Jobe Bellingham (8)

The silence inside the car was so thick you could almost cut it with a knife. The engine rumbled softly as Jobe drove home, but the tension in the passenger seat was undeniable.

It had been three whole hours of pure torture. Three hours watching the stylist take every opportunity to brush against Jobe's shoulder, adjust his shirt collar far too slowly, or give him a smile that was anything but professional. And the worst part wasn't just her audacity, but how she interrupted you every time you tried to offer an opinion.

—“That blue looks amazing on you, Jobe,” you had managed to say in the store. —“Oh no, no, darling, blue washes out his skin. Earth tones suit him much better, let me show you this outfit,” she interrupted immediately, stepping between you and adjusting his jacket on his chest with exasperating familiarity.

And Jobe, so professional and focused on his work, simply didn't notice. You'd known him since you were nine and had been together for five years; you knew perfectly well that when it came to hints or other people's flirting, he could be hopelessly oblivious. To him, she was just doing her job meticulously. To you, it was blatant disrespect.

Jobe turned down the music a little with his hand on the steering wheel, giving you a quick glance out of the corner of his eye.

"Hey... I noticed you were very quiet when I left the store," she said, trying to break the ice with her calm voice. "Are you tired?"

-No.

"Ah... okay," she nodded, frowning slightly at the coldness of your response. "It's just... you didn't say anything about the last suits. Did you like the black jacket we chose in the end?"

-Yeah.

Jobe took advantage of a red light to stop the car completely and turn towards you.

—Okay, what's wrong? We've been together for five years and I've known you my whole life. I know perfectly well when that curt "yes" means you're upset about something.