#caines

Tamsy was beautiful, you knew that from the very first day his lazy gaze slid over you, assessing, analyzing, memorizing. But back then his beauty felt distant, cold, untouchable, like a statue’s. Now it was yours, and sometimes that drove you insane.

He understood perfectly well how much you loved him. That smug cat rarely gave you any reasons to be jealous, he barely noticed anyone else when he was with you. But being the girlfriend of someone that beautiful was a challenge in itself. Because other people noticed. Other people lingered around him, flirted, tried to start conversations, pretended not to see you standing right there beside him.

And sometimes you had to fight for your place under the sun, silently, with gritted teeth, with nothing but your presence and the way you rested your hand on his shoulder, intertwined your fingers with his, looked at your rivals with a stare that clearly said: “Back off. Mine.”

He saw all of it, you knew he did. But he never commented on it, never teased or provoked you. He simply accepted your possessive nature as something natural and, deep down, seemed to enjoy it.

One weekend the two of you decided to go out into the city, not for errands or shopping, just to walk around like ordinary people. To allow yourselves the illusion of a normal life where there were no garbage monsters, patrols, or endless exhaustion. You wore your favorite dress, the one that always made his gaze linger on you a little longer than usual. Tamst dressed up too, wearing a simple but perfectly fitted shirt and dark trousers, his perfectly straight hair spilling over his shoulders in a way that made your stomach flip every time you looked at him.

The evening was warm, almost gentle. You wandered through narrow streets, looked through shop windows, laughed at stupid little things, and for a while you felt genuinely happy. Then he suggested stopping by a café, small, cozy, with live music and the smell of fresh coffee.

You sat in the corner by the window, talking, laughing, drinking some overly sweet lemonade, making plans for tomorrow. Everything was perfect. Almost perfect.

Until you started noticing the looks.

First from the girl at the neighboring table, she stared at Tamsy like he was a dessert she’d ordered but hadn’t been served yet. Then another look, from a waitress who spent far too long wiping the shelf behind him. Then another. And another.

You glanced around the café. There were suspiciously many girls there, single or not, their attention kept drifting toward your boyfriend anyway. Beautiful, calm, mysterious, he attracted attention even when he was simply sitting there drinking water.

And Tamsy, meanwhile, couldn’t have cared less. He either genuinely didn’t notice the stares or just pretended not to. He talked to you, looked at you, smiled only at you. His hands rested relaxed on the table, completely open and unguarded. Tamsy was entirely focused on you, and that should’ve comforted you, but instead it started driving you crazy.

Some overly possessive instinct woke up inside you, whispering: Mine. They’re looking at mine. They shouldn’t look.

You knew it was stupid. You knew he wouldn’t leave you, wouldn’t lose interest, wouldn’t suddenly choose someone else. You knew your jealousy was irrational, but you couldn’t help it.

You smoothly took his hand, intertwining your fingers and feeling the familiar warmth of his palm. He looked at your hand, then at you, mild surprise flickering in his eyes.

— “What’s gotten into you?” he asked quietly.

— “Nothing,” you replied, trying to sound casual.

Five minutes later you leaned over to kiss him, simply because you wanted to. And because the waitress was wiping that same shelf again.

Tamsy kissed you back slowly and softly, his lips lingering against yours a little longer than usual. When you pulled away, he looked at you with the faintest smirk curling at the corners of his lips.

— “You’re affectionate today,” he noted.

You shrugged, trying not to blush even though everything inside you was already boiling.

You did your best not to show that you were jealous. But at the same time you rested your head on his shoulder, stroked his forearm, laughed a little louder than necessary. You acted like a possessive girlfriend marking her territory while pretending it was just spontaneous tenderness.

And of course he understood everything. Tamsy wasn’t stupid, he read your behavior as easily as an open book. Jealousy, possessiveness, slight panic, all of it showed in your gestures, your glances, the way you squeezed his hand whenever another pretty stranger walked by.

He quickly analyzed the situation: nothing dangerous, your relationship wasn’t threatened, you were simply irritated.

And he let himself relax.

More than that, he started enjoying it.

Tamsy liked all of this. He liked watching you get jealous, watching you squeeze his fingers just a little tighter than usual, watching your eyes throw daggers at any woman who looked at him for more than three seconds. He liked how hard you tried to seem sweet and casual while a tiny personal hurricane raged inside you.

He liked that you were jealous. Because it meant he mattered to you. Because it meant you were afraid of losing him. Because it meant you were willing to fight for him, even when there was no one to fight and nothing to fight over.

And he said nothing. Didn’t tease you. Didn’t provoke you. He simply sat there enjoying the evening, the music, the lemonade and the sight of his girlfriend destroying every potential rival with a single glance.

But you couldn’t know what was going through his mind, and that only irritated you more.

By the end of the evening the lemonade was finished, and the waitress had practically scrubbed a hole through that poor shelf. You stood up from the table. Tamsy helped you put on your jacket, an old-fashioned gesture, almost knightly, and one you loved dearly.

You exhaled as the tension slowly began to fade. Soon you’d leave, get into the car, drive home, and there, in your room, you’d have him all to yourself without anyone else watching.

You stepped out of the café. The cool evening air hit your face, washing away the stuffiness and all those lingering stares. You took a deep breath and felt your shoulders relax.

Then he said:

— “You’re jealous.”

It wasn’t a question. His tone was calm, almost lazy, but there was something in it that made you tense all over again.

— “Why would I be?” you replied, trying to keep your voice even.

— “That’s exactly the point,” he said, turning toward you, a barely noticeable smile touching his lips. The same smile that always made you melt.

— “There’s no reason for it. But you are jealous.”

You froze. A fresh wave of frustration rose inside you, because he noticed, because he was right, and because that sly fox had clearly known the entire time. Known, and said nothing. Just watched. Just enjoyed himself.

— “I’m not jealous,” you muttered, feeling heat rush to your cheeks.

He tilted his head, his smile widening as mischief danced in his eyes.

— “Of course not,” he drawled.

— “You just grabbed my hand. Then kissed me. Then kept stroking my shoulder. Then glared at every girl who looked in my direction. That’s just concern?”

— “Tamsy!” you protested, but he was already laughing quietly that rare, low laugh that always destroyed your ability to think properly.

You wanted to say something else, something sharp enough to put him in his place. But he stepped closer first, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you light, almost weightless, yet enough to make every argument disappear from your mind.

— “I like it,” he whispered against your lips.

— “When you get jealous. It means I matter to you.”

— “You already know that,” you mumbled, melting under his closeness.

— “I do,” he nodded, those sparks lighting up in his eyes again.

— “But it’s nice getting confirmation.”

Then he turned and walked toward the car, leaving you standing on the sidewalk with burning cheeks and a violently pounding heart.

— “You’re impossible!” you shouted after him.

He didn’t turn around, but you saw his shoulders shake, he was laughing.

That smug, beautiful, unbearably beloved cat.

The one who knew everything, who enjoyed your jealousy, and who promised you a long, happy life full of little quiet provocations like this.

You sighed, smiled, and followed after him.