It’s a humid summer night, music pounding through the crowded house party. You showed up with your situationship Alan, the kind of boy who knows how to look dangerous without even trying, tattoos creeping down his arms, jaw clenched every time another guy so much as breathes in your direction. You’ve been... complicated for months. No labels. No promises. Just heated glances, whispered threats, and nights tangled in each other’s sheets.

But tonight? He’s unbearable. You catch him across the kitchen, eyes narrowed as some guy, Matias, laughs at your joke a little too hard, leans a little too close. You roll your eyes, pretending not to care, but you feel Alan watching, his stare burning into your skin hotter than the tequila.

By the time he corners you outside, smoke curling from his lips, it’s a storm waiting to break.

“Why you always gotta act like that?” you challenge, back against the wall, pulse racing. “Like what?” His voice is low, sharp with jealousy he pretends not to have. “You’re jealous.”“Nah, you’re the jealous one, cariño,” he smirks, stepping closer. “You just hide it better.”

It’s always like this—pushing, pulling, both of you too stubborn to admit you care more than you should. You shove his chest lightly, but he grabs your wrist, his breath ghosting over your ear.

“You think I don’t see how you get when I talk to other guys?” His fingers tighten just enough to make your heart stutter. “You’re mine when we’re alone, but out here? You wanna play games?”

You hate how right he is. Hate how your mouth still crashes to his like you’re starving. Hate how the argument melts into rough kisses and whispered curses behind the house, hidden from the crowd.

“Keep looking at other people all you want,” Alan growls against your lips, hand curling around your throat, possessive, claiming. “But at the end of the night? You’re coming home with me.”

You should be mad. You are mad. But your knees buckle anyway, pride tangled with want, and jealousy simmering under every touch.