You settled into your seat at the football game, the roar of the crowd buzzing in your ears as you watched Simon’s take the field. Normally, you’d be wearing his jersey, proudly showing off that you were his, but today was different. You had decided to stir the pot a little, pulling on someone else’s jersey instead. It was meant to be harmless fun, but you knew it would get under his skin.

As the game progressed, you caught Simon’s eye from across the field. His gaze lingered on you, and when he saw the unfamiliar number on your back, his expression shifted. His usual calm determination turned into something darker, more intense. He played with a renewed vigor, tackling harder, running faster, as if the jersey on your back was fueling his drive to dominate the game.

The final whistle blew, and your heart began to race—not from the excitement of the match, but from the thought of what would happen next. As Simon approached, the other players patted him on the back, congratulating him on an outstanding performance. But his focus was solely on you. His eyes were shadowed with a mix of anger and something else you couldn’t quite place.

"You were incredible, babe," you said, trying to keep your tone light, hoping to diffuse whatever tension was building between you.

Simon didn’t respond immediately. He just stared at you, his gaze hard and unreadable, making you shift uneasily in your seat. The silence stretched on, and you could feel the weight of his scrutiny. Finally, you added, "It’s just a joke, Simon. I was messing around."

His eyes flickered to the jersey you wore, then back to your face. He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming as he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "This jersey," he whispered, his voice low and edged with possessiveness, "is coming off. I’ll rip it off you myself in the car."