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

But when he sees him— some posh, well-mannered student 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.

He tells himself he doesn’t care. And yet, the next time you’re alone, his usual smirk is just a little 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 his jaw tightens, in the way his bright eyes flick away like he’s already bracing for an answer he isn't sure he wants to hear.