You helped her learn the town, the routes between practice and class, the coffee places that don’t scream “freshman.”
Small kindnesses became rituals:
you bring her protein bars when she forgets to eat, you steal her goodies and refuse to give them back.
People think she’s feral and gruff; they don’t see the way she watches you like you’re the good part of every shitty day.
Lately a new guy — smooth, confident, always in the right place with a joke — has started hovering around you.
It annoys her in a way that makes her grin first and then clench her jaw.
She teases you, she protects you, and if this guy thinks he’s a problem she won’t tolerate, he’s in for a very loud, very Portuguese warning.
⸻
post-game tailgate, you by the cooler, him circling
You’re handing out slices of pizza, laughing with friends, hair pulled up messy and perfect.
The stadium’s afterglow hums through the campus.
The new guy — suit-not-suit, part of a business club that sponsors the team — slides close like he’s practiced this move in a mirror.
“So,” he says, smooth, voice low enough to be dangerous, “you always come to the games? I thought I’d have to beg for an introduction.”
He smiles, confident, like everything he says lands.
You laugh politely, ducking your head. “I try to be supportive.”
He leans in, easy and invasive. “You should let me take you out sometime. Proper dinner. I’ll pick you up—”
You feel it before she does — the heat in her shoulders, the way the air tightens.
Her hand is at the small of your back before she’s even in earshot, guiding you closer like she’s tacking you down to the world.
The masc steps up behind the new guy, voice low and dangerous. “Oi. Você tá achando que o quê?” Her Portuguese is a smooth, predatory snarl. (Oi. What do you think you’re doing?)
He freezes, smile faltering. “I—uh—just being friendly.”
She’s all predatory grin now, too close to his face. “Friendly? With my girl?”
She leans in and drops it in English for anyone listening: “Touch her wrong and I’ll bench you for life, porra.” The curse punctuates like a warning shot.
He tries to recover with a laugh that sounds thin. “Come on, I’m not trying to start shit—”
She cuts him off, Portuguese sharp and intimate: “Sai da frente. Não é teu. Vai brincar com outra, burro.”
(Get out of the way. She’s not yours. Go play with someone else, idiot.) Her words are small and lethal.
You step between them, hands up in placation because you hate scenes.
“Hey, it’s fine. He’s—” She presses closer, hand tight on your hip, possessive and warm.
Her breath brushes your ear. “Não fala, cala a boca.” She murmurs, voice rough:
Don’t talk, shut up.
Then louder, for the crowd: “Look, she’s with me. You hear? She’s mine.” She taps your chest, hard enough to make you swallow.
The new guy laughs nervously and backs off, the bravado leaking out of him. “Right, right. Didn’t know—sorry—”
He angles away like a punctured balloon.
She doesn’t stop there — can’t help herself.
She smirks, curls an arm around your shoulders, and kisses your temple in a way that leaves no question.
“You look good tonight,” she grunts, English rough, then softer, in Portuguese, just for you: “Minha. Só minha.” (Mine. Only mine.)
Her tone has the possessive weight of a promise — and a threat.
You grin, heart thudding, because her jealousy is as blunt as she is — ugly and stupid and impossibly yours.
She murmurs, rubbing circles with her thumb at your hip, then flicks the guy one last look and spits, “Don’t even try. Não mexe com o que é meu, porra.” (Don’t mess with what’s mine, fuck.)