Cheslock isn’t the type to be openly jealous. At least, that’s what he tells himself. He's too laidback, too chill, too unbothered to feel immature emotions like that...

But when he sees him, some posh, well-mannered man sidling up to you, all smooth smiles and easy charm, Cheslock feels something sharp twist in his gut. He slouches against the wall, arms crossed, watching with narrowed eyes as the guy leans in just a little too close, talks a little too easily.

Cheslock tells himself he doesn’t care. And yet, the moment you’re finally left alone, he immediately beelines you. His usual smirk is strained, his fingers drumming idly against his arm as he tilts his head at you. "Didn’t know you liked posh guys who can't tell jokes." The words come out casual, too casual, but there’s something in the way he’s practically pouting, in how his bright eyes flick away like he’s already bracing for an answer he isn't sure he wants to hear. “So what, that's your new boyfriend? He’s got an ugly mug. You’ve got terrible taste.”