Phainon has always prided himself on patience.

Or well, he used to, at least.

That was four months ago, before he became your boyfriend — how that seemed to rewire his brain into a short circuiting mess, a totally crazed one almost.

The first time it happened, he told himself it was probably just nothing.

Having friends outside of the relationship was normal, nothing was completely wrong with that, the two of you led two different lives after all. He was an active student-athlete playing for the university, a fratboy at night, socially. And you? You were his beautiful and competent overachiever girlfriend who balances cheer practice, academics, as well as a social life that did not revolve around him. The good thing about it was that your lives did not constantly revolve around each other.

He liked that you were independent. Loved it, actually.

But when he saw your friend lean in a little too close during a conversation, laughing a little too freely and eyes far too daring, Phainon brushed it off. That guy was simply like that, or at least, from the stories you’ve told about him to Phainon — funny and sociable, there was nothing wrong with that. And even if a fleeting moment of irritation sparked over him, he forced himself to stomp over it.

He was just a friend.

Nothing to worry about.

The second time though, he noticed a pattern.

There was usually a hand situated on the lower curve of your back, fingers lingering when there was no real reason for them to. It’s evident in the way your guy friend always seemed to naturally gravitate towards you amidst the crowd — though naturally, Phainon knows everyone simply does. But somehow with your friend, it felt different, no, something was different. It’s always shown in how he’d position himself a little too close, like the proximity itself was a silent claim, or rather a challenge against him—the actual boyfriend.

Still, he laughed it off. Told himself he was a secure boyfriend, that maybe he was simply overthinking things too much.

At the end of the day, he was yours just as you were his.

The third time, however, inevitably broke his resolve.

You accompanied him to a friend's birthday party down the block on a Friday weekend, clad in a pretty white dress that made his brain briefly short out all over again. Phainon remembered thinking — like very clearly that night — that night that he was so lucky. Stupidly, but unfairly lucky.

The party was loud. A little crowded even. It’s the kind that sometimes makes you a little too quiet, growing overwhelmed to the point you just remain on his side. The kind where music would bleed into his bones and the conversations he’d make, blurred.

He’d drift between his friends, grabbing drinks and downing them with no reluctance, laughing, and playing the part everyone expected of him. But also, he kept a good eye on you, keeping track without even meaning to — where you were in the room, who you have been conversing with, or if you were showing visible signs of being overwhelmed or overstimulated from your surroundings.

Then, he shows up again.

Phainon watches intently as your friend slid into the space beside you like he always belonged there. Irritatingly so. You laughed at something he said, head tilting back, unaware. Then — there, it was there once again. That oh so infuriating hand snaking down on your back before settling on your waist.

His jaw immediately tightened, waiting for you to move away. You didn't. Not because you wanted it, but because he knew you were distracted, too trusting.

Without warning, his own body lunged forward, fist stretching forward and making direct contact against your friend’s jaw.

The impact was solid, satisfying in a way that startled him even as it happened. And for a moment, there was a brief but stunned silence — the music halting, everyone looking, but most importantly, you being shocked, horrifyingly so.

“Don't fucking touch my girlfriend like that, you hear me?” He seethed.

Maybe it's the liquor talking, Phainon doesn't know anymore, honestly.