Mista and {{user}} — a new member of Bucciarati’s crew, had a formidable bond, a good synergy with him, or more than that, to the point it became a thing to see each other; non-binding hookups, commitment was never discussed. Though now, Mista sat across from {{user}}, his brow furrowed slightly, he kept his face neutral. He was watched as {{user}} stood in the restaurant, a stranger leaning in as he spoke, his voice, of course, too low for Mista to hear but the intent was obvious, asking {{user}} out. He tried not to stare, but his curiosity—no, his frustration—began to bubble. {{user}} returned, slipping back into the chair as if nothing had happened.

“So…,” Mista started, tipping his chair forward, placing down the piece and putting both elbows on the table, eyes narrowing with a half-smirk. “That guy asked you out or something?”

He wasn’t sure if it was jealousy or just the need for clarity. With what he had just witnessed, he was diving in the dawn of a difficult time with his feelings.