sunshine

By the time they pulled into the driveway, Jean already felt lighter.

Adi was always there, waiting inside, busy with something or another—folding laundry, watering plants, fixing a chair that had been wobbly for months but “wasn’t that bad” according to Coach. He would greet them both with a warm smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Jean would feel the first hints of warmth seep into his cold bones.

Jean would sit with them, letting their conversations fill the air around him like a blanket. Sometimes, they watched TV. Sometimes, Adi would tell long, winding stories from his childhood in between flipping channels, and Coach would pretend to roll his eyes even though Jean could tell the ridiculous amount of fondness oozing out of him.

Then it would be time for dinner.

Jean and Rhemann would head to the garden to gather whatever Adi needed, the air outside crisp, the smell of earth rich under their hands. They washed everything together at the sink, the water running warm over Jean’s fingers, over years of scars.

Adi cooked with easy efficiency, and Jean helped, following instructions without question. It was routine now—comfortable. He chopped vegetables, stirred sauces, plated food. Adi teased him sometimes, told him he should have gone to culinary school instead of playing Exy, and Jean would scoff, exasperated, but it was always softened by the way Rhemann chuckled beside him.

By the time they sat down to eat, the house was filled with the scent of spice and warmth and something Jean hadn’t had much of growing up—home.

After dinner, they cleaned the kitchen together, bumping shoulders, trading easy conversation. Coach would hug Adi from behind at some point, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and Adi would swat at him half-heartedly, pretending to be annoyed but never actually moving away.

And Jean—Jean would smile. A warm thing that still was so foreign to him but that he had learned to let come and tend to his old scars.

Because this was okay. This was good.

Riko had spent years drilling it into him that people like him didn’t get to exist much less to be happy . That love was conditional. That warmth was fleeting. That Jean would not live to grow old and be this. That Jean was meant to be used and thrown away, not cherished.

But here were Coach and Adi, disproving every single one of those lies just by existing. By being happy. By being here.

They had tea or coffee afterward, and Jean and Coach would talk about Exy, while Adi chimed in with unhelpful advice that made Jean groan. Coach would laugh at Jean’s suffering, and Jean would roll his eyes, but he wouldn’t actually mind.

Because by the end of the night, he always felt less fractured. Less like the boy Riko had made him, and more like the man he was becoming.

Because Jean was alive and could become something other than the raven with clipped wings he was in the Nest. He had lived and Riko hadn't. He couldn't be hurt by him any longer, Riko's reach was only what Jean let it be. And here, it was nothing at all because this warmth and happiness was contagious and all consuming.

Later, after the dishes were washed and the night had settled quiet around him, Jean’s phone would buzz as Coach took him home.

It was always Jeremy.

Good? I miss you.

It was a ritual now, something small and steady between them. Jean didn’t have to think about his reply.

Good. I miss you too.

It was small. But it worked for them.

Jean would always choose this, even on the bad days. Especially on the bad days. Because they were far and in between nowadays.

Because he deserved to get better.

He was wearing sweatpants and a dark blue shirt, loose in the shoulders, the V-neck dipping just enough to reveal his collarbone and the thin chain of his cross necklace.

Jeremy felt something in his chest go tight, as it usually did when he looked at Jean for too long because he was a handsome man. Unfairly so.

And Jeremy, who had spent too much time pretending he wasn’t thinking about that, was currently doing a shit job of looking away.

Jean, still reading, barely moved when he spoke. “Do you need help?”

Jeremy startled slightly, caught. “What?”

He finally glanced up, arching a brow. “You’re staring.”

“Blunt as always” Jeremy couldn't help but smile and feel a little embarrassed for being caught red-handed.

“I’m observant.” Jean shrugged, going back to his notes, settling back in again.

Jeremy’s heart was still beating a little too fast, so he took the only opportunity he had. “Yeah, actually. Help me with this.” He tapped the open page in his textbook. “How do I pronounce le droit des affaires?”

“Business law?” Jean looked up again, blinking the way he did when he thought Jeremy was saying something silly.

Jeremy grinned. “Oh, look at that. We’re studying the same thing.”

“You can say droit properly, I’ve heard you.” Jean sighed like he regretted every choice that led him to this conversation.

Jeremy made a vague gesture. “Yeah, but it never sounds as good as when you say it.”

“Because you are American.” He gave him a flat look

Jeremy pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Ouch.”

He rolled his eyes, but after a moment, he indulged him.

"Le droit des affaires," he said, slow and measured, the words slipping smooth and practiced from his lips.

Jeremy hummed, trying to mimic it. “Le droit des affaires.”

Jean shook his head immediately. “Your r is terrible.”

“I know.” He winced a bit, it was something he was having a hard time fixing.

"Droit." Jean gave him a small smile, his voice patient when he repeated.

He tried again. "Droit."

Jean’s gaze softened just slightly. “Better.”

Jeremy didn’t know if it was the way Jean said it, or the fact that he was looking at him like that, but it made something warm curl deep in his stomach.

He cleared his throat, looking down at his book again. “Okay, so what about—”

Jean, already going back to his notes, cut him off before he could even finish. “No more legal terms.”

Jeremy grinned. “Fine. How about… mon amour?”

Jean’s pen stilled against the page.

Jeremy watched the small shift in his expression, the way his fingers curled slightly against his textbook, the way his lashes flickered as he glanced up, unreadable.

Then, quiet, like it cost him nothing at all and everything at the same time, Jean said, “Mon amour.”

Jeremy’s breath stopped. He was sure he looked like a fish out of the water. He couldn't think and his heart was racing a losing race.

Jean had said it—mon amour—so soft, so easy, like it had always belonged to him. Like it wasn’t the single most dangerous thing he had ever let slip past his lips.

And he kept looking.

Jean’s grey eyes were steady, unblinking, studying him in a way that made Jeremy’s throat dry and his heart thunder against his ribs. It wasn’t just that Jean was looking—it was how. Like he was memorizing him, tracing the specks of gold in his eyes, mapping the curve of his mouth, searching for something he wasn’t sure he would find.

He had never seen him look like that before.

The rules have changed, Jean.

Jean knew this was a dangerous line, but he had thought about Jeremy like this so many times, had censored himself as many times, because he couldn’t have this.

He couldn’t have Jeremy.

No matter how much he wanted him.

But then—then—Neil’s voice curled at the back of his mind, sharp and certain, telling him the rules had changed. That he wasn’t playing under Riko’s rules anymore. That he could have things now. That he was allowed.

That he could want something and take it.

Jeremy was still watching him, looking a bit stunned and tense. He looked like he was waiting for Jean to do something.

And maybe—maybe just this once—, with Jeremy looking at him like this, Jean could let himself believe it.

So he leaned in, just slightly, just enough, and asked, "Est-ce que je peux t’embrasser?"

He saw the exact moment Jeremy understood.

Because Jean knew Jeremy had learned that phrase. If he remembered correctly, it was in a chapter about holidays and Valentine's Day, Laila had said that phrase with the pronunciation all wrong to Cat dozens of times since then.

Jeremy’s lips parted slightly, his breath hitching, and the space between them suddenly felt too much and too little all at once.

Jeremy knew exactly what it meant.

Jean swallowed. He should give Jeremy time to think, to answer, to—

“Yes.”

It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t confused.

Jeremy said it like he had been waiting for this.

Jean’s breath caught and then he moved. He didn't want to give his mind time to talk him down from this.

The book on Jeremy’s lap slid to the floor as Jean reached for him, fingers curling into the collar of Jeremy’s sweatshirt, pulling him in—slow, careful, certain. He could feel the warmth of Jeremy’s breath, could see the way his lashes fluttered, could hear the way his breath stuttered when Jean tilted his head just so.

And then, finally, he kissed him.

Jeremy made a small sound—something between relief and disbelief, something warm—and kissed him back without hesitation.

It wasn’t desperate, but something deeper than that.

Something like want—days and weeks and months of it, coiled tight between them, finally unraveling, spilling out into the space where their lips met, where Jean breathed him in like he was something necessary.

Jeremy cupped Jean’s face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, steadying him. Holding him like Jean was something worth holding.