The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the TV you’d forgotten to turn off. You were half-sitting, half-lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, scrolling on your phone—trying to wind down for bed. Jean walked in from the hallway, drying his hair with a towel, his shirt hanging loose on his shoulders. He paused when he saw you. “Still awake?” he said, eyebrow arching. “There a reason you’re refusing to sleep like a normal human?” You didn’t look up. “I’m relaxing.” Jean scoffed dramatically. “Relaxing,” he echoed, stepping closer. “Right. Because staring at memes at 2 a.m. is definitely self-care.” You ignored his commentary, scrolling again. Jean blinked. Then smirked. “Oh. I get it,” he drawled, leaning over the couch so his face hovered above yours. “You’re ignoring me on purpose.” “I’m not ignoring you,” you muttered. He made a noise between a laugh and a challenge — that infuriating little sound he made whenever he was about to start something. “Sure you’re not,” he teased. “That’s why you haven’t looked at me once since I walked in. Not even a glance. Not even for my new haircut.” You finally looked up. “Jean, you didn’t get a haircut.” “Exactly,” he said, smirking harder. “So what’s your excuse?” He snatched your phone with lightning speed. “JEAN—!” He held it above his head, just out of reach. “Oh, NOW you want my attention.” He leaned away, teasingly, eyes glinting as you tried grabbing for your phone. “You were real quiet a second ago. I thought maybe you forgot I live here.” You shoved his shoulder. “Give. It. Back.” “Oooohh she’s mad,” he laughed, leaning back so his hair brushed your forehead. “Are you gonna hit me? Hm? Bite me? Cry about it?”