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cherryite · 7 days ago

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back to me - 3. just me and the moon

summary. after the sudden death of your mother, you come back to the coastal campus at shiganshina state university after taking classes online for fall semester, hoping for a return back to your normal life for the end of your junior year. hanging out with your friends at the campus cafe, studying for exams, attending parties, cuddling with your cat pluto, practicing for the upcoming beach volleyball season; all normal. realizing you're developing feelings for one of your friends? not normal. (mostly written, with some text conversations) (cross posted on ao3) (chapter word count. 4.9k)

content. jean kirstein x reader, fem!reader, friends to lovers, modern au, college au, slow burn, yearning, mutual pining, falling in love, not actually unrequited love, art student!jean, track athlete!jean, found family, coming of age, some humor to soften the blow lol, jean is a d1 yearner oh lord

warnings. eventual smut, angst, alcohol/drug use, grief/mourning, death of a family member, parties, insecurity, talks of depression, kms jokes, more to be added as fic progresses

author's note. well, first, i apologize for any emotional damage this may cause because i was feeling evil writing it. this is heavily based on my own experience with grief and loss and so will any other talks of grief in this story. as always, stay happy and healthy everyone (enjoy <3 !!!)

(now playing 'pretty boy' by the neighborhood and 'forwards beckon rebound' by adrianne lenker)

series masterlist. character directory. ao3 link. previous/next.

Sunday morning is rough.

Besides the splitting headache that spreads over your temples, both of your roommates are notably absent. Sasha’s at work, and Mikasa apparently got roped into an early workout with Eren, all despite it being before eight in the morning.

Consciousness ebbs and flows in sluggish waves. You drift in and out of sleep, unable to fully shake the exhaustion that clings to your limbs as you remain glued to your bed. You only get up to trudge to the bathroom every few hours— unable to make eye contact with yourself in the mirror.

Last night had been a great reintroduction to your life before your mother died, but ended up tearing the wound deeper. It’s as if grief has hit you all over again. Like it was digging its fingers into your partially healed wound, reducing any healing that's been done to nothing but a gaping hole in your heart. Like it was punishing you for ever thinking you were starting to heal in the first place.

That night replays in flashes. The smell of fresh pomegranates and cherries.

The words Happy Mother’s Day! in loopy red lettering across a white cake. The look on your mother’s face when you told her. The sound of your bare feet slapping against the concrete driveway. The crack of ribs. The cries of the ambulance drowning out your own. The moon absent from the night sky.

Curled up in your bed, a comforter draped over your devastated figure, you can’t seem to will yourself to do anything as the memory of that night infects your brain. You almost want to text Sasha— to please come back, please come hold me, please don’t leave me here with this— but you can’t let her see this state of misery you’re in. Sasha is the only one who even begins to understand the hurt. Your mother was family to her due to the close relationship your mothers had. She still doesn’t know what really happened that night— she deserves to— and the guilt eats at you.

You catch a glimpse at your bedside table and roll over, your limbs heavy. With shaking hands, you grasp the picture frame that rests there. You run your finger over the wooden frame, a sinking feeling curling under your ribs. It’s a photo of you and your mom, a favorite of hers, from when you were about ten. Your limbs are gangly and awkward as she pulls you into her side with her cheek squishing against the crown of your head. A volleyball is clasped in your hands, pressed against your chest, the same bright smile on your face echoes the one on your mothers.

The picture was from the sleepaway volleyball camp you and Sasha attended every summer until you turned fourteen. That year, both of your moms came for parent’s day. You remember the look of joy on your mom’s face, how excited to play she was, how excited she was to do what she loved most again.

You swallow and roll back over, your chest tightening and your breath lodging in your throat. Pluto is laying beside you, her tail tucked over her nose, sleeping peacefully. You envy her, despite her being a cat, that she can rest so easily.

Blindly reaching for your phone, you fumble through the apps, going to your voicemails. You haven’t done this in so long— listen to her last call— and part of you feels like you’re regressing. With a shuddering breath, you click play.

“Hey, Starlight! I know you’re at practice right now—I realized as I called. Haha, silly me. But I was calling to make sure you’re still coming down for Mother’s Day weekend? Pluto has a vet appointment the day before, so you should plan early. Also, Lisa said Sash was driving back that weekend too, so you both should carpool so I don’t have to drive to get you.

Sorry for talking so long, my Moon and Stars. I just miss you. It’s so lonely in this house sometimes.

We can head down to the beach once you get back to Dauper and hit the ball around, okay?

I love you! Call me back later. Bye.”

Her voice fills the room like sunlight slipping through a crack in the blinds, warm and bright. You don’t know how long the message loops, playing over, and over, and over again. Her voice, that once brought you comfort, now only incites agony to flow through your very soul.

She gave up her career, her passion, her body for you. She sacrificed volleyball, the one thing that kept her grounded when everything else fell apart. And she still loved you, despite everything you took from her. How? How could she love you for that?

Even after Lisa—Sasha’s mom—stopped playing, your mother clawed her way back to the pro circuit. A star so bright it could never be dulled. A full moon on a cloudless night. Until you came along and ruined it for her.

And the last thing you ever said to her—

You don’t let yourself finish the thought.

Mixed with the last evidence of your mother’s voice, you hear your last words to her in your ears. Those words haunt you— the final nail in your mother’s coffin. The nickname Starlight burns itself into your skin as your mother says it countless times.

She started calling you Starlight after a late night stargazing when you were around six. Your father had long been in bed, just your mother and you surrounded by the sound of cicadas and your own quiet giggles. She’d pointed to the sky, pointing to the lone brightest star in the sky, and said you should make a wish. You can remember her softly reciting a nursery rhyme to you, her voice like honey as she spoke into the summer air.

“Star light, star bright,

The first star I see tonight;

I wish I may, I wish I might,

Have the wish I wish tonight.”

You’d asked her what she wished for. With a smile, she kissed your cheeks, pulling you into her lap. “I don’t need to wish for anything, Starlight. The sky already sent me the prettiest little star. What else could I possibly wish for?”

Pluto meowing drags you from whatever trance-like state you’d found yourself in. She nudges her pink nose against your phone, the light from the screen illuminating her orange fur in the darkness. You blink, unsure how much time has passed. It’s dark outside now, the pitch black sky clear as the stars twinkle at you mockingly. Unable to listen to her voice any longer, you snatch your phone from its place amongst your blankets. Silencing the voicemail, you shakily try to distract yourself by mindlessly strolling on your phone. Your attention is drawn to two notifications in your messages.

‘jean’

|jean

Hey

Would you be down to study for anatomy tomorrow after I’m done with track practice?

Your groggy eyes scan the text and realize Jean had texted you at noon and due to your bed rotting you hadn’t seen it until now. Your eyes flick to the time—2:08 a.m. Before you can truly register that it’s two in the morning, your fingers are typing a response.

‘jean’

you|

oh totally!

does 7 work so i can book a study room?

|jean

Yes

Also why are you awake it’s 2 am

you|

why are you awake at 2 am 🤨

|jean

Touche…..

Fr tho what are you doing up??

you|

oh! up finishing a syllabus quiz for painting

|jean

Wow

Sashas right you are a bad liar

I’m in that class remember? and there was no syllabus quiz

Sooo whats up

you|

😶

ur so noseyyyy

well

idk. i just can’t fall asleep

|jean

Wanna talk about it?

You don’t have to

Just thought I’d offer

you|

i’d rather not ngl

but thanks for offering 🤗

|jean

I was actually about to go down to the beach

If you wanted to come

Might help clear your head

you|

i’d like that actually

as long as i’m not intruding

|jean

You aren’t dw

I’ll come get you in 10

The glare of headlights spills into the front windows as Jean pulls into the driveway. You just hope they don’t wake up Sasha and Mikasa—because explaining why you’re slipping out of the house at 2:14 a.m. in spandex and an oversized hoodie probably wouldn’t go over well, even if it is with Jean.

Moving quietly through the house, you pluck your keys from their hook by the door. You keep your eyes down, avoiding the mirror in the entryway. It’s not just the puffiness around your eyes or the guilt you know is etched across your features—you just can’t stomach the sight of yourself tonight. Pluto watches on from the bottom step— her eyes narrowed and glowing gold like distant planets in the night sky— as you slide a pair of shoes onto your feet.

You spare one last glance at Pluto before disappearing out the front door into the night. Jean’s car idles in the driveway, whatever music he’s playing escapes the car, softly filling the air. The passenger side door clicks open the moment you approach, a soft thunk breaking the stillness of the street. Jean leans across the center console to push it wider for you, one arm draped over the steering wheel. His face is dimly lit by the dashboard and you cringe at the thought of how terrible you must look right now. You shut the door quietly behind you, buckling in.

“Hey,” you greet quietly, immediately slumping in your seat. He glances over at you, stuffing his phone in his pocket. The hood of his hoodie is pulled halfway over his head, his tousled hair peeking out. Jean brushes some of the ashen brown strands from his face and despite the late hour, his mouth still twitches.

“Hey,” he replies, his voice rough but quiet, it gives the illusion of softness to his tone. He puts the car in drive, fishing his phone from his pocket and handing it to you.

“Here, play whatever you’d like,” Jean says as you take his phone from his outstretched hand. You murmur a ‘thank you’ under your breath as you scroll through Spotify. Settling on Pretty Boy by The Neighborhood, you turn your gaze to the passing scenery. The streets are empty this late, the whole town asleep. Out of the corner of your eye, the lamplight from above flickers across Jean’s face now and then. The golden light casts shadows along the line of his jaw, his eyes glued to the road ahead of him.

The drive to the beach isn’t long—roughly ten minutes—but it stretches like time is warped under the light of the moon. The silence between the two of you isn’t uncomfortable, simply two people existing in the other's orbit. When he pulls into the small parking lot near the dunes, the ocean’s presence hums all around you. That briny, salty scent soaks into your lungs as you breathe in the ocean breeze. You both get out of the car without speaking. Jean’s eyes find yours and he gestures with his hand.

“C’mon,” he says.

There’s a softness in his voice that makes your shoulders tense, the wind tugging at your hair as you fall into step behind him. Maybe this was a bad idea—coming here tonight. Your throat feels tight, constricting against your voice to prevent you from spilling your guts. Jean is one of your closest friends, but he’s not who you typically talk to about stuff this deep. Not that you think he wouldn’t be willing to listen, but the idea of unleashing any of your muddy thoughts on him makes you feel nauseous.

You both walk side by side through the dunes that lead to the shore, tall grass sways in the breeze.

Jean finally speaks beside you. “I always forget how quiet it is out here,” he says, testing the waters. “It’s calming, yeah?”

You nod, trailing a few steps behind now— his longer strides continue towards the shoreline. “I’ve always liked it better like this. At night.”

He glances back, waiting for you to catch up as he hears your voice from behind him. The strands of hair that peek out from his hoodie flutter in the wind— his expression unreadable in the dark.

“You wanna sit?”

You hum in agreement, and he drops to the sand with a soft grunt, stretching his legs out in front of him. You lower yourself beside him, wrapping your arms around your knees. The ocean is dark, the light of the moon glittering on its surface, peaked with silver as the tide changes. Only the soft sound of the waves hitting the shore can be heard, the world around the two of you asleep. The waves curl up and pull back like the steady sound of breathing, allowing you to match your breathing. You close your eyes, just taking in the soothing presence of the ocean. On occasion, you can hear the noises of Jean tossing a pebble into the surf as he keeps you company.

“I come here a lot,” he says, voice low. “Whenever I feel like I can’t get my head to shut up.” He pauses, you open your eyes and glance at him, resting your cheek against your knee. He takes a deep breath, his light brown eyes focused on the horizon, “I was here probably every night after my injury…”

Jean trails off, lobbing another pebble into the dark rolling waves. You continue to watch him, surprised by the confession. Despite the fact that Jean is fairly outspoken, he is definitely not when it comes to anything below surface level. His walls are well known in your circle of friends. If you had to place bets, the only person who knew what really goes on in his head would be Marco. His eyes are still on the ocean when you respond.

“I didn’t know that,” you murmur. “That you came out here.”

“Didn’t tell anyone,” he shrugs. “Wasn’t something I wanted to talk about.”

Jean’s not talking about just the beach anymore, he’s talking about what the injury did to him—the grief it carries. Your eyes move to watch the waves for a moment before gravitating back to him. You study the curve of his jaw, his windblown hair, the way the ocean reflects in his eyes.

“I won’t tell anyone. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I wasn’t,” Jean replies simply, “I trust you.”

There's a pause as you try to find a way to respond. A knot tightens in your chest at that. You squeeze your knees a little closer to yourself, your arms winding around them tighter.

“I get it, though,” you say quietly. “I used to come to the beach with my mom a lot back home. It’s always been calming. Probably good for me that I tagged along tonight.”

Jean sighs quietly, pulling one knee up and resting his elbow on it. “I’m glad you came.” He pauses, rolling a smooth rock between his fingers. “I know you said you didn’t wanna talk, but—”

“I forgot,” you say suddenly. The words spill out before you can stop them. You hadn’t planned on talking about it—but something about the silver tipped waves, something about the way Jean is handling your feelings with care, draws your sorrows out of you. “About her.”

Jean’s head turns to you sharply, his brows furrowed, obviously not expecting you to talk about your mother. You don’t look at him. Your voice is barely audible as the breeze carries it through the cool ocean winds.

“I was having fun last night. I was laughing, smiling, dancing. For a few hours… I forgot she was gone.”

The silence that follows is thick and heavy with understanding. Jean doesn’t interrupt, he just allows you to unload.

“I remembered in the bathroom. Pieck said she was sorry, and it just… hit me,” you swallow, the words pierce like glass in your throat. “It feels like I’m doing something wrong by being happy.”

Jean’s brows furrow, turning her body to you fully. His voice is low and steady when he responds. “That doesn’t make you a bad person. Or a bad daughter. You’re allowed to be happy.”

You blink hard, staring past him, trying not to cry again. You’ve cried enough today and you won’t do it in front of Jean. A lump rises in your throat despite you willing yourself to breathe.

“Thanks, Jean,” you mumble, wanting to close the door on the subject of your mother.Jean observes you for a moment, letting the lingering stillness hang in the air between you, before tossing the rock he had been turning over in his hand. The tide creeps up a little closer to your toes. You squish your cheek harder on your knee, the quiet between you stretching like the moonbeams that shine down on the calm ocean tides. Jean’s hand finds the edge of your sleeve and tugs it gently, getting your attention.

“Wanna know something juicy?” Jean asks, a smile cracking at the edges of his lips. You hum, tugging your hoodie sleeves over your chilly fingers. You’re grateful for the shift in topic.

“Last night, Sash spilled that she likes someone,” Jean says, his voice low, whispering like he’s sharing something top secret. “Some guy from her work. She said they have class together too.”

“What? She told you before me?” you whine tiredly.

“If it makes you feel better, she was drunk.”

“She always tells you stuff when she’s drunk,” you grumble, tucking away that knowledge, you reach out to poke his arm.

“Wanna know something just as juicy?” you crack a smile, the first you’ve had all day.

“I swear I saw Mika and Eren dancing together at the party. And not friend vibes—like ‘let’s make out’ vibes.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. They’re practically glued together at practice.” Jean says with a light chuckle, tracing his fingertips over the sand. One of your own hands drops to rake through the sand absentmindedly.

“Mika’s never said anything about being into him,” you muse, brows furrowed in thought.

“Neither has Eren,” Jean replies, a little smile still noticeable on his face, “But if I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

Your fingers dig deeper into the sand as you allow an easy smile to tug at your lips, “You’re such a gossip whore.”

“Says you,” Jean shoots back, just as your fingers bump something cold and ridged beneath the sand. You pluck it out of the sand, wiping the sand from the object with your hoodie sleeve. A small cream colored shell is what you find— flat, with swirls of darker tan running up the raised bits. Humming, you hold it out to him.

“Hmm, look,” you say softly, placing the shell in his open palm. Your fingers brush against his skin—warm even in the night air—as you pull away. Jean rubs his thumb over the surface, his eyes studying it.

“Looks like a scallop shell,” he murmurs.

“Ahh. How do you know?” you question as he turns the shell over a few times.

“Marco and I used to collect them back home in Trost,” Jean answers with a shrug, “I have a whole jar of ‘em.” Something in the way he so flippantly mentions Marco and the look that you catch in his eyes when he says used to keeps you quiet.

“Welllll, I guess I’ll let you keep it then,” your voice sounds jarringly louder in contrast to the quiet surrounding you two.

“You found it. You should keep it.”

You shake your head. “I’ll let you steal this one. Add it to your collection.”

You tuck your hands back into your sleeves, watching as Jean turns the shell over one last time before slipping it into his hoodie pocket.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

The hush between you stretches, accompanied only by the steady rhythm of the waves lapping at the shore. You stay seated like that for a while, watching the ocean breathe under the light of the moon. Your body aches from exhaustion, a day's worth of spiraling finally catching up to you.

Eventually, Jean stands beside you and brushes the sand off that clings to his sweatpants.

“C’mon,” he says, “let's get you home before you pass out in the sand.”

You rise slowly, joints stiff, wiping your palms on your thighs. He walks ahead, waiting for you by the edge of the dunes. It’s colder now, the wind cutting sharper as it stings your cheeks. The moonlight above casts long shadows as you cut back through the dunes, the sound of the waves slowly fading behind you.

The drive back is just as quiet as earlier. You lean your head against the window, watching the darkened street lights blur past as you traverse the silent streets. The hum of the engine and the soft drum of Jean’s fingers on the steering wheel fills the air between you both. You glance at him once out of the corner of your eye—his profile dimly lit by the lights on the dashboard. Eventually, he arrives back at 139 South Avenue, standing quiet and shadowed, just as you’d left it. He pulls into your driveway, killing the lights so as to not disturb those sleeping inside.

“I can walk you to the door,” Jean offers as you unbuckle your seatbelt.

You shake your head, hand on the door. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.” His eyes linger on you for a moment.

“I know you do but still. It’d be rude not to,” Jean says, already out of the car by the time you unbuckle your seatbelt. He keeps his hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket as he walks you up the driveway.

You pause at the front door, unlocking it slowly, careful not to make noise so as to not wake up your roommates. Jean rocks back on his heels behind you.

You turn the key with a click. “Thanks again for taking me. I needed it.”

Jean gives you a small, crooked smile. “Anytime. Are we still on for tomorrow?”

You nod again. “Yeah. I’ll book the room for seven like we said.”

“Cool.”

You slip inside after flashing him one last tired smile, the door closing being you quietly. Pluto’s staring down from the top of the stairs as you kick your shoes off and pad up the stairs. She circles your legs as you walk to your room, her raspy meow the only sound besides your muffled footsteps.

Pluto hops back onto your bed as you change into pajamas, your body moving on its own accord. You curl into the sheets beside her, burying your face in her fur. Her purrs drown out the noises in your head that still whisper cruelly in your ear. The last thing you think of as you close your eyes, is the moon hanging in the sky.

‘roomies 😻’

|mika <3

Are you going to tell me where you went at 2 in the morning last night?

Pluto was up when you left and she started meowing incessantly

|sash <3

GIRL PLS IM INNOCENT

ISTG I DID NOT DO ANOTHER LATE NIGHT MCDONALDS RUN!!!

I was just up watching kpop demon hunters 😭

|mika <3

I’m not talking to you Sasha

|sash <3

What the helly

Bae why were you traversing the streets at night

you|

i was in bed!

whatever do you mean!

|mika <3

😑

Don’t lie the ring doorbell notified my phone

You aren’t slick

|sash <3

Did you get food without me??

I thought you loved me 😣😣

you|

i was not getting food

i went to the beach

😼

|mika <3

At… 2 in the morning?

|sash <3

SHAWTY NO

NO ALONE BEACH TRIPS AT NIGHT

|mika <3

Here it comes…

|sash <3

WHY WERE YOU THERE??

THATS SO DANGEROUS

What if you had been swept away by the current?!?!?!?!?

What if you were kidnapped???

I can’t play volleyball without you!!! 😭😭

you|

i’m almost offended you think i’m so irresponsible 🙄

i was with jean i was perfectly safe

|sash <3

Huh

our jean????

rizzless loser supreme with a bum hammy??

At 2 in the morning?

|mika <3

Sasha what other Jeans do you know….

Be serious

you|

i couldn’t sleep and he was gonna drive around

so i went with!

|sash <3

Oh okay

That was nice of him! ☺️

|mika <3

Why couldn’t you sleep?

you|

i was suffering from insane hangxiety still

🥴

|mika <3

May this be a sign to drink more water next time

What did you guys even do?

you|

we just hung out

watched the water

nothing crazy

he stole a sea shell i found tho 😣

|sash <3

Don’t let that nerd dull your sparkle queen

you|

well

actually i let him steal it

but he still took it from me

😞

|mika <3

Yeah definitely not how stealing works

But okay

The sound of the study room door opening with a soft click pulls you from your phone. Jean enters with a smile and two cups—seemingly from Rose’s—in his grip. You feel a smile twitch at your lips as you pluck your headphones from your ears.

“Hey,” you greet, watching as he sets one of the drinks down in front of you, “Oh—thanks. You didn’t need to get me anything.”

Jean shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I was already at Rose’s. It’s no big deal.”

“Well, thank you,” you say again, taking a sip of your drink. You perk up a little when the taste hits your tongue, pleased to realize it’s your favorite.

“So, how was practice?”

“Typical,” Jean replies, dropping into the seat next to you as he starts digging through his backpack. “Coach Smith had us running 200s today.”

“You like running the 200 though, don’t you?” you inquire, vaguely recalling the events he runs. Jean scoffs, rolling his eyes with playful exasperation, his voice grumbly as he speaks.

“I do. Just not when we have to run twelve of them with two minute breaks in between.” You make a face, watching Jean’s tired frame as he pulls up his anatomy notes on his laptop.

“That man enjoys torturing you all,” you state, your eyes instinctually dropping to his thigh, covered by the fabric of his sweatpants. Asking about it almost feels like intruding on his business, especially since he doesn’t voluntarily talk about recovery. He runs a hand through his hair, seemingly damp from an after practice shower and the question bubbles up in your throat before you can stop it.

“How did your hamstring hold up?”

To your surprise, Jean doesn’t tense or shy away from the topic. Instead, he rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Feels a bit tight if I push too hard. But overall? Feels okay.”

“If you ever need help with your PT, I can always help you know,” you speak before you can truly think about the implications. In your peripheral, you see Jean blink at you a few times as he processes.

“Because I need more practice,” you add quickly, “for my internship. Obviously.”

Jean hums, a small smile curling at the corner of his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind, then.” He taps his fingers against the table. “Now help me with these face muscles.”

To his credit, Jean isn’t as bad at anatomy as he claims he is—but he’s not great, either. He flies through the major muscles easily, but the smaller, more particular ones test his patience—his brows drawn together in concentration with every new question.

“Okay,” you say, pointing to a diagram on your tablet and glancing at a flashcard. “What’s the insertion for the buccinator?”

Jean lets out a long groan and drops his forehead onto the table, covering the back of his neck with his hands.

“What’s the buccinator again?” He tilts his head to look at you and you almost laugh at the expression on his face. His amber eyes look almost pleading, his cheek pressed into the tabletop underneath. You place your hand over your mouth to muffle the giggle you let escape.

“How about we take a little break,” you suggest, closing your tablet.

“Thank god,” Jean sighs, “this has no reason to be so hard. Why did I do this to myself?”

“Because you need the credit?” you offer teasingly, tilting your head as he grumbles to himself.

“Don’t remind me,” Jean says, his eyes narrowed like the class has personally victimized him. After a pause, his eyes flick to you again. “Sasha said volleyball preseason starts this week. Are you excited?”

Excited isn’t the word you’d use to describe how you felt—conflicted was a better fit. Truthfully, you haven’t been practicing as much as you should’ve during the off-season. Your mom usually helped with training—and without her, and without Sasha around, it’s been hard to find the motivation.

“Yeah, I guess,” you say, taking a sip of your drink again. “I’m not super in shape right now. Sasha and I usually run together, but she has early classes this semester.”

“Well,” Jean says, his voice low, “you could always tag along with me on mine. Eren’s got lab early, so I’m out a running buddy too.”

You raise your eyebrows, biting the inside of your cheek. “Are you sure? I’m not very fast.”

Jean shrugs, his thumb idly tapping against the side of his drink. “I don’t mind slowing down if you need me to. I just like having someone to run with.”

“Alright,” you say, pretending to sigh. “I’m in.”

Jean glances over, and his eyes meet yours. The contact only lasts a breath before he clears his throat and leans back in his chair.

“Cool,” he says, a little too casual. “Tomorrow before painting okay with you?”

You nod just as Jean leans back in his chair and stretches his arms overhead with a tired groan. The hem of his sweatshirt rides up just enough for you to see the line of his waistband before you pointedly look back at your drink—feeling weird for staring. Jean starts leafing through the notecards you’ve crafted, squinting down at one. He nudges your foot under the table to get your attention, and a small smile settles on your lips.

“Wanna go back to studying now?”

“Sure, if you can take it,” you say, swiping the cards from him, “think you can handle more facial anatomy tonight?”

He hums noncommittally, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch, “gimme your worst.”

“Okay. What is the function of the levator labii superioris alaeque nasi?”

“Nevermind.”

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