Write A Scene Where Someone’s Jealousy Slips Through, And The Other Person Notices But Doesn’t Call It Out: When Jealousy Slips Through (And Someone Pretends Not to Notice)

He sees her talking to someone else.

He shouldn’t care. He tells himself that over and over, like repetition might make it true. But the knot in his chest tightens anyway.

The guy she’s talking to is smiling — too much, too wide, too interested. And she’s smiling back.

Not the smile she gives strangers.Not the polite, distant one she uses when she’s trying to be nice.

No — the real one.The one he secretly hoards. The one he’s quietly, selfishly claimed.

He makes his way toward them without thinking, feet moving faster than his sense of pride.

She notices him before he reaches them — she always does. Her eyes flick to his, a spark of recognition, a tiny softening around her mouth.

“Hey,” she says gently when he gets close.

The other guy glances his way, sizing him up, but it’s her attention he cares about.

“Hey,” he replies, voice a little too sharp. A little too possessive.

She hears it. He knows she does.

She turns back to the other guy, polite as ever.“ He was just telling me about the tournament next week.”

“Uh-huh.”The sound comes out colder than he means it to.

Her brows pinch just slightly. Barely noticeable — unless you know her.Unless you watch her the way he does.

The guy clears his throat, sensing something in the air.“Uh, I should get going.”

He leaves quickly.

She folds her arms and looks at him — not irritated, not amused… curious.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine,” he lies.

Her gaze drops to his hands — clenched fists, the giveaway. She doesn’t mention it. She doesn’t tease him for it, doesn’t call him out, doesn’t make it harder.

She just steps closer. Not touching, but close enough that the tension in him loosens like a held breath finally exhaled.

“You didn’t need to chase him off,” she murmurs.

“I didn’t,” he mutters.

“Mm.”A soft sound. One that says she knows better. One that says she won’t push.

She could call him out. She could needle him, make a joke, force him to admit the thing he’s not ready to say.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she brushes a stray piece of lint off his jacket — a tiny, intimate gesture that makes his heart stumble.

“Next time,” she says softly, “you can just tell me if something bothers you.”

He swallows.“It didn’t bother me.”

She gives him the slightest smile.

Tender.Knowing.Dangerous.

“Sure,” she says.

No argument. No judgment.

Just quiet understanding.

And somehow, that makes him want her even more.

B.A.R.