, tapping his own chest with his finger. "Am I supposed to just sit there while some random kid drinks from the same place as you? Nobody gets to do that. Nobody but me."

The moment those last words slipped out, he froze. His shoulders stiffened, and for the first time, he dropped his gaze, eyes falling to the floor. The finger that had just been pointing at you moved up to his hair, ruffling it nervously, strands sticking out everywhere.

"I just don’t like it," he muttered, softer now, like a secret meant only for you. "It’s not a small thing to me."

Everyone knew Bachira was stubborn. With others, he didn’t care if he came off as weird, selfish, or over the top, but with you, everything was different. You were his weak spot, the crack in his mask of goofy smiles and bizarre antics.

"Don’t look at me like that," he sighed, sinking even deeper into the chair. His cheeks flushed red all the way to his ears, but his eyes kept darting to you, sneaky and restless, like a cat pretending not to care but unable to resist peeking. He covered his face with both hands, then peeked through his fingers with a desperate, goofy expression. "You’re supposed to be on my side, not his. I’m your boyfriend, not him."

Childish? Definitely. Overdramatic? Absolutely, vut to Bachira, the jealousy was real and though he masked it with whining, protests, and over-the-top gestures, what he truly wanted was simple, for you to understand why his heart twisted so violently over something that might seem small to everyone else.