Discover Top Posts Tagged with #jaafar os

heeyy can you do jaafarxreader when they are in secret relationship and he like gets jealous maybe they both are actors i really don't know it's up to you but i really want the jealousy trope and like fluff maybe the reader laughs at jafaar so ends up trying to earn his forgivness by prepping kisses all over his face and stuff or maybe the reader was doing it on purpose and he figure it out so he got mad buut i don't know it's up to you,you are the expert between us please and thank u very much

that’s my girl | jaafar jackson

pairing: jaafar x actress!reader

word count: 6,8k

summary: where jaafar can’t hide his jealousy

a/n: this can be read as a continuation of speculation or completely on its own! please don’t come for me if any of the actors mentioned turn out to be problematic, i’m not into gossip so just let me know and i’ll happily swap them out! thank you so much for requesting and enjoy!! <3

warnings: angst, jealousy, alcohol consumption, suggestive content

The doors of your van are pulled open and shoved aside in one sharp motion. The sound hits you first: an immediate, overwhelming surge of shouting voices, camera shutters and overlapping calls of your name the second they see who is in the car. The flashes come next, strobing across the interior in bursts of white light that make it hard to see anything beyond the pavement and the moving silhouettes at your sides.

A chauffeur steps in close, offering his hand. His grip is steady, guiding you. The heel of your shoe touches down carefully and he keeps hold just long enough to make sure you’re balanced as you straighten up.

The ride from the hotel hadn’t been long, but it had been carefully planned down to the minute. You’d stood for most of it inside the Sprinter van so your dress wouldn’t crease. Earlier, at the hotel suite, your stylists had worked quickly but precisely. Touching up your makeup, resetting your hair, before helping you step out of the elaborate Met Gala gown and into something entirely different for the night ahead.

Now, for the afterparty, you’re in a form-fitting black velvet dress with an off-the-shoulder neckline. The deep black fabric shimmers in the glow of the night, while a diamond necklace adorns your throat, catching sparks of light whenever you move. It’s elegant and timeless. With your choice of dress, you and your team tried to ensure a bit more comfort for the long night ahead while staying true to this year’s theme, “Fashion Is Art”.

The photographers are already calling your name again and again and again. Adrenaline surges through your every vein. It almost feels unreal how quickly you become the focus of the entire street, as if they’ve been waiting for this exact moment. Yet, just a few hours ago, they had ample opportunity to snap countless photos of you at the Met Gala already. Since you’ve changed into a different outfit, however, they are eager to capture just as many new shots of you.

You wave a little shyly at no one in particular and make your way across the red carpet. It’s quite short and makes everything feel less formal, but more immediate. Security lines both sides, creating a narrow corridor toward the entrance of the club. Behind you and in front of you, your own team and bodyguards follow close behind to ensure neither fans nor paparazzi swarm you.

Once inside the club, you take a deep breath. You haven’t been in the business very long, so every public appearance brings a mix of nerves and excitement with it. There’s a certain type of awareness that every step, every glace is being watched, captured, and discussed in real time. After all, the Met Gala is one of the biggest nights in the industry, and even here, at one of the many afterparties scattered across New York, it feels like you’re transported to a different world. One of pure glamour and shine.

Since you are still relatively new to the scene, you don’t know many of the other stars yet, and a part of you hopes tonight will change that. After all, that was half the purpose of these parties: socializing, making connections, seeing and being seen, putting down roots in an industry that still feels exciting and intimidating all at once.

Music greets you as you venture further inside, your team now free of their duty after safely escorting you in. The air is noticeably cooler than outside, scented faintly with perfume and champagne. The volume of the music is just right: loud enough to fill the room and give it life, yet not so overpowering that it drowns everything else out. Across the room, a DJ stands behind illuminated desks, and a stage has already been set up for the performances planned later in the evening. There are plenty of artists among the guests tonight, so someone is bound to end up on that stage.

You stand at the top of a short, sweeping staircase, giving you a perfect view of everything below. The afterparty has taken over what looks like the ballroom of some extravagant palace. Gold detailing adorns the cream-colored walls, curling in elaborate patterns around marble columns. Massive crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling high above. Scattered around the dance floor are circular tables draped in white linens and decorated with small arrangements of white roses and candles. Some celebrities lounge in velvet chairs, chatting in small groups, while others move between tables.

Along one side of the room stretches a magnificent marble bar, illuminated from beneath with a soft golden light. The bartenders work in black suits and with effortless precision, pouring champagne and mixing cocktails. Waiters drift gracefully through the crowd carrying silver trays filled with drinks. Voices mingle into a pleasant hum that rises and falls.

You let your gaze drift over the sea of faces as you stand, anxiety tugging at your nerves.

You keep your expression composed, even as your pulse refuses to settle. This is one of the parts you’re still learning: how to walk into a room full of people who all seem to know each other and act like you naturally belong there too.

What if you spend the entire evening awkwardly standing at the bar, unable to strike up a conversation with anyone? What if no one is even interested in talking to you? These thoughts drift through your mind but are suddenly swept away the moment your eyes land on him.

Jaafar is standing and chatting with two men you can’t identify right now because their backs are turned to you. Or rather, he was chatting until he spotted you.

Because the second Jaafar’s eyes land on you, everything else simply disappears. He doesn’t hear another word being said, forgets whatever he has been saying. Forgets where he even is for a second, every coherent thought leaving his mind at once, only being occupied by you.

And you look –

God.

He knew you would change dresses, obviously. You teased him about it earlier, laughing when he tried to convince you to show him pictures or give him some sneak peek.

“No. It’s a surprise”, you’d insisted. “Besides, if you know exactly what I’m wearing, it’ll ruin the reveal.”

And what a reveal it was.

His gaze drifts over your dress longingly. The black velvet hugs your figure beautifully, elegant and timeless without trying too hard. The off-the-shoulder neckline frames your collarbones where he’d left kisses a thousand times before, the diamonds at your throat catching the light every time you move.

All of a sudden, Jaafar feels sixteen again. Not Jaafar Jackson, celebrity guest at one of the most exclusive parties in New York. Not Jaafar Jackson, part of the Jackson family, son to Jermaine Jackson, nephew to Michael Jackson. Just a man hopelessly in love with his girlfriend.

His eyes soften immediately, the corners of his mouth lifting before he can stop them. There is admiration there, but more than that, there is something helplessly affectionate. Because all he can think is: That’s my girl.

You had already looked like the most beautiful woman in the world in your Met Gala gown and he hadn’t thought you could top that. But, of course, you did. Jaafar feels as though he will be unable to think about anything else for a long time, either about you in this dress or about how he’s going to get you out of it. Depending on where his thoughts take him.

You can feel his heated gaze directly on your skin, even where it’s covered by fabric. Your whole body tingles and suddenly you aren’t nervous about the attention anymore, but about him. Deep down, you had secretly hoped for a reaction like this, but seeing it happen in real time stirs something in you, tightening your chest. You try to ignore the warmth rising from your neck to your face.

You have to control yourself. After all, you and Jaafar are in a secret relationship and the way you’re looking at each other right now doesn’t feel very secretive. It makes it way too obvious that there is so much more going on between the two of you.

On the other side, Jaafar is struggling to keep his very distracting thoughts at bay. No matter what he tries, he simply cannot tear his gaze away from you. But above all these thoughts, above everything, he just wants to hold your hand. Tell you how beautiful you are. He wants to kiss your forehead, make you laugh, hear about every nervous thought running through your head.

He wants to stand beside you openly.

The thought suddenly pains him, imagining what it would’ve been like if none of this had to be hidden. If you had walked the red carpet together earlier, stopping to give everyone the chance to snap photos of you. Not as two separate people who happen to be at the same event, but as a unit. He imagines how it would’ve felt like to have his hand resting against the small of your back while reports called both your names. How you would’ve shared stupid little smiles between interviews.

Jaafar wants to show you off to the world so badly. Instead, he had to spend the entire evening pretending not to know the woman he’d fallen asleep next to the night before. Pretending he didn’t sneak out of your hotel room in the early morning hours to get back to his own. Pretending your arrival times at the gala weren’t purposefully set thirty minutes apart to not raise suspicions. Pretending you didn’t put on a perfect charade during the entire event, even though there were glances that lasted half a second too long.

You entered different conversations, sat on different tables, far apart from each other. There was a careful, almost comical little wave you’d exchanged inside the museum, pretending to be nothing more than friendly colleagues.

Somehow, the two of you had pulled it off. No one knew that he’d slipped out of your room before sunrise. No one knew he’d almost broken his promise when he first spotted you on that carpet. No one knew that every time he’d looked across the museum and caught the tiniest glimpse of you, he’d had to physically stop himself from walking over.

Judging by the way you are looking at each other right now, smiling without meaning to, neither of you is doing a particularly good job of hiding how much more there is beneath the surface.

You’re fortunate that the afterparty has a strict no-professional-photography policy. No paparazzi, photographers or television crews are allowed inside for it is an exclusive event, meant only for the stars of the evening. It makes the atmosphere feel noticeably more relaxed. It doesn’t stop every guest from having a phone tucked away somewhere though, eager to capture memories for Instagram posts and stories before the night is over. A single photo in the wrong place at the wrong time could still spark rumours. So while you and Jaafar can afford to be a little less guarded than you were at the Met Gala itself, you still have to be careful. Lingering too close or disappearing together would be enough for someone to start asking questions. At least you’re no longer performing under the relentless glare of hundreds of professional cameras, and that alone makes it a bit easier to breathe, the pressure feeling not quite as intense.

The Met Gala is your first major Hollywood event and Jaafar can only imagine how overwhelming that has to feel. Which makes all of it so much harder because all he wants is to cross the room, take your hand, and ask if you’re doing okay. To introduce you to people as his girlfriend, make sure you aren’t standing alone. Instead of all this, he has to pretend you are just another guest.

At the same time, it was his first Met Gala too. Yes, he is used to public attention, but that doesn’t change the fact that there is so much you want to ask him. You want to spend the whole night talking about how he’s doing, what he’s experienced, and the new people he’s met. Instead of all this, you find yourself doing the exact opposite of what every instinct is telling you. You force yourself not to walk over. Or smile at him. You try your best not to make it obvious that, to you, he is the only person in the room.

“May I help you?” The warm voice beside you abruptly pulls you from your thoughts, causing you to break the invisible thread that stretched between you and Jaafar. You turn. When you realize who the voice belongs to, it takes your breath away, for standing before you, one hand casually extended toward the staircase, is none other than Michael B. Jordan. He smiles with an effortless warmth that immediately makes you feel more at ease.

“Looks like you got stuck at the top of the stairs.”

Your eyes widen ever so slightly, heat rushing to your cheeks. Has it really been that obvious?

“O-Oh”, you let out a nervous laugh. “Thanks. That’s.. really sweet of you.”

You groan internally, mentally slapping yourself for stammering. Fantastic. You’re talking to Michael B. Jordan and you’ve already forgotten how to form a complete sentence, too starstruck. He just chuckles, apparently finding your reaction more endearing than awkward.

“Don’t worry”, he says as you accept his hand. “First big event?”

You nod sheepishly while he guides you down the last few steps. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

You look at him with an embarrassed smile, letting go of his hand when you reach the bottom.

“I’m trying really hard not to look terrified”, you admit, smoothing down your dress in an attempt to calm your nerves.

His grin only grows, easy and reassuring, as he offers you his arm. “Come on. Nobody should spend a party standing by themselves.”

You hesitate for a brief moment before slipping your arm through his. The gesture is purely gentlemanly, a quiet way of making sure you don’t feel stranded in a room full of strangers. He leads you toward a lively group gathered near one of the cocktail tables, introducing you to his own co-star Hailee Steinfeld.

You immediately exchange introductions and compliments. Since Sinners is one of your – and Jaafar’s – absolute favourite movies, you feel starstruck once again. Hailee, on the other hand, admires you too, which feels incredibly surreal. What do you mean the Hailee Steinfeld thinks your acting is great and can’t wait to see you in more films?

There are a lot more people in the group, faces you recognize from posters, award shows or magazine covers. Michael effortlessly introduces you to everyone, making it sound as though you belong there just as much as everyone else and you are extremely grateful for it. He quickly catches a passing waiter and plucks two champagne flutes from the tray, offering one to you.

“For the nerves”, he says when you thank him, taking a sip and letting the drizzling liquid run down your throat. The conversation flows naturally after that. He has a way of asking questions that immediately puts people at ease, introducing you whenever someone new joins the circle, making sure you don’t feel awkward.

Every now and then someone asks about your latest project. Someone else compliments your dress, another person jokes that the real challenge isn’t the carpet but surviving the shoes. You meet so many different celebrities that you lose count: Zendaya, Pedro Pascal, Zayn Malik, Daisy Edgar-Jones, Simone Ashley and so many more. You never even dared dream you’d be in the same room as these people, let alone talk to them about fashion or your travel plans.

After a while, the group dissolves naturally, some of them already a bit tipsy. They disappear into the crowd with cheers and laughter, deciding to hit the dance floor, leaving you and Michael alone at the bar to treat yourselves to another drink. By now, you’ve completely lost track of time and have no idea whether you’ve been at the afterparty for one hour or four. Oddly enough, that feels like a victory. It means you are enjoying yourself, almost forgetting that something is missing.

Still, every so often, almost without realizing it, your eyes wander across the room, keeping an eye out for Jaafar. You saw him talking to Colman a few hours ago, or at least you think it has been hours ago, but since then, he’s vanished. The room has only grown busier as the night went on and finding one person in a room this crowded is nearly impossible. Unfortunately, you can’t go looking for him, nor can you make it too obvious that you’re scanning the room, as someone would surely ask who you’re looking for. Have you seen my secret boyfriend no one knows about? isn’t exactly a good conversation starter.

Because the music is quite loud near the dance floor, everyone instinctively leans closer whenever someone speaks and Michael is no exception. More than once, his voice brushes against your ear, warm enough that you can feel his breath before he straightens again. You find yourself doing the same, leaning toward him because there’s no other way to hear him over the bass. Every time you respond, he shifts in, closing the gap.

Occasionally, his hand brushes lightly against your elbow as he laughs at something you say. When he gestures toward something across the ballroom, his arm briefly crosses behind your back as he points. It’s not an embrace. It’s not even contact. Still, it lingers a second longer than necessary before he lets it fall away again as if proximity is simply the natural setting between you. Other times his hand rests on the bar near yours, not touching, not nothing either. Just a space that keeps shrinking. He makes you laugh easily, sometimes soft, sometimes full-on laughter.

At one point, he looks at you with something unreadable in his expression. It lingers for half a second too long before he smiles again, like it never happened. But surely, he isn’t flirting with you, right? He’s just like this. Charismatic. Attentive. Effortlessly good at making people feel seen. You’re reading far too much into it; that’s just how things work in this industry. You can’t exactly tell him that you’re taken either, so you simply let it be what it appears to be: friendly, comfortable. The effortless charisma he’s known for.

You don’t think anything of it. You don’t treat it like it means anything unusual.

But Jaafar does. Across the room, he notices every single time. He hates that he notices. He’s trying to stay composed, he really is. One of the producers beside him is telling a story that’s apparently hilarious because everyone around him bursts into laughter. Jaafar laughs too, half a second late. His attention keeps slipping, always back to you.

He can’t hear anything from here, but he doesn’t need to because he can see. He sees the way Michael leans in when you speak. The way you tilt your head slightly toward him in response. The way Michael’s focus doesn’t wander when other people join the circle. The way his eyes are practically glued to you when you laugh.

It hits Jaafar harder than he expects. He tells himself it’s nothing. That Michael is just being social. Warm. Charismatic in the way everyone talks about him. That’s all this is.

It’s perfectly innocent. Michael doesn’t know you’re together. Michael doesn’t see the love marks beneath the fabric of your dress. As far as he knows, you’re simply a beautiful actress attending her first major Hollywood event.

Of course he’s being welcoming. Of course he’s making sure you’re comfortable. Jaafar knows that and he should be grateful.

Instead, his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. This is ridiculous he tells himself, exhaling quietly through his nose as he takes a sip of his drink.

He trusts you. None of this is inappropriate.

So why does every instinct in him scream that he should be standing where Michael is? Why does it bother him so much to watch someone else make you laugh?

Not because Michael is doing anything wrong but because Jaafar wishes he could. He wishes he could lean down and ask if you’re enjoying yourself. Or hand you a drink before someone else has the chance. Or rest his hand against the small of your back as he introduces you around the room, telling everyone you’re his girl.

Instead, he has to watch somebody else make you feel welcome and that stings far more than he wants to admit.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t approach you or do anything at all beside watch.

Jaafar loses track of time as he watches Michael touch you, make you laugh, and ensure you’re having a good time. All he knows is that he’s completely tuned out the party and the conversation around him. Inside, he’s waging a battle with himself, fighting hard against that sickening feeling in his chest, something that feels dangerously close to jealousy and is spreading through his body like poison.

Eventually, he has enough when he sees Michael briefly touch your face. His fingers hover near your cheek for a second longer than necessary as he finishes. Apparently, he’s fixing something, maybe your lipstick. Whatever it is, it pushes Jaafar over the edge. Not the touch itself, but the comfort behind it. He sets his glass down on a table with a bit too much force, excuses himself from the conversation, and walks purposefully toward the two of you at the bar.

Jaafar isn’t the jealous type. That is the problem. He doesn’t know what to do with it when it comes. Doesn’t like it one bit and doesn’t trust it either. And worst of all, he doesn’t think he has the right to even feel it when you are standing there with your life still fully your own.

It doesn’t stop it from happening anyway.

“Hey, hope I’m not interrupting”, Jaafar says, stepping into your conversation. His hand moves toward your lower back almost instinctively, though he manages to control the impulse at the last moment. “I haven’t really seen you properly all evening”, he greets you, a blatant lie, though the alcohol in his system has made him a bit bolder; on any other day, he would have blushed in embarrassment. There’s a slight edge of heat behind his words that he doesn’t quite manage to bury.

You, on the other hand, hadn’t expected Jaafar to approach you so openly at all, but your heart is clearly delighted, practically leaping out of your chest. You can finally study him up close – his beautiful eyes, his skin glowing in the warm light of the chandeliers, his cheeks slightly flushed, likely from the heat and the drinks. His suit fits perfectly, accentuating his torso in all the right places, so much so that you have to fight the urge to tear it right off him and show everyone who he belongs to.

You and Jaafar exchange exactly the kind of greeting two co-stars might. A warm smile. A brief hug. Nothing unusual though both of you are holding back hard.

Michael doesn’t react like he’s been displaced. If anything, he adjusts seamlessly, turning toward Jaafar with the same ease he’s shown everyone all night. “Hey, man”, he says, already smiling. “Good to see you.”

“You too.” Their handshake turns into easy conversation almost immediately. Jaafar positions himself just slightly closer to you than necessary, not blocking or touching but it changes the space immediately. Like a line has been drawn, a wall that cannot be crossed.

“You look incredible”, Jaafar suddenly tells you all politely. You almost choke on your drink.

“So do you.”

“Thank you.” That’s it. Very professional, friendly, not too over the top. No one would ever guess that sixteen hours earlier he’d been kissing you goodbye in a hotel room.

Standing beside each other after being apart all day and evening is torture in the best and worst way. You can smell his cologne again. Feel the warmth radiating from his body. But you’re not allowed to touch him or do anything about the burning feeling in your lower stomach.

Michael continues talking beside you both, smoothly adding Jaafar into the conversation like nothing has changed at all. In fact, he keeps getting extremely close to you, completely ignoring the boundary Jaafar is trying to draw, acting as if it isn’t even there. It’s really starting to get under Jaafar’s skin now, the way Michael’s attention keeps returning to you, the way you don’t seem to notice, or maybe you do and simply don’t read it the way he does.

But how can Michael be so oblivious? Doesn’t he notice the daggers Jaafar is shooting at him? It doesn’t help that you barely interact with Jaafar. Not coldly or anything, just not at all. He isn’t even sure anymore whether you’re ignoring him on purpose because of his behaviour or just putting on an act to keep up the façade that Jaafar almost broke down with his rash act. Jaafar’s jaw clenches; he feels like he’s about to explode if he doesn't remove himself from the conversation.

He doesn’t like how all of this makes him feel.

That’s why he excuses himself from the conversation and slips away, leaving you speechless. Just a casual exit for everyone else, delivered with the kind of calm that makes it unquestionable, nothing wrong with it, just a celebrity moving on to other conversations. But you know him and you realize right away that something is wrong. Your heart, which was already racing because he’d been so close to you, finally, is beating even faster now.

Jaafar is halfway through the crowd, weaving past people without stopping. His shoulders are tense in a way you recognize too well now that you’re looking for it. Something in your chest tightens.

“I’ll be right back”, you say quickly, even though no one is really asking you anything.

Michael glances at you. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah”, you lie automatically, already stepping away from the bar. “Just.. need to freshen up. Sorry.”

You’re already moving and don’t care to finish your sentence, your only goal being to find Jaafar. You weave through the crowd, keeping an eye out for him. Finally, you see him walking up the stairs that lead to the exit and the restrooms. You move quickly, careful not to draw too much attention to yourself. In all honesty, no one cares about you. Everyone is preoccupied with their own problems.

You walk past familiar and unfamiliar faces, and, more or less unsurprisingly, no one stops you. You follow Jaafar up the stairs and watch as he moves away from the main floor, toward the quieter edges of the venue where the noise dulls.

You follow at a distance, stopping when you spot him standing along the side balcony that overlooks the ballroom below, half hidden behind marble columns and heavy velvet curtains. His hands rest across the railing, head slightly bowed as he looks down at the party beneath him. If you didn’t know better, you’d imagine he was talking to himself. The tension in his shoulders gives him away.

You glance around quickly to ensure no one has followed you up here and you are alone before approaching him. His head snaps up immediately once he hears your heels softly click against the marble. For a split second, relief washes over his face, but it is quickly overshadowed by something sharper.

“Why did you follow me?”, he says quickly, voice low but firm. “Someone could see us.”

You both know that that isn’t really the problem right now. Besides, no one can see you up here anyway. The balcony is quiet except for the music bleeding up from the ballroom below. Tall columns and heavy curtains wrap the space in shadow, hiding anyone standing near the railing.

You stop a few steps away from him, heart still racing.

“You left”, you say simply.

A beat. Several more until you realize he won’t answer.

“Jaafar.”

“What?”, he snaps, straightening his posture to retreat even more into the shadows. He apparently did not expect how harsh the words would sound coming from him, which is why he immediately breaks eye contact.

At first, you don’t even know what to say. The alcohol in your system doesn’t make thinking any easier, even though you haven’t had that much and are just slightly tipsy. You hate that you don’t dare step any closer to him, for fear that someone might see you. Right now, it could still be dismissed as a purely private conversation between co-stars. But that could change in the split of a second. You absolutely loathe everything about it.

“Did I do something wrong?”, you ask quietly, unsure. His eyes immediately find yours again, staying on you this time.

“No”, he says way too quickly, too harshly. Then quieter, almost frustrated with himself more than anything else: “No. You didn’t.”

Jaafar hates himself so much for this right now. How did he manage to make you think it’s your fault, when it’s crystal clear that the problem lies with him and his stupid ego, which apparently can’t stand it when another man talks to you?

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

His voice drops even lower. “Like what?”

“Like you’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you”, he states, but it doesn’t sound very convincing. You finally bring up the courage to step closer to him, closing the gap between your two bodies that was too much to bear for this long. You can’t stand it when something is obviously wrong and you don’t know what it is.

“Then what are you?”, you inquire and your question makes him look away immediately, down to where the party is still in full power. It’s a question he can’t answer cleanly because the truth is simple and infuriating: He is jealous. And he hates that he is.

Jaafar exhales slowly through his nose as if that would help him reset. “I trust you”, he then starts quietly, like it costs him something to say it out loud. It’s obvious that he would love nothing more than to vanish right now. He feels incredibly uncomfortable with the situation and, above all, with his own feelings. He knows he has no right to these feelings. His gaze lingers somewhere over your shoulder, not being able to meet your eyes. The confidence he’d worn so effortlessly downstairs is gone now, stripped away until only the vulnerable man beneath it remains.

You can practically see the battle he’s fighting with himself. He’s embarrassed. By none other than himself.

Jealousy is foreign to him, an emotion that feels ugly and disgusting the moment he recognized it. For a few fleeting seconds downstairs, it had felt justified. Now, standing here in front of you, all he wants is for it to disappear. He hates that he’d let it get this far. Hates even more that he’d walked away instead of simply trusting what he already knew.

You watch him in silence, trying to understand where he’s going with this.

“But I don’t trust..” He stops, jaw flexing once. “Others.”

His words hang between you for a second. You’re taken back a bit at first until the realization hits you, every piece clicking into its rightful place. Your expression visibly softens. You lower your head for a moment, biting your lower lip in a hopeless attempt to hide the smile threatening to spread across your face. So you weren’t imagining it after all.

You glance back up at him, amusement behind your eyes.

“Are you..”, you ask slowly, drawing the word out just enough to make him squirm, “.. jealous?”

Once the word leaves your mouth, he visibly tenses in front of you, his eyes squeezing shut for a second. His only answer is a defeated groan. A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.

“Oh my god. You’re actually jealous”, you chuckle, looking at him as though you’ve just uncovered the sweetest secret imaginable. Jaafar, on the other hand, looks like he’d rather the marble floor swallow him whole.

“I don’t like this feeling”, he finally admits, nervously playing with a ring on his finger. It gives him something to focus on besides the embarrassment creeping across his face. He almost looks like a little boy all of a sudden. A little boy who’s been caught doing something he isn’t proud of, already bracing himself for impact even though you haven’t even said anything yet.

His shoulders lift slightly with a controlled inhale. With his voice even heavier, he then says: “I can’t do it though.”

You blink. “Can’t do what?”

“This”, he replies, gesturing vaguely back toward the room below. “Standing there pretending it doesn’t bother me. Because it does. It really really does.”

He’s met with silence from your side.

“What exactly is bothering you?”, you ask gently. You already know the answer, or part of it, but you want to hear him say it. Want to understand what has him looking so unlike himself. And you would be lying if you said it didn’t make you feel a little good about yourself.

“It’s not about him”, he says immediately, though the words come out faster than intended. He runs a hand through his hair, looking away for a second again. Then back to you.

“It’s just..”, he starts not knowing how to form the sentence to convey what he feels. “I don’t like watching you like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m not the person you’re with. Like you’re not my girl”, he states matter-of-factly. You’re actually stunned by this, his words leaving you speechless. A dull ache settles somewhere beneath your ribs. Because that’s never what you wanted him to feel. That he thought he isn’t the only man you care about. That he isn’t the man you desperately want to be with, day and night. Not then, not now, not ever.

Jaafar lets out a small, humourless breath.

“I know it’s stupid”, he adds quickly. “I know. I just- I can’t handle it.”

He stops himself then, shaking his head like he’s so disappointed in himself. The noise of the party feels very far away now. You take a small step closer without thinking.

“It’s not stupid”, you insist, lifting your hand to cup his cheek. Your thumb brushes gently across his skin.

“It is”, he counters immediately, averting his gaze which turns out to be much more difficult now that you are so much closer to him. “I trust you. I know you didn’t do anything wrong. He didn’t either.”

You tip his chin lightly, wanting him to look at you and he obeys.

“Watching someone else make you laugh.. Watching someone else get to stand next to you..”, he closes his eyes before forcing himself to continue. “I hated it. I hate that I’ve spent six hours trying not to stare at my own girlfriend. I hated that I wanted to be in his place.”

Your heart aches, not because he’s jealous but because he genuinely believes he’s wrong for feeling it when you clearly felt like Michael B. Jordan was, in fact, flirting with you.

“But it is your place”, you finally encourage him with a gentle smile. “Right here, with me. You know that, don’t you?”

Your other hand comes to rest lightly against his chest, directly over his heart. You glance toward the ballroom below, where music and laughter continue as though your world hasn’t temporarily stopped.

As his only answer, Jaafar gives a small shrug before reaching for your hand resting against his chest, threading his fingers through yours. “I was being pretty ridiculous”, he admits.

“You really weren’t. If anything..”, you say with a teasing grin spreading across your face. “I found it incredibly cute.”

His brows knit together in confusion immediately as if he’s personally offended by the word. He genuinely doesn’t understand it. To him, jealousy feels ugly and irrational. Something he should’ve had better control over. If he could’ve reached inside his chest and ripped the disgusting feeling out altogether, he would’ve done it without hesitation.

“I wish they all knew”, you sigh then, your expression softening as your eyes drift back toward the ballroom below. “If they did, I would’ve stood next to you on the carpet. I would’ve introduced you as my man every chance I got. I met so many amazing people today, but do you know whose face I kept looking for?”

You don’t wait for him to answer because the answer is, in fact, pretty obvious.

“Yours, Jaafar. Only yours”, you say with full certainty in your voice, smiling to yourself. “You’re the man I wake up thinking about and the one I spend an entire evening searching for in a room full of the most famous people in the world.”

From the way he looks at you, eyes only flickering across your face, you can tell that there’s still that tiny flicker of doubt lingering beneath. So you decide to use your last resource, your strongest weapon.

“What are you doing?”, he asks, the words dissolving into a laugh as you pepper his face in featherlight kisses, the sound like music to your ears. You honestly don’t even care anymore if someone sees you right now. Let them see. Let them see how much you love this man.

“Showing you how much I love you”, you giggle, continuing as every kiss gets him smiling so widely he can’t hide it anymore. “And making up for all the kisses I couldn’t give you downstairs.” You place a kiss on his cheek, the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose, his forehead, everywhere you can reach.

His smile is small and shy, but relieved. His cheeks are flushed pink. “You’re making this so difficult”, he murmurs when you finally stop, but you are still standing incredibly close, pushing him further into the shadows with your hands on his suit jacket, smoothing the lapels.

Innocently, you tilt your head. “Making what difficult?”

He studies you for a long moment, completely deadpan. “Not kissing you.”

A grin spreads across your face. “I’ve been kissing you this whole time, so what’s stopping you?”

Before you can tease him any further, he gently hooks a finger beneath your chin and closes the remaining distance. The kiss is slow at first, almost hesitant, as though he’s making up for every time he’d wanted to reach for you that evening but couldn’t. Instantly, you melt into him. What started innocently quickly turns into something more intense. His hand grips your waist firmly, allowing him to pull you even closer until you are pressed flush against his chest.

“You’re my girl”, he breathes against your lips in between kisses, making it sound like a prayer.

“I’m your girl”, you reply breathlessly, a soft giggle escaping you when Jaafar slides both hands around your waist. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, placing gentle kisses there while breathing in your scent, your expensive perfume mingling with the fragrance that’s unmistakably yours.

You arch your back instinctively, a quiet laugh leaving your lips as the sensation tickles. Between the champagne still lingering in your system and the overwhelming relief of finally having him this close again, your head feels wonderfully light.

You’d love nothing more than to stay like this, kissing him until the break of dawn, – or until someone finally catches you in this scandalous position and tells the whole world about it – but reality catches up with you all too quickly. Reluctantly, you place both hands against Jaafar’s chest and gently ease him back, only far enough for his forehead to rest against yours.

“How about you meet your girl in her hotel room in an hour?”, you suggest with a reluctant smile and the tips of his ears immediately turn pink as he nods a little too eagerly. He looks utterly lovestruck right now: His tie sits slightly crooked around his neck, the collar of his shirt is crumpled from your wandering hands, his lips are plush and tinged pink from your kisses, and one stubborn curl has fallen across his forehead.

“Can’t wait”, he says, smiling in a way that makes your heart ache. Leaving him here is far more difficult than you’d expected. Still, the promise of spending the rest of the night and the early hours of the morning with him makes it somewhat bearable.

Just as you turn to leave, he catches your hand once more, gently pulling you back toward him. “One more”, he murmurs with a sheepish smile. He steals one last quick kiss from your lips before reluctantly letting your fingers slip from his. As he watches you disappear, only one thought echoes through his mind: That’s my girl.

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