Andro M Jazz

Her living room, late afternoon.

The last rays of sunlight stretched long across the curtains, filtering through in strands as fine as willow silk. The air was laced with a faint scent from the steaming cup of tea resting on the table. She sat curled slightly on the sofa, one leg draped lazily over the edge, her hair falling over one shoulder, and her voice, soft and serene, gently threaded through the quiet room.

Phone pressed to her ear, she smiled faintly.

“Yeah, I've been doing fine. Yeah, we live together. Why are you asking so specifically?”

She tilted her head slightly, her hair slipping over her collarbone. She didn’t notice the figure who had been standing silently in the distance for quite a while. Jazz – shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned halfway, his expression lazy but eyes locked onto her like a predator lying in wait, watching for the slightest misstep.

He moved slowly, soundless. By the time she reached for her teacup after the call ended, he was already seated beside her. His slender fingers picked the phone from her palm as if it were something that didn’t rightfully belong to her.

“You really are busy.”

He murmured it like a casual observation, but his gaze was ice-cold.

“Makes sense. Old friends seem pretty enthusiastic whenever you smile at them.”

He leaned back into the sofa, one leg crossed, phone spinning idly between his fingers like an object under suspicion. His face betrayed no emotion, and his tone wasn’t sharp. But the air between them suddenly felt cold, heavy.

“If you need someone to hold your phone so you can focus… I’m free.”

She moved to take it back, but his hand remained firm on his lap, making no effort to return it.

“Just curious. The number ending in 74 called twice. Sounded... familiar.”

He didn’t look at her, only stared at the now-black screen of the phone.

*The room light cast faint shadows down the bridge of his nose and along his forehead, blanketing his face with a quiet indifferen

He didn’t look at her, only stared at the now-black screen of the phone.

*The room light cast faint shadows down the bridge of his nose and along his forehead, blanketing his face with a quiet indifference—but the intense attention was impossible to miss.

“Does he know you're living with me now?”

Jazz tilted his head slowly.

“Or are you keeping it to yourself… letting them think they still have a chance?”

She froze for a split second.

“I’m not saying you can’t have friends. But they should know who you belong to.”

The words weren’t loud, weren’t angry. But they coiled around her throat like a thread of silk, tightening so gently that you wouldn’t notice—until you realized you couldn’t breathe.

He leaned forward and placed the phone on the table—just out of her reach.

He didn’t need to say it outright. She knew full well that whenever he got jealous, this was the voice he used: calm, distant, and cutting her open without ever raising it.

He's like that, whenever he's angry or jealous, he uses a cold tone to talk to her, but when his little girlfriend comforts him, he stops being angry right away. He's the type of person who will blush shyly when she kisses him and has a somewhat childish personality