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capricornlevi · 2 years

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In Close Proximity, Part 2 - Jean Kirstein x F!Reader

summary: jean's silent treatment lasts a bit longer than you anticipated. thankfully, you're both able to address it together, thanks to some very unexpected circumstances

cw: explicit sexual content, consumption of alcohol, semi-public sex, fingering, vaginal sex, praise kink, mild tw for claustrophobia (two characters get stuck in an elevator)

NSFW, 18+ - MDNI - MINORS and AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT!

taglist from part 1: @tacobellfreshavocado @moonandflowersfairy @reiners-milkbiddies @andivvs @nothisispatrick300

wc: 11.2k

This is the final part of the series. Part 1 is available here

“Beer pong in the kitchen in five!”

You don’t even need to turn around to know who’s shouting. Reiner’s voice is loud, audible even over the chaotic noises of the party, which is likely why he was sent out to deliver the message — that, plus the fact that he was probably the one who suggested it in the first place. As co-host, his request is pretty hard to refuse.

You choose avoidance instead. Staying put in the quiet corner of the room you’ve been lingering in, you allow the rest of your friends to scramble to the kitchen and hopefully make so much noise that nobody notices your absence.

You’re not trying to be unsociable, you’re just exhausted.

It’s just after two a.m. now, which wouldn’t be so bad were it not for the fact that finals begin in a few days. Questionable timing for a party, sure, but it serves as one last celebration before the chaos of exam season and because of that, you didn’t want to turn down the invite.

Now, with hindsight, you realise you probably should have.

You slip your phone out of your pocket and unlock it, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram in the hopes of distracting yourself (and staying awake). With your other hand, you give your half-finished can of beer a little squeeze, feeling the metal flex under your fingers as you suppress a yawn.

Maybe you should have lied about being sick or said you had other plans. It would have been more sensible to just make up an excuse. You’ve had to pull three all-nighters this past week alone just to get your assignments submitted in time, and your sleep cycle hasn’t fully recovered since.

Though, in your defence, you didn’t think the party would lastthis long . Foolish and naive as it might have been, you thought this whole thing would just be a few casual beers with friends, not … this.

This is a big party. Again, if you had stopped to actually think things through before accepting the invite, you might have been able to guess that Reiner’s position on the football team would mean that he’d be inviting the entire team, some supporters, significant others, drinking buddies …

How could you even be surprised that well over a hundred people showed up?

Eight hours have passed since people started drinking and it’s still busy now. Although quite a few people have gone their separate ways over the course of the evening, either heading out to other parties or to nightclubs in town, you’d guess there are still thirty people at the house, give or take.

So far, you’ve spoken to approximately twenty-nine of them.

Number 30 is sitting in the kitchen tapping a keg, last you heard, though you definitely don’t care — to be honest, Number 30 is pissing you off. You’re well and truly sick of having to avoid Jean Kirstein everywhere you go.

He hasn’t spoken to you since that time you ran into him at the café after winter break, and to make things worse, you’ve been running into each other a lot since then.

Remember back when you justified hooking up with him because you didn’t have the same friend group? It seems as though your university is a bit too small for that to have ever been the case.

He is just … he’s always there, and whether it’s at parties, Reiner’s football games, even just bumping into him on campus, it’s always awkward.

To make matters worse, your mutual friends are usually there too — the weighted silence between you and Jean is incredibly obvious to anyone in the vicinity.

It’s annoying for many reasons, mostly because it’s unfair. It’s difficult to accept Jean’s sudden silent treatment since you’re really not sure what actually went wrong between the two of you.

Things were fine, and then they weren’t.

That night at the party was a reasonably successful hook-up by your standards and so you can’t imagine it has anything to do with that. You both got to finish, made sure to use protection, and the fact that he left immediately afterwards meant you didn’t have to reckon with the awkwardness of the following morning. All-in-all, a great experience. Ten out of ten.

So when Historia pointed out his frosty attitude towards you at the cafe after winter break, you had assumed Jean was just having a bad day. You reasoned that he might have been in a rush to get to class, or maybe he hadn’t been sleeping well, or maybe it was one of another thousand possible excuses for his rushed exit.

It was the following week that your optimism started to wane, when he pretended to not hear you greet him when you bumped into each other on campus.

And again in the supermarket a week later.

In the queue at the local pizza place, as well.

But it was only when you and your roommates met with him at the college bar on Valentine’s Day that you knew it definitely wasn’t a fluke.

Jean was there with his friends and you arrived with yours, but when he spotted Annie and Porco and went to greet them, he did not look at you once. Not once, and even Annie noticed it. He never made eye contact with you, never replied to your questions, and slipped away to order a drink at the bar when he saw you approach to confront him about it.

All the excuses in the world couldn’t explain his behaviour, except for one thing — Jean was mad at you.

Well, it would be more accurate to say that he is mad at you. Currently. This is a present-tense situation, tragically.

You knock back the last of your beer with a grimace.

“Hey, whatcha still doing here?”

Before you can turn to face Reiner, he’s practically on top of you. You don’t even have time to lift your head from your phone when a large, muscular arm gets thrown around your shoulder, nearly knocking the air from your chest.

“What do you mean?” you ask, turning to him with a smile and feigning ignorance.

“Everyone’s in the kitchen! Beer pong!”

You’re painfully aware of that. You were hoping to lay low for another while so as to avoid the crowd - specifically one person in that very crowd - but you can’t really think of another excuse on the spot.

“Yeah?” you ask half-heartedly.

He seems to take your defeated exhale as a sign of surrender, his face breaking into a beaming smile as he grabs you by the arm (with considerably less force than earlier, thankfully), guiding you out to the kitchen.

“Come on! And if Porco asks, you’re on my fuckin’ team. He’s trying to poach people when he thinks I’m not looking.”

The journey isn’t the smoothest. You nearly stumble over a pile of crushed beer cans and have to push past a lot of sweaty football players, finally making it to the kitchen a few moments later. Reiner only releases his grip on your arm once you’re safely inside and not at risk of catching a stray elbow to the head.

Once you’ve taken a moment to adjust to the stuffy and beer-scented atmosphere in this part of the house, you glance around the packed kitchen.

Reiner was right in that pretty much everyone’s here - as many as can fit in, anyway - and you see Porco and Annie across the room by the fridge. They wave, and you return it with a forced smile.

There’s a big table in the centre of the room with a keg underneath it, as well as a few chairs pulled out against the walls to make space. Most of them are being used to hold stacks of empty cups, jackets, purses, and, weirdly, a singular bright-pink cowboy hat with flashing lights around the brim.

Jean is sitting on one of the other chairs. You spot him far too quickly, seeing him chat to a group of girls you recognise from somewhere (Historia’s housemates, maybe?). He’s talking to them all with that lop-sided grin on his face, one that sends a weird feeling through you; a bizarre mix of fondness and resentment.

Resentment wins out, and so you stare at him with absolutely no subtlety, willing him to look your way. He doesn’t budge, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead of him. One of the girls starts laughing loudly at some story he’s told.

Reiner sees you staring and chuckles, clapping a sympathetic hand on your shoulder. Your friends are aware of Jean’s grudge - it’s hard not to be aware of it, considering neither of you tries to hide it - though they’re just as confused as to the cause.

You haven’t told any of them about your night with Jean. Some carefully-placed questions over the past few months have shown, to your relief, that nobody has any suspicions that something happened between the two of you.

Unfortunately, that means they’re of absolutely no help when it comes to figuring out this mystery.

“He hates me,” you groan despairingly, still looking in Jean’s direction as Reiner hands you another beer that he grabbed from the cooler. “He actually hates me.”

Reiner scoffs. “He doesn’t hate you.”

Well, that gives you some hope. Reiner plays on the same team as Jean’s roommate Eren, so maybe he’s finally heard something?

“And how do you know that?” you ask, trying to keep the curiosity from leeching into your tone.

“Because it’s Jean,” Reiner answers with a laugh. “Jean likes everyone!”

Your hopes are crushed into a fine powder. Apparently Reiner is the only one of your friends not to pick up on Jean’s grudge, and not only that, but his words also make you feel even more irritated by this whole situation.

Because Jean, who likes everyone, does not like you at all.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow. It would be so much easier if you could hate him. But you don’t, because the most irritating thing is that he's being relatively civil. Petty, but civil.

He hasn’t been spreading rumours or insulting you — Historia, Porco, and Annie intercept most of the gossip at your college, so the fact they haven’t heard anything untoward proves that Jean’s been keeping his mouth shut.

… which is funny, because that’s kind of the whole problem.

As strange as it seems, part of you wishes that he’d just act like the asshole you always assumed he was. It might make things a little easier if he was being outright rude or hostile.

But he doesn’t. Part of you wonders if he’s waiting for you to be the aggressor, to lose it on him publicly and embarrass yourself.

Because of that, you don’t break. He’s the one who started this, so he can be the one to finish it.

At least … you think he’s the one who started this.

“You’re right, Reiner,” you say, glancing over at Jean one more time. He averts his eyes when you try to meet them. “It’s probably nothing.”

At Reiner’s prompting, you pick up the little plastic ping-pong ball resting on the countertop and head over to the table. You toss it without thinking, and it manages to land with a small splash in one of the red cups lined up on the other side.

You’re so caught up in the excitement of victory - and the fact you’ve successfully found a good distraction - that you don’t even realise you haven’t formed teams yet. As the others rush into place, setting their cups aside and trying to push past to reach the ends of the table, you notice Jean stays seated.

Probably for the best, you figure. It would be awkward no matter which side he picked.

It’s fine. This is fine. If he’s happy to pretend you don’t exist, then maybe you should try the same thing with him.

You successfully land your next throw as well.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of beer and obnoxious football chants, vodka and poorly-curated Spotify playlists, and the party ends only when Annie drags you and Porco out the door to get pizza.

You never thought thatyou would be the one wanting to stay longer, but it was a fun night. You’re glad you went in the end. You got to see friends you hadn't met in a while, performed admirably in three separate rounds of beer pong, and it was nice to have a proper send-off before everyone goes their separate ways over the summer.

But when you arrive home, chewing on some suspiciously cold pizza and forcing yourself to drink a pint of water before bed, you realise that you’re left feeling unsettled.

Like something, somewhere, went wrong, and you know it’s not the hangover talking.

… yet.

Unsurprisingly, you wake with a pounding headache and a stale, bitter taste in your mouth that makes every breath feel more disgusting than the last. An empty pizza box sits on your desk and your clothes from last night are strewn across the floor, obscuring the tote bag that contains stacks of notecards you’ve prepared for this week’s finals.

You sit up in bed and rub your eyes. When you glance down at your hands, you see streaks of mascara that you didn’t properly remove when drunkenly taking off your makeup last night.

Ugh. Your stomach is lurching.

And it’s the Monday of exam week.

And everything feels off.

You’re not completely unprepared for finals, but this is still not an ideal start to the week. Your hungover brain throbs against your skull at the very thought of opening a textbook.

Thankfully, your first exam isn’t until tomorrow afternoon, meaning you can work from your bed for most of the day. The library is a no-go until the evening; you figure that the other students would appreciate you staying home until the scent of beer stops leaching from your pores.

It’s not the worst prospect. Over the years, you’ve discovered that you actually prefer going to the library much later than most. Campus is disgustingly busy during business hours, plus there’s never a queue for the library printers at night — it just makes sense to go when the distractions are most limited.

These late-night library visits are probably not the best move for your ailing sleep cycle, but you don’t care. It’s a short-term sacrifice.

After a half-hour spent in bed trawling through TikTok, you finally feel like you’re able to stand upright without having your legs give out underneath you. You pad out to the kitchen to make some dry toast and black coffee with the hopes that it will cure your ailments.

It doesn’t. Taking ibuprofen washed down with a glass of ice-cold water doesn't provide much help, either.

By the time you get back to your room and set up at your desk, it takes you nearly an hour to find the willpower to open up your laptop.

When you do manage to open it, it takes you twice as long as usual to even remember your password.

Fuck it — you need a nap.

It goes against every college student's survival instinct in your body, but you give up after forty-five minutes of half-assed studying.

The nap helps, but you wake in a cold sweat. After blinking slowly, trying to piece together why you’re so suddenly stressed, a peek over at the clock on your wall tells you exactly why.

Most of the day is wasted , you haven’t studied a single notecard, and you have an exam in less than twenty-four hours.

Yes, you had allowed yourself some time to recover — but not this much time. You overslept alot .

You scramble to get changed and gather your things, managing to calm yourself down enough to leave at around seven p.m.

After saying a quick goodbye to Annie and Porco, you set off for the library, armed with a couple of energy drinks, these weird vitamin gummies your roommates swear cure all hangovers, and your headphones. It’ll be another all-nighter, so you pick up a sandwich in the campus café just before it closes.

Your stomach twists when you get to the library at around eight and see that it’s still as busy as ever.

How annoying. It’s cold, too, which makes you wish you wore jeans and a sweatshirt instead of a skirt and blouse, but you’ve been too busy to do laundry and so had to settle for what you had available.

You find a seat eventually and settle in for a long night. Setting up your laptop and notes, you stick in your headphone and turn the volume up to the highest setting - again, not the best for your health, but it should help to keep you awake.

After an hour, you’ve covered one chapter. Slower progress than you’d have liked, but it’s still better than nothing.

Another ninety minutes and the second chapter is finished, plus the others at your table have started to pack up and leave — finally. It’s just you in this row now.

More time passes and even more students start to call it a night. As the pile of finished notecards on your desk grows, the more empty chairs start appearing on the floor. By midnight, only a handful of people are left.

It’s a relief. You didn’t want to be rude, but the girl across from you had the loudest laptop keyboard ever created, and the guy two rows back had hayfever so strong that you were tempted to go pick up some antihistamines yourself if it would help him stop sniffling. You’re grateful for the peace and quiet now.

Scanning the rows, you try to count the remaining students.

You spot a girl you recognise from your Thursday morning seminar - that’s one - then there’ssomeone across from her who has a stack of books so high it looks like a Jenga tower - that’s two.

You spot a guy who you think is on the basketball team - three - and …

Oh no.

You squint to make sure you’re seeing things correctly, but once you catch sight of that distinctive hazel-brown hair, you know you’re not mistaken.

Jean.

He’s sitting about five rows across from you and over to the left, his brows furrowed in concentration as he works, seemingly unaware of your presence as he studies late into the night.

Damn it.

You hadn’t seen him before now, probably because your line of sight was obscured by the many people sitting between you.

In a complete shift, you now wish the library was a little busier again. If that were the case, you can pretend to have not noticed him and he would be none the wiser, but there’s only a handful of people left sitting here. Running into Jean now seems inevitable.

Could you get up and move to another row?

No, you shut down that thought immediately — if he’s so uncomfortable with you, then he can be the one to move. You shouldn’t have to go out of your way to avoid someone who won’t even tell you why he’s upset in the first place.

You force your gaze back to the open book in front of you. To fully ensure that your attention is focused on your studies and not Jean, you take your headphones out of your bag and put them on, hitting ‘play’ on your tried-and-tested study playlist. You take a sip of your energy drink and get back to work.

Another few hours pass and, thankfully, the pile of unread books has begun to shrink as your stack of notecards grows taller. Suppressing a yawn, you glance at the time. Two a.m. again.

You could stay longer. You have a protein bar in your bag that could keep you sustained for another while, plus the sugar and caffeine from your selection of beverages mean you’re not completely exhausted.

You rub your eyes, noticing that your vision has gone blurry. You blink heavily to try to clear it, and when you open your eyes, you know for certain that it’s time to head home …

Because you’re the only person left on this floor.

It’s not that there’s a risk of you being kicked out - the library is open all night long in the run-up to exams - it’s just sort of eerie being here all by yourself. Your body is also starting to tap out despite your best efforts, and you’d rather not accidentally doze off here and wake up in a worse state than this morning.

You shove your notes and laptop in your bag and stretch, your aching muscles grateful for the change in posture. Scanning your desk to make sure you haven’t forgotten anything, you stand up to leave.

This is progress. You remained focused, got some work done, and absolutely did not think about how Jean was there. You did such a good job that you didn’t even see him leave, come to think of it, and that’s fine — he wouldn’t have noticed if you left, after all.

Heading over to the closest elevators, you see the doors start to shut. You quicken your pace to a jog; normally you wouldn’t bother rushing, but you’re on the fourth floor and don’t fancy walking all the way down those stairs. You call out a quick, “hold the elevator!”, hoping that whoever is inside hears you in time.

They do.

A hand reaches out to stop the door from closing, and when the elevator opens fully, you see who stopped it for you.

Jean, again .

He must have known it was you running to catch it — you were unable to see through the opening in the doors, but he had a better view from where he’s standing.

He knew it was you, so you’re not sure why he decided to do this. It’s the closest he’s come to acknowledging your existence in months.

You think for a moment about taking the stairs but decide against it. It’ll only make things more uncomfortable, and as you noted earlier, you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting under your skin.

As you take your time to mull this over, he’s still holding the door. He clears his throat to get your attention, the ghost of a frown on his face as he waits for you to step in.

“You coming?” he asks, the sound of his voice almost unfamiliar.

You don’t say anything, you don’t nod or acknowledge it explicitly in any way. You just swallow your doubts and step inside.

You press the button for the ground floor even though it’s already lit up, turning to face away from him as you do so.

Neither of you looks at one another. Not even a side glance.

“Thanks,” you say finally, a last attempt at an olive branch, and he doesn’t reply. He stays there staring at the elevator door, probably willing it to move faster.

You huff out a breath, half-annoyed and half-amused. If he notices, he says nothing of the sort.

The elevator starts moving. You cast your eyes to the ceiling, grateful that at least this ordeal will be over quickly.

According to the little neon number displayed above the door, you’re on the third floor of the library when the walls of the elevator start to shake. Slight at first, it emits a soft rattling noise, one that could just be dismissed as the normal creaking of what appears to be a very old unit.

But then it gets louder.

You frown, looking around the space for the source of the noise. It sounds like a rough scraping sound, something on the other side of the walls. The sound is unlike anything you’ve ever heard before. You feel your stomach drop.

The floor lurches a bit, shaking in jumpy motions as it tries to descend, and your hand shoots out against the wall to steady yourself.

Jean does the same, his lips pinched into a flat line and face paler than you’ve seen it. You hear him swear under his breath; he changes up his chosen curse word with every lurch of the elevator floor.

For a few moments, you’re still moving but only very, very slowly, the noise getting progressively louder as the walls shake incessantly until the elevator finally grinds to a halt with a deafening screech somewhere between the second and first floors.

Your heart rate is through the roof, a panicked shout threatening to erupt when you see the lights start to flicker. You brace yourself for the sensation of falling, fearing the elevator will drop suddenly without notice.

Thankfully, the lights stay on.

You figure that’s a good sign; as long as the lights are on, it surely means that some of the electrical supply is still connected.

You don’t know much about elevators, but right now, all you care about is that it stays in one place until help arrives.

Five, ten seconds pass, and no drop. No movement of any sort.

Deep breath.

You turn to Jean, letting out a shallow chuckle when you see the appalled look on his face. Sweat beads on his forehead, his eyes are wide in horror. He looks seconds away from passing out.

He turns to you when he hears your bizarre reaction, his eyes widening further as he does so, both fear and annoyance flickering in them.

“Are you laughing?” he asks, incredulous.

“I - yeah,” you reply, trying to look past the fact that this is the most he’s said to you in months. “I sometimes laugh when I’m nervous. Sorry.”

“I just … I can’t … how are we-”

“Deep breaths,” you say, both for him and yourself. You set your bag down on the floor and turn to face him. “Deep breaths, see? We’re gonna be fine.”

You’re not sure where this reassurance is coming from. Maybe you’re just trying to soothe your own worries, maybe you’re just trying to keep Jean from spiralling because you know that’ll only stress you out more — either way, you’re trying your best to keep calm, knowing that excessive panic will get you nowhere.

Jean, on the other hand, still looks like he could collapse right in front of you.

“How do you - how can you be sure?”

You place a hand on the side of the wall, pressing firmly, and he lets out a yelp of protest.

“Don’t shake it, Jesus Christ!”

“I’m not!” you reply, trying desperately to suppress another laugh in spite of everything. You weren’t lying — you really do struggle to keep a straight face in these situations. “I’m just showing you that we’re not moving, it’s not shaking anymore. The safety device must’ve kicked in.”

You let your hand fall back to your side and Jean’s shoulders release just a bit of their tension.

“Don’t panic,” you follow up, smiling at him.

A smile, he thinks to himself, how fucking … frustrating. Your grin taunts him even though you don’t mean it to. He really feels like he might be actively dying in this elevator and you’re there, smiling up at him, without a care in the world, not knowing how much he’s thought about that-

“I’m not panicking,” he replies far too quickly.

“Are you sure?” you ask, intrigued by the boy in front of you, the one who is usually so calm and assured in every other interaction you’ve had with him, “ … it seems like you’re panicking.”

He frowns. “Stop it.”

“I’m not making fun of you!” you object. “Just … observing, I guess.”

“Can you observe a way out of this elevator, then?”

You press your lips into a thin line.

“Well, hitting the emergency call button could be a good start,” you reply coolly, gesturing to the panel to your left-hand side.

“Right. Yeah.” Jean huffs.

Once pressed, the button starts emitting a dial tone that continues for an agonisingly long time. You avoid eye contact with Jean while it rings.

Finally, a tinny voice emits from the panel, a tired-sounding phone operator droning out a rehearsed speech.

“Hello, Shiganshina Security Services, how may we help you this evening?”

You gesture across to the panel, inviting Jean to speak — he’s the one who pressed it, after all. He rolls his eyes at you but clears his throat without further objection, leaning closer to the speaker.

“Uh … hi. I’m, uh, calling from the … second floor of the Paradis University Library. Well, kinda the first floor, too. I’m trapped in the elevator.”

The operator doesn’t seem phased, continuing on in a monotone voice. “Okay, sir. Have you pressed the ‘open door’ button?”

Jean stills for a moment, closing his eyes to suppress a sigh.

“No, we’re stuck between floors.”

“‘We’? How many people are in the elevator with you?”

Jean’s eyes flicker over to you, then back to the speaker. “Uh, just two of us. We’re both students here.”

You hear the sound of the operator typing slowly on the other end of the line. “Okay, sir. Are both of you physically safe and well?”

Jean looks at you again and you nod your head.

“Uh, yeah, all good here,” he continues politely. You almost laugh at the fake-calm voice he’s putting on for the operator considering the state he was in just moments ago. “Except for the whole ‘being trapped’ part.”

“I understand, and apologies for the inconvenience,” the operator follows up, clearly finishing off the script. “At this time of night it might take a while longer for responders to reach you, but they have been contacted and we will let you know once they have been dispatched. In the event that you require any further assistance from me, please press the call button again. Due to a system malfunction, the security cameras are currently offline, so all communication will have to be carried out through the intercom.”

“That’s fine,” Jean says flatly. “Do you have, like, a ballpark of when they’ll get here?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Okay,” he concedes, rubbing his eyes with his hands. “Thanks anyway.”

The intercom cuts off with a soft clunk, and the elevator is plunged into complete silence for the first time since you stepped in.

“Well, fuck,” Jean laments.

His voice is muffled since his face is still in his hands, meaning he most likely isn’t expecting an answer from you. Still, you don’t want to pass up the opportunity to keep him talking — this could almost be classed as a conversation, and you don’t know how long you’ll be here.

Might as well make some effort at passing the time.

“Do you think they’ll let us go to the resits if we’re stuck in here til tomorrow?” you pipe up, half-jokingly.

He lifts his head and blinks at you.

You feel a little defensive. “What?”

“I just … that’s the last thing I’m worrying about right now.”

He rests his back against one of the walls and tilts his head back, crossing his arms across his chest.

You open your mouth a few times to speak, unsure of what to say next, eventually settling on, “Jean, if you’re claustrophobic, that’s fine. Just tell me what I can do to help.”

You try to make it sound like it’s not a big deal, because it isn’t — it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You don’t want him to hide it for fear of judgment. Sure, the two of you mightn’t be on the friendliest of terms, but you don’t want him to be in distress over this when you’re more than happy to help. Like … you could do breathing exercises, something like that. You can surely Google something.

“I’m not claustrophobic,” he mutters, flushing an alarming shade of pink as he does so. “I just … this seems like a death trap.”

“We’re fine,” you reply sincerely, casting him a brief glance to see if your words have any effect; unclear, since Jean’s eyes are now screwed shut, brows knit together as he tries to ground himself.

“This whole thing could just fall,” he points out. “We’re on the second floor, if it dropped now-”

“Remember, they have these in-built safety mechanisms that stop that from happening,” you shoot back quickly. “I feel like the operator would’ve been a bit more worried if they didn’t.”

“Safety protocols were different when these were built,” he says, eyes open now and looking over at you — some small victory. He raps against the wall with his knuckles to punctuate his statement, “which was sometime around the late nineteenth century, by the looks of things.”

You chuckle. “A little dramatic.”

“Not dramatic,” he counters, “realistic. Plus, there are other ways we could die.”

“Oh, lovely. Do share."

He scoffs at your sarcasm but tells you anyway. “The ventilation isn’t great.”

“There’s only two of us here, Jean. I’m sure we’ll be ok for a couple hours.”

He tips his head as if to acknowledge your point, but carries on with his list nonetheless.

“A fire. Electrical malfunction, since she said the cameras are down-”

“The cameras are only for security,” you interject, pointing at the sign on the wall which says as much. “And it says there that the wiring was inspected three months ago.”

“And what a stand-up fuckin’ job they did,” he deadpans.

“Ok, I’ll give you that. Still, don’t think electrocution is likely. I don’t think any of that stuff is likely.”

“How are you so calm?” he exclaims, shaking his head. There’s no malice in his words; he seems more incredulous than frustrated. “Even if nothing happens, we could be in here for a long time,”

“You’re right,” you admit. “Should we draw straws to see who gets eaten first?”

A few seconds pass, and then Jean lets out a huff that sounds like a poorly-suppressed laugh. He shakes his head at you again, though his half-smile shows you’ve succeeded at snapping him out of his spiral.

A breakthrough.

“Jean, I promise, I am not trying to make fun of you,” you continue with a newfound seriousness. “I swear . I’m not gonna tell anyone about this either, if that’s what you’re so worried about. I just want to help.”

Jean looks a little torn. He worries his lip between his teeth, clearly pondering his options.

“I guess talking helps.”

“Cool, okay,” you agree casually. “Yeah, we can talk.”

Instantly, you regret not thinking this through a little better. What can you even talk about?

Obviously, you have questions about the past few months, but now probably isn’t the best time to interrogate him about it — he was about to faint just a moment ago, after all.

You try racking your brain for a topic of conversation. Sports? School? Your friends? It all sounds too … forced, considering how things were left off between you. It’s hard to pretend that nothing happened. How can you talk about anything without bringing up the elephant in the room?

Oh god. The silence is enveloping you.

Jean is no help at all. You see him from the corner of your eye; he’s just staring at you, waiting for you to come up with something.

Desperate, you meet his gaze, and in spite of everything, he cracks a small grin.

“Well, now you look like the one who’s shitting it.”

You scoff defensively, face heating against your will. “I do not. ”

“Oh please, ” he retorts, derisive but still entertained. “You look more stressed now than when we almost died.”

“We didn’t almost die,” you let out a weary sigh, “and I’m not stressed.”

“Am I that hard to talk to, huh?”

“What?” you frown. “No, why would you think that?”

He suddenly looks a bit embarrassed.

“I was joking,” he mumbles. “Wasn’t a good one though. Sorry.”

You nod, ready to leave it at that, but Jean isn’t on the same page.

“That was a stupid joke to make, I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“It’s okay,” you say, taken aback at the sudden change in demeanour. “I mean … we’re talking now, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, a faint hint of solemnity in his voice.

More silence.

You fidget as you stand, dreading the next fact that the next few hours could be as awkward as this.

Just as you’re about to slip your phone out of your pocket to start passing the time, Jean mercifully breaks the silence.

“Want some food?” he blurts out, shrugging his backpack off his shoulder. “I’ve got some chocolate in my bag.”

“You’re hungry?”

“Starving. I usually have some pizza when I get home after the library, but it looks like that’s not happening for a while.”

“Oh my god, yes , me too,” you agree, grateful for the tension being lifted. “Although I only have half a protein bar to offer, if that hurts my bargaining power?”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t. Wanna … should we sit down? Could be here a while, y’know.”

You both shrug off your jackets and lay them on the elevator floor, sitting down and shifting until you’re positioned cross-legged.

You rifle through your bag, fishing out the protein bar, a single can of energy drink, and some mints you’d forgotten about earlier in the week. You also lay out your little bottle of hand sanitizer to use before and after eating.

Jean pulls out a big bar of chocolate, two cans of iced mocha (you side-eye him teasingly when those come out, since you know that brand isn't cheap), along with a bag of pretzels you recognise as coming from one of the library vending machines.

You slide him the energy drink, eying up one of the coffees which he hands to you without question. You crack open the can and take a sip, letting out a sigh of satisfaction.

“Aren’t you worried it's a bit too soon to pool our rations like this?” you question light-heartedly.

He waves off your concern. “You said we’re gonna be fine though, right?”

He holds his can out to you and you look at it, confused, until you realise what he’s doing. You hold out your own and cheer them together.

Jean must be feeling pretty guilty about that joke, but you don’t overthink it. This temporary truce is fine by you either way.

His change in disposition is welcome. He’s calmer now, and able to joke about the situation. The stress has left his face almost entirely.

Maybe now is the time …

“So,” you begin cordially. “How’s the semester been?”

“Busy,” he replies, tearing open the wrapper of the chocolate bar. “Heavy courseload, plus I submitted the application for grad school. That, along with swim practice, my job, plus social stuff, y’know, a few parties-”

You both dutifully pretend that you weren’t also attending the exact same parties.

“It’s been a lot,” he finishes, taking a bite of the chocolate. He holds it out to you and you break off a piece, popping it into your mouth to distract from the sudden, inexplicably heavy feeling creeping up your chest.

“How about you?” he asks, hands resting on his knees. “How have things been with you?”

It feels weird to be chatting like this, but in the spirit of civility, you start to regale him of the past few months’ events. You tell him about your internship over the summer that’s keeping you in Paradis — he congratulates you, and the part of you that’s still trying to be mad at him gets less and less vocal.

You tell him how you’ve been balancing work and study, what it’s like living with Annie and Porco. You tell him about how tough it is knowing that life after graduation is so uncertain.

“And, y’know, I’ve been to a few parties too,” you state nonchalantly, but the flush on Jean’s cheekbones shows that he’s picked up on your meaning.

He opens his mouth as if to come up with some reasoning for it all.

“I- uh-”

Seeing him try to concoct an excuse … months of pent-up frustration hits you all at once.

“Jean, why haven’t you been talking to me?” you interrupt. It bursts out like a dam breaking, and with it comes a hint of hurt in your voice; hurt at being kept in the dark, at being ignored, at being left so confused for so long. “For months . Did I do something wrong?”

Jean closes his mouth as you close yours, abandoning whatever excuse he had been coming up with. He looks down at his hands - either thinking things over or just buying time, you’re not sure - and he takes a moment, eyes trailing over the linoleum flooring beneath you.

He straightens up then, his shoulders and his expression guarded. He’s defensive, and you know it’s because he’s about to tell you the truth.

“You really want to know?” he asks, though the question doesn’t sound hostile. It’s delivered plainly. You know he won’t be brutal in his answer, just honest.

You nod shortly. Even if the answer isn’t easy to hear, you need to know.

He takes a few breaths, chest rising and falling slowly, and then speaks the words you weren’t expecting to hear.

“I guess it was a mixture of things.”

“Of what?”

“Of my pride being hurt. And … self-preservation.”

He says the words softly, beseechingly, with far less hostility than you were expecting. He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds defeated, almost as if this is a decision he accepted long ago.

Hurt … what? Self-preservation? What is he talking about?

The shocked look on your face must read as you being appalled because he follows up hastily.

“I never spoke badly about you,” he says, but this does little to help your confusion.

“I know.”

“I just felt a bit … it kinda … it stung , I guess.”

The words settle over you slowly. You lean forward, elbows resting against your knees as you try to piece things together.

“What stung?” you query when nothing comes to mind. “Jean … what did I do ?”

He breathes out the softest laugh, tilting his head to the side as he asks, “you really want me to explain?”

“I need you to explain,” you plead.

And with that, he finally puts you out of your misery.

“You remember that night when we slept together? At your place, after exams?”

You nod, feeling warm for reasons you don’t quite understand.

He continues, “and you know after we … finished? When I was about to leave”

“Yeah?”

“It kinda … I don’t know …”

“Did I say something? Do something?”

His cheeks flush red.

“It bummed me out that you were so embarrassed about it, I guess,” he says, voice steady but you can hear the hurt buried in it. “You couldn’t wait to get me out of there. Like you were so ashamed about it, we weren’t even finished five minutes and you wanted megone. Like the worst possible thing for you would be if our friends found out.”

Oh.

That - oh.

You try to think of an explanation but none comes to you.

“I-“

“And it doesn’t make you a bad person. It was just a hook-up, I know that,” he carries on, mercifully picking up on the fact you had no idea what you were going to say when you opened your mouth. “It just didn’t feel great, is all.”

You feel the guilt hit you, coupled with the shame of having not realised it sooner.

Sure, Jean giving you the silent treatment mightn’t have been the most mature way of handling things, but … you had kicked him out in the middle of the night, reasoning that a guy as popular and confident and effortlessly fucking good at everything wouldn’t even blink twice at it. But that was a snap judgment based on your own biases, and you hadn’t even considered how your words could be interpreted.

“But that’s not the only reason I kept my distance,” he says, fidgeting with his hands.

His candour is admirable, really, considering you still haven’t said anything to him.

You’re too overwhelmed to even theorise about what he means by self-preservation.

“What other reason?” you ask, your voice sounding not like your own.

Any moment now, you expect Jean to tap out, to laugh things off, to go back to joking around and pretending this never happened.

He doesn’t.

“I thought it would, uh, I thought it would make … certain things … a bit easier to handle.”

You push gently. “Certain things?”

“Need me to be specific?

“Yeah.”

And he doesn’t even have to think before answering.

“Oh, well, specifically speaking — the giant fucking crush I’ve had on you for months now.”

This silence is far greater than any you’d experienced before. This is the type of silence that isn’t measured by time - if anything, it lasts only a few seconds - but by weight, in that it wraps around you both completely, both of you stunned at his admission.

The air feels thick, congested. Maybe Jean’s right, maybe you are running out of oxygen -

“ … please say something,” he pipes up then, self-consciousness leaching into his voice. “Please . I know it’s not tough or suave to beg, but please, say something. Anything.”

You open your mouth to speak.

“Months ?”

“Months,” he confirms, still on edge.

You blink, the cogs in your mind turning furiously. “Since … when?”

“Since we met at that football game,” he replies matter-of-fact, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Since day one. And then that night at the party … god, it took me hours to work up the courage to talk to you.”

It feels unrealistic to imagine Jean Kirstein being anxious about anything , and so the idea of him being nervous to talk to you at a party is incomprehensible.

His jaw tightens as he swallows thickly. If your head wasn’t spinning at a thousand miles an hour, you’d lean over and reassure him, maybe rest your hand on his, but your mind isn’t letting you get that far.

It’s just … a crush? You knew there was some attraction between you - the hook-up would’ve been a bit awkward if there wasn’t - but a crush implies a desire for something deeper than just sex or friendship. Something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

… you think.

Looking back to the first time you met him, you see the image of yourself again, staring up at Jean with bemusement as you realised just how likeable he was. And then again at the party, when you felt yourself being drawn in, caught up in a conversation and laughing with him and then you were kissing him and having him so close …

And then you shut it down before you could get hurt.

Jean mightn’t have handled things the best way, but at least he knew what he felt. Would you have let yourself feel it if you hadn’t dismissed it so early on?

“I’m not telling you this to make you feel shitty, I promise. I’m not trying to guilt you into doing anything,” Jean says, and you believe him. “I just wanted to explain my reasoning, weird as it may be. I saw you weren’t the commitment type, and figured it would be best if we kept things at a distance.”

Your lips part without you realising.

“Wow, you really are a romantic, aren’t you?”

It just slips out — you kick yourself for it immediately, but your remark makes him burst out into laughter, providing some welcome levity to cut through the tension.

“Could you wait a few minutes before giving me shit about this?” he jokes, “y’know, until after we’re finished with the emotional vulnerability?”

“I guess,” you shrug. “Could be difficult, though.”

“I appreciate the self-control.”

Trying to think about what you want to say next, only one thing comes to mind.

“... I’m really sorry, Jean.”

You don’t even consider how your words might be interpreted until you see his expression turn crestfallen, his smile fading despite his best efforts.

Oh no -

“Wait!” you say before he jumps to any conclusions. “No, I didn’t mean it like that! I didn’t mean it as ‘I’m sorry, I don’t feel the same way’ … it wasn’t that kind of apology.”

His disappointment is replaced with cautious confusion. “Then what are you apologising for?”

You start to clarify, thankfully sounding more articulate this time around.

“I meant … I’m sorry for kicking you out that night.”

A shallow breath follows.

Jean stays listening intently, not moving much. It’s almost as if he’s scared of startling you, like someone regarding a frightened rabbit — which, you suppose, is accurate. This is unchartered territory for you.

“And I’m sorry for acting like I was embarrassed. It was shitty of me, even if it was just a one-night stand. I could have gone about it a bit more tactfully. I wasn’t embarrassed then. I’m not embarrassed now.”

The faintest smile appears on Jean’s face, so small you might have missed it were your eyes not trained on his so intently.

“It’s okay,” he says, quiet but clear. “And I’m sorry, too, for pouting about things for far too long.”

“Pouting is a little harsh.”

“Nah, I deserve it. I was a baby.”

“… a little. But still harsh.”

You both chuckle for a moment, and when the laughter stops, you shuffle a few inches closer.

“We’re okay?” you ask carefully.

“We’re okay,” he replies, fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. His throat bobs.

Knowing he’s still so obviously nervous, so vulnerable with you … a feeling of fondness surges through you like it did those times before; only this time, no part of you wants to stop it.

You’re hit with a realisation, something you’ve suppressed for a while — similar to Jean, your self-preservation seems to have gotten in the way. It’s new and it’s a little scary, but you want to tell him.

So you do.

“I like you too, Jean.”

The smile that forms on his face is so hopeful and warm that it makes your already-quivering heart skip a beat or two.

You clear your throat. “And I think I have for a while now. Just … this is all pretty new to me.”

“And me. It’s new to me too.”

Huh. You hadn’t thought about that. You’ve never heard of Jean having a relationship that lasted more than a couple dates — maybe you’ve even more in common than you once thought.

In a very weird way, it’s reassuring. You’ll both be in this together.

“We can just take it slow, see how things go,” he says, clearly wary of the fact you might need to talk this through a little more.

“Like how?”

Another grin. “Well, going on a date would be a great start.”

“Is this not a date?” you ask teasingly, gesturing to the remnants of the picnic before you.

“Ugh, no,” he says with a wince. “How would it sound if I told people our first date was a half-assed picnic in a metal box?”

You hesitate, and he knows why.

“We’re telling people?” you ask, casually as you can.

“Only if you want,” he replies quickly, almost as though he’s considered this before. “Not right away, obviously. But if things go well … and I think they will,” - you feel heat creep up your neck again - “it’ll be kind of hard to keep it a secret.”

Strangely, the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as you expected it would. It actually seems almost … nice.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks, eyes widening.

“Okay. Yes to all of it.”

Relief seems to flood through him at once — floods through you both. The softness with which he looks at you makes your heart melt.

“This was a hell of a good way to forget about being trapped in an elevator, huh?” you say, ignoring how your voice trembles still (not with fear, but with relief).

He smiles. “Trapped here for eternity, I think.”

“Any ideas on how to pass the time?”

You don’t mean it suggestively - you don’t think , anyway - but you feel a shiver run through you when his eyes flicker up to the ceiling of the elevator. Your gaze follows his, seeing how it lingers on the inactive security cameras.

“Maybe we can think of something to do,” you point out almost innocently. You sit up on your haunches, and definitely don’t miss the way his eyes skim your form before glancing back up to your face. “No security cameras, remember?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, breathless but certain as he mimics your movements, inching closer to you as he does so.

It’s a little clumsy the way you push the bags, jackets and snacks out of the way, shuffling over to reach him, but soon you’ve closed the space between you, within touching distance of him for the first time in so long.

Without waiting a moment further, you fist your hands into the soft fabric of his sweatshirt, using it as leverage as you move to straddle him. He’s so close that you can feel his shaky breathing against your lips, his eyes fixed on your mouth.

“You’re not gonna kick me out this time?” he says softly, teasingly.

“I don’t plan on it.”

And with that, you kiss him.

The feeling of his lips moving against yours knocks the air from your chest, a sensation you hadn’t realised you’d been missing. It feels different this time; it’s slower, more languid, but still passionate. Now, you can take your time to figure things out together.

You start to pick up on the things he likes; the way a groan catches in his throat when you nip at his lower lip, the way he leans in closer whenever you run a hand up his arm and the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair.

His hands come to grab you by the waist, handling you gently but assuredly, every movement carried out to bring you closer to him.

You start to regret the fact you could have been doing this all along - all those months spent giving each other the silent treatment, where you could have been doing this instead - but those thoughts are interrupted when Jean’s lips meet your neck, nipping and suckling on the skin by your pulse point.

His hands move from your waist to cup your ass; while he’s still gentle with you, you’re amazed by the strength in those hands. You imagine them running all over you, stroking through your hair and down your neck, pinching the sensitive areas where you desperately want to feel his touch.

The knot of anticipation in your stomach is so intense it’s almost burning, the pulsing in your clit driving you to the point of distraction.

The two of you are unable to take more than a few breaths before eagerly bringing your lips together again, the crackling of anticipation and arousal coursing through your veins.

This build-up can only continue for so long before you’re both nearly whining with desperation, and you signify your wish to move things forward by tugging on the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head.

“Can I touch you?” he asks and you nod, allowing him to help pull your shirt off before taking off his own, then tugging your skirt up so it’s bunched against your hips as you straddle him closer.

Long gone is any concern surrounding the fact that the two of you are technically in public. The slower pace from earlier has been forfeited, too. You're so full of want and need and a sense of overwhelming arousal that all you can focus on is hearing more of those desperate little noises that catch in his throat.

You unbutton his pants, tugging them down just enough for you to slip a hand past the waistband of his underwear to pull out his cock.

He hisses through his teeth when he feels you palm his erection; you give a few cursory touches at first but soon grow captivated by his reaction, stroking him in earnest as he whispers sweet words of praise.

Not content for the pleasure to be solely his own, he pulls your underwear to the side and, feeling how soaked you are, sinks two fingers inside at once.

First it’s careful, consistent movement with his fingers, designed to open you up and get you ready for what’s next — his thumb starts to rub against your clit and your thighs shake, quivering against him as you try to keep your own hand moving steadily on his cock.

You lean in to kiss his neck, whispering into his ear; “can’t wait to feel this in-”

“Wait, wait,” he says gently, and you halt your movements at once, pulling your head back. He looks up at you then, slowing down what he’s doing with his own hand. “I want to - I want to be inside you so bad, but I don’t have a condom.”

“I’m on birth control,” you whisper. “And I’m clean — got a checkup recently.”

“Clean, too,” Jean says breathlessly. “There hasn’t - my last test was a few weeks before we slept together, and there hasn’t been anyone else since then. Nobody else.”

“Okay, then,” you say, your mind having been made up without you even realising. “Do you want to fuck me?”

“Fuck, yes, please.”

You start to grind against his length, feeling his tip nudge against your clit in a way that makes you see stars, the wetness and friction so utterly delicious. You take a second to line him up to your entrance - Jean’s hips stuttering with the need to push inside you as the tip sinks in just a few milimetres - and you rest your hands on his broad shoulders to support yourself.

He looks so pretty, his kiss-slick lips the loveliest shade of pink, and you can’t help but bring his mouth to yours as the sensation of his cock dragging against your wet folds draws groans from both of you.

He’s so aroused it hurts; you can tell as much from the way he’s biting down on his lip between kisses and tensing the muscles in his arms …

“Please ride me,” he begs, cheeks flushed, “I need - I need to fuck you. Please.”

You don’t feel like denying him any longer, not when he’s been so good to you. He looks so lovely like this. It deserves a reward.

You’re in control, easing Jean’s cock into you slowly as you brace yourself against his shoulders. Adjusting your hips to accommodate him, you feel him slip inside, inch by inch, his moans responding in kind. You’re so wet that it helps the stretch but you feel it nonetheless; it’s a pleasant sensation, though, making you grind down instinctively to get as much of him as possible.

You shift your thighs until you’re fully seated on his cock, hips flush against his, Jean’s expression a mix of pleasure and pain as he struggles to keep from grabbing your waist and thrusting up into you.

“Oh, fuck,” he mutters, eyes scanning over you like he can’t decide where he wants to look — ultimately, he chooses your face, watching with heavy-lidded eyes as you give him a lazy grin, already feeling more fucked-out than you arguably should.

You start to rock back and forth, rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Jean’s hips start to jerk upwards, trying to match your movements as he feels you spasm and tighten around him.

You trail your fingernails along the nape of his neck, feeling the soft tresses of his hair, pressing your forehead against his, now with a thin sheen of sweat.

“Oh, that’s so good ,” he slurs, “so good, want you so bad. Always wanted you - f-fucking hell- you’re so tight and warm.”

You kiss him, slipping your tongue into his mouth as he eagerly reciprocates. A sudden burst of pleasure hits you as he strokes your clit with his fingers; it’s so strong you pull back with a gasp.

“Been thinking about this for so long,” he says, pressing a kiss against your collarbone.

“Since the last time you fucked me like this?” you tease.

That lopsided grin you love so much appears once again. “You know I’ve wanted to do this way longer than that.”

“How long?”

“You know-”

“But I wanna hear you say it,” you complain, almost petulantly. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

“Since the moment I saw you,” he replies, obliging your request (though not entirely selflessly - he knows that by talking like this he’ll make you feel good , and when you feel good you tighten around him, trembling, squeezing just right …)

“I - fuck - I’ve always thought you were so fucking pretty,” he continues. “When Annie introduced us … I wished it was just you and me there, because then maybe we could’ve been doing this a lot sooner. For months, I’ve wanted to make you come over and over again …”

It’s messy, the confined space meaning you can’t ignore the sounds of your wet cunt grinding against him. You’re so wet that it’s coating your thighs, cool air hitting damp skin and making you shiver.

“Jean, don’t stop, please .”

He lets out a breathless chuckle, a hand slipping up from your waist to rest against the back of your neck, pulling your head closer so he can whisper something.

“If you think I want to stop,”he murmurs into the shell of your ear, his breath hot as it hits your skin, “when I’ve spent months rubbing myself fucking raw at the thought of doing this again, at the thought of that pretty little mouth hanging open for me, at the thought of getting to just touch you…”

His cock throbs and you can feel it, his thighs tensing as you ride him.

“Not gonna stop,” he assures you, his low vocalisations of pleasure washing over you blissfully.

You lift a hand and rest it against the wall of the elevator to steady yourself; your hand slips a little against the cold metal but offers some leverage for you to bounce quicker, harder, chasing your finish as you watch him approach his.

This angle, this pace, this intensity; it’s enough for your vision to blur, hitting parts of you that you hadn’t touched before, making your thighs feel weak as you rise and fall more shakily now. You start moving your hips in the shape of an eight, groaning in surprise at the new sensations.

A ball of heat gathers in your core, growing and growing. This feels so surreal and yet you can feel everything so intensely, every time his skin grazes yours, every kiss, every time his tongue ghosts over your lips and neck.

He looks completely wrecked. When your hips speed up, he can just about mumble, “fucking hell, if you keep doing that you’re gonna make me come. ”

You take his words as a challenge, keeping the figure-eight motion as he groans beautifully underneath you.

His eyes widen, biting down on his lip before he throws his head back.

“Coming, coming, fuck ,” he repeats over and over, pulling you down so he can sink in as deep as possible. You inhale sharply, feeling everything as he comes deep inside you — it’s enough to make you join him.

It hits you at once, the heat radiating out from your core and hitting every nerve in your body. It’s so warm; ripples of unending pleasure wash over you again and again, bathing you completely in its glow as you mumble incoherencies against Jean’s kiss-swollen lips.

It pulses through you, throbbing against his cock and it takes some time to come down from it — even then, you still feel the aftershocks as he pulls out. Pliant and boneless, you can only just about find the strength to adjust your clothes back in place before nestling back on his lap, resting your head against his chest.

Once you’ve taken a few moments to process everything, laughing in disbelief as you make yourselves presentable again, you feel this incredible sense of relief. A weight has been lifted from your shoulders, one that you hadn’t even realised you’d been holding.

The rest of the wait passes quickly - you talk, laugh, kiss away the minutes - and it’s only when you hear a loud knocking from above that you remember where you are.

“Hello?” someone calls out from the other side of the wall, a few feet above your head. “Maintenance here. Everything okay with you both?”

“All good!” you reply, a little self-conscious even though you and Jean are fully clothed. You look at him and his grin threatens your poker face, so you glance upwards. “Is it nearly fixed?”

“We should have you out in about twenty minutes,” the voice shouts down.

Jean exhales in relief; while his nerves had certainly abated over the last few hours, there was clearly some part of him that felt lingering concern about plunging to an early death.

He takes your hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. You move to sit down alongside him, leaning your head against his shoulder to savour the last few minutes of peace before you head back into the real world — the world where there is so much stress from study and exams and jobs, and gossipy people who’ll almost certainly talk about this unexpected pairing.

But feeling the warmth of his hand cupping your own with so much tenderness you could cry, you can’t bring yourself to care much about all of that.

Twenty minutes pass and the repairman’s words prove true; the elevator shakes to a start and slowly but surely rises to the second floor. You stand up, legs having gone a little stiff (from sitting down in a confined space, and from …other things).

Collecting your belongings, you glance over at Jean - one last check to see if he’s sure about all this - and he shoots a look so reassuring and genuine that you think you’ll never have to ask a question like that again.

You leave the elevator and thank the repairman, who looks a little apologetic about the delay it took to get there (little does he know how grateful you are for it).

You smooth down your clothes with your hands, make sure you have all of your things, and softly sigh when you see the golden streaks of the sunrise through the window.

“What’s the plan now?”

“Well, I have an exam in …” he looks at his watch, “less than 6 hours, shit, so I should probably head home.” He pauses, looking thoughtful. “But I’ll call you later. And when we finish up on Friday, do you want to go out for something to eat? To celebrate?”

“A second date?”

He scoffs fondly. “Fine, our second date.”

“Sounds amazing,” you reply, and the two of you set off down the stairs hand-in-hand.

You’re delighted to find that you have a very, very good feeling about this.

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein x you #so v sorry this took literally 6 months to post but thank u for ur support for part 1 #and thank u nanowrimo for actually getting me to write

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