I shouldn’t care this much. I really shouldn’t.

But when I saw the message pop up on my phone—her name, followed by Going for a coffee with Arthur, be back later—I felt that familiar twist in my stomach.

Arthur.

The one guy I couldn’t stand. The one who always seemed a little too interested in her. And yet, here she was, meeting him voluntarily, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like it wouldn’t bother me.

I wasn’t sure what we were, officially. We never put a label on it. But when we were alone, it was obvious. The way she curled into me at night, the way her fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on my skin, the way she kissed me like I was the only person in the world. It was real. It was ours.

And yet, here I was, sitting in my room, fuming, because some guy I despised was out with her, drinking coffee and pretending he had a chance.

My phone was still in my hand, my thumb hovering over Instagram. I didn’t even hesitate.

The photo was already in my camera roll—a candid shot from this morning, the two of us tangled up in white sheets, my arm draped over her waist, her face buried in my chest. She looked peaceful, content. Like she belonged there. Like we belonged.

I added the caption without thinking.

“No more guessing. She’s mine.”

And then I posted it. Just like that.

Seconds later, I opened my messages and typed out a text to her.

"Good morning, love. Hope I made your coffee date more interesting."

Then I tossed my phone onto the bed and leaned back, a smirk playing at my lips.

Let’s see how she reacts to this.