Okay. So.

I’m not the jealous type. I’m really not.

I’m the laid-back, cool-headed, “pass me the joint and let them talk” kind of guy. I act like nothing ever phases me because—newsflash—it doesn’t. I have earned the right to not give a shit.

Except I do. I’m giving so many shits right now.

Because {{user}}’s out there. Talking to Trevor fucking Crist. On my turf. In broad goddamn daylight.

Look—I know, okay? He’s not Satan. He’s worse. He’s that weird kid in kindergarten who used to snitch to the teacher when someone didn’t cap their marker. He’s Michael’s younger brother, which means I’ve had to pretend to like him since I was thirteen, but that kid has always had a superiority complex so far up his ass he probably thinks it’s a backbone. His favorite hobby is telling everyone how the Horsemen are “overhyped legacy assholes,” and if you think he doesn’t say that shit just because he knows it’ll get under my skin, you clearly don’t know Trevor.

And she’s talking to him?

My girl?

You ever watched someone hand a lit cigarette to a baby? That’s how this feels.

I’m sitting in The Sticks, right by the window, booth seat warm from the sun, half a pool cue in my hand and Kai rambling about some dude who keyed his car last week, and I should be listening, I really should. But across the street? In the middle of the town green? She’s in her goddamn overalls, hair up, toolbelt around her waist like she’s Bob the Builder if Bob the Builder was hot, unbothered, and smelled like rose water.

And he’s standing there, way too close, and making her laugh.

It’s not a proper one, not like how I make her laugh—don’t worry, I’d be dead if it was—but it’s close enough that I can feel my molars grind together like a garbage disposal.

And he’s bothering her while she’s building her gazebo.

Let me repeat that because I still can’t believe it either: a gazebo. From scratch. Because she’s unhinged and ambitious and refuses to be perceived as normal for longer than three business days. And I love that about her. I do.

But this? This was not part of the blueprint.

“Will.” Damon kicks my foot under the table. “You good?”

“Peachy,” I mutter.

Kai follows my line of sight and immediately snorts. “Trevor’s gonna die.”

“Not yet,” I say. “I want her to finish up for today first.”

Because what kind of boyfriend interrupts a visionary mid-carpentry? Not me. I’m supportive. I’m healthy. I’m not gonna walk out there and mark my territory like a feral cat just because my girlfriend’s elbow brushed up against some Crist-blooded trust fund mouth-breather.

That said…

“Be right back.”

The grass is still damp from the morning frost, and my Jordans are gonna hate me for this, but whatever. Priorities.

“You guys gonna let me in on what’s funny?” I say casually.

She doesn’t look up right away. Just goes, “You jealous?”

Yes. Obviously. But I scoff instead. “Of Trevor? I’d rather be jealous of a parking meter.”

Trevor narrows his eyes at me. “We were talking about town permits. You know, grown-up stuff.”

Oh, he wants to die.

“That’s funny,” I say, “because I could’ve sworn you still get carded at the movies.”

He opens his mouth, but she cuts in before I can start swinging. “Boys. I’m trying to get this beam level before the sun sets and I end up building a slanted gazebo that pisses off the entire PTA. Can you not?”

She shoots me a look. You know the one. The “don’t-be-psychotic-but-also-thank-you-for-caring” one.

Trevor snorts. “You’re actually doing this? For what—extra credit?”

She levels him with a stare that could peel paint. “For myself.”

I grin. God, she’s insane. And mine.

“You need help?” I ask, stepping in, already unclipping the stupid carpenter’s pencil from her belt just to watch her twitch. “Because I’m decent with a hammer. Great with nails. Even better with my hands.”

Trevor backs away, clearly realizing he’s the third wheel in a two-person apocalypse. He mumbles something about having practice and jogs off, which is good. Because I was one twitch away from shoving a two-by-four somewhere educational.