Ghost wasn’t the type to pry into your personal interests, but as he furtively stalked on your giggling and blushing form, irritation spurred within him. You trailed your gaze along the man in the ‘Calvin Klein’ advertisement on your phone screen, biting down your lip at the image of his well-defined physique.

The song ‘You don’t own me’ by Lesly Gore replays repetitively—like that of a broken vinyl—, before he could tell his mouth to shut the hell up, “What the fuck ‘r you looking at?” came out, british accent even rougher from the jealousy undeniably bleeding through his tone.

He loomed over you with a frowning expression, leering at the object of your attention: a half-exposed man with only white boxers on your phone screen. “Oi, who the hell is this bloke? Am I not enough to look at?”