He was still holding my wrist.
Not tight.
Just enough to remind me he could.
"Then what do you care about?" I asked.
For a second, he didn't answer.
His jaw was clenched. His eyes weren't angry anymore — just… something else. Something deeper. Frustrated. Hurt.
"You," he said finally.
That wasn't what I expected.
My heartbeat betrayed me immediately.
"You don't get to stand there and flirt with someone like that," he continued, stepping closer. "Not when you're with me."
I let out a soft scoff. "Oh? And you laughing with her was what? Charity work?"
"That was a game."
"So was this."
"It didn't look like a game."
Neither did yours.
The words almost slipped out, but I swallowed them.
He moved closer again.
There was barely any space between us now.
I could feel the warmth of him. The familiarity of it. The memories of every time he'd held me before.
"You know what you're doing to me," he said quietly.
My voice dropped. "You started it."
"Yeah," he admitted. "And I hated it the second you smiled at him."
That did something to me.
Because that wasn't ego.
That was honesty.
I should've stepped back.
I didn't.
"You don't get jealous," I whispered.
His hand slid from my wrist to my waist — firm, steady.
"Try me."
That was it.
The last thread snapped.
I grabbed his collar before I could overthink it and pulled him down.
The kiss wasn't soft at first.
It was frustrated. Charged. Weeks of stubborn pride and stupid games crashing together.
Like we were trying to prove something.
Like we were trying to win.
But after a second…
It slowed.