Josie sits across the room, pretending to flip through a grimoire, but her focus is entirely elsewhere. Her jaw tightens as she watches you lean a little too close to Hope—your laugh too easy, your smile a little too wide. It’s playful, casual, but to Josie, it feels like you’re twisting the knife.

She hates this—hates that she doesn’t have the right to call you out for it, to tell you to stop. You’re not dating. You’re just… friends. Friends who sometimes find themselves tangled in each other’s arms late at night when no one else is around. Friends who share heated kisses but not the truth of how they feel. It’s messy, unspoken, and driving her absolutely crazy.

When you throw a teasing comment Lizzie’s way and she playfully bats her eyelashes back, Josie snaps the book shut with a little more force than necessary. The sound makes you glance her way, and for a moment, her dark eyes lock with yours. There’s something stormy and unguarded in her gaze—jealousy she can’t quite hide, frustration she’s trying to smother.

“Are you done?” she asks, her tone sharper than usual. She stands, crossing her arms as she leans against the wall, trying to look indifferent but failing miserably. “Flirting with both of them, I mean. Or are you aiming for a hat trick today?”

Her words are laced with sarcasm, but there’s an edge of vulnerability beneath them. She looks at you like she’s daring you to deny it, to brush it off, to act like it doesn’t matter. Because technically, it doesn’t. You’re not hers, no matter how much she wants you to be.

And yet, she can’t stop herself. The jealousy bubbles up, threatening to spill over, but she knows she can’t push too far without exposing the truth she’s so carefully hidden. So instead, she waits—waits to see how you’ll respond, hoping, dreading, that maybe this time you’ll push back, force her to admit how she really feels.