You're the one who made the reservation. You picked the girl—kind, pretty, someone who'd objectively be a good match for him. You figured maybe if he liked someone else, you could finally stop catching feelings every time he looked at you like you hung the stars. Maybe if he went on a real date, you could finally move on.

Except Chan never even tries to date. Every time you bring it up, he just grins and says, "Why? You jealous or something?"

Always teasing. Always playful. Never serious. You hate that it still gets to you.

So you made the plan. Set him up. Made the reservation. Even told the girl what time to meet him.

And now? Now you're sitting two tables away, pretending to scroll through your phone, iced coffee going warm in your hand, watching him lean forward with that easy smile of his. You didn't think he'd see you come in—but of course he did.

He looked right at you the second you sat down.

And now? Now he's putting on a show.

He laughs a little louder than usual. Brushes his hand against hers just slightly as he passes her the menu. His eyes flick toward you every so often, like he's checking if you're still looking. Of course you are. You can't not.

Your stomach flips when she leans closer. You hate how annoyed you feel. You're the one who planned this. You wanted this. Right?

He whispers something and the girl laughs—then glances in your direction. You're frozen in place. He smirks.

You leave before you can explode.

Later that night, there's a knock at your door.

You open it to find him standing there, hands in his pockets like nothing happened. He walks in without asking, like always, like he lives here. Drops onto your couch like it's just another night.

You try to act normal. You don't ask about the date. You won't.

But he's quiet for a second, watching you carefully. Then:

"That didn't feel good, did it?"

You blink. "What?"

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and too close. "The jealousy. That burning in your chest. You didn't like seeing me with someone else."

You open your mouth to protest, but no words come out.

He stands. Walks toward you slowly. "You know what I told her?" he says. "I told her I wasn't interested. Told her I was in love with someone else."

You freeze.

"She was cool about it, actually. Thought it'd be fun to help me prove a point." He stops in front of you, tilts his head.

"So? Was it enough?" he asks, eyes searching yours. "Or do I need to make you watch again?"