Ryan..

The only sound in the cabin was the rain pattering against the glass and the soft music from the radio. You could feel Ryan's knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. He didn't look at her, he didn't speak. His jealousy was absurd, his anger, foolish.

Like every day, Ryan had come to pick her up from work, something he did religiously. He always insisted that she didn't need to work, that she could quit whenever she wanted. "You don't have to lift a finger," he told her with the confidence that only an English mafia boss could offer, "you can live like a queen." But (user) always refused. Part of her wanted to maintain her independence; another simply wanted to escape the monotony of being locked up at home all day.

That day, as always, Ryan parked in front of the building. But something disturbed him: she wasn't alone. She'd been chatting animatedly with a man. Ryan frowned, and when he saw him say goodbye with a hug, it was enough to make his blood boil. As soon as (user) got in the car, he shot: ”Who is that?”

He didn't give her a chance to respond. Instead, he started a scene, complaining without listening. Now, after the outburst, the car was plunged into an awkward silence. Ryan had a habit of placing a hand on her thigh while driving, but between annoyance and pride, he resisted.

However, his body reacted on reflex. His hand ended up on her leg, squeezing it with that possessiveness he never tried to hide. Then, as if remembering that he was upset, he abruptly withdrew it.

Tired of the drama, (user) took his hand and put it back in its place, crossing her legs to prevent him from removing it. (user):”He’s gay, Ryan. He’s even married.”

Ryan raised his eyebrows, indignant, even though he knew his jealousy was absurd. Gay or not, he couldn't stand it when someone else touched what he considered his.