Chapter Text
Winning the NCAA Exy Spring Championships against the Palmetto State Foxes was one of the most monumental moments in Jeremy Knox’s life. For years, he and his team had lived in the shadow of the Edgar Allan Ravens, always coming in second, just one step shy of that glory. But not this time. This time, they’d done it—they had claimed the title of first. Jeremy watched with a gleeful smile as Derrick and Derek hoisted the trophy, the triumphant yells of the Trojans ringing out around them. Laila wore a proud smile as Cat jumped up and down, her arms looped around Laila’s right arm. He heard the roar of the crowd and the adrenaline still pumping through his veins was unforgettable. But none of it came close to the moment.
The real highlight, the moment etched permanently into Jeremy’s memory. It was not the sound of the buzzer. Certainly not the 15-14 score. Not the way that his legs screamed for a well earned break. It was when he sprinted across the court—wild with joy—and threw himself into Jean Moreau’s arms. Without a second thought at all, he kissed him. Hard. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it. Well since he first saw Jean wear Trojan colours. Since the first time Jean said his name. Since the fireworks. Since learning about Noah.
Ever. Since.
The arena erupted. Wolf whistles echoed around them, with Cat’s unmistakably loud whoop ringing above the rest. Jeremy barely registered any of it. All he could focus on was Jean’s body against his, the strength in the arms holding him up, and the sudden tension in Jean’s posture. It was enough to send a rush of panic through Jeremy’s chest.
What had he done? God, what was he thinking? This was Jean Moreau—cool, controlled, tragically beautiful, his friend Jean. Surely he wouldn’t want—
Jeremy started to pull back, mortified to his very core. He barely managed to move an inch before Jean caught his bottom lip between his teeth in a soft, teasing bite that made Jeremy forget how to breathe.
And that was it. He was done for.
Fuck this man. Literally.
He melted right there, boneless and breathless in Jean’s arms, every thought disintegrating except for this . Jean didn’t falter. Ever the steady, dependable backliner, Jean held him through it, letting him fall—not physically, but completely, utterly, hopelessly.
And Jeremy let himself fall. Into joy. Into disbelief of the existence of this man. Into something Jeremy didn’t think was possible.
Eventually, the world began to creep back in. The roar of the crowd, the bright stadium lights, the weight of what he'd just done—it all came crashing down on Jeremy like a wave. His heart was still thundering in his chest, but now it was tangled with a mess of panic.
He’d kissed Jean. In front of everyone. On national television, nonetheless.
Jeremy’s hands, still resting on Jean’s shoulders, suddenly felt too warm, too heavy. Reality was setting in fast, and with it came the fear. What if Jean didn’t want this? What if Jeremy had misread everything?
He gently pushed against Jean’s chest, trying to step back, to create even the smallest bit of space between them. His breath hitched as their bodies separated, the cold air rushing in where warmth had just been. Jean let him go—slowly, reluctantly—and Jeremy could feel the way Jean’s fingers lingered on his waist for just a second too long before they dropped away completely.
“I—” Jeremy started, voice cracking with something between awe and apology. His gaze flicked up to Jean’s face, searching, desperate to read whatever was going on behind those calm, dark eyes.
Jean, ever composed, just looked at him. Not angry. Not even surprised. There was something softer there, something quiet. But it was unreadable all the same.
Jeremy stepped back again, putting more distance between them. His cheeks were flushed, not just from the exertion of the game, but from the weight of the moment. His teammates were still cheering, unaware—or maybe very aware—of the emotional earthquake that had just happened at court.
He let out a shaky breath and glanced away, trying to ground himself. The kiss had felt like gravity giving out. Now he was floating in uncertainty, not sure where—or how—he’d land.
But one thing was clear: something had shifted. In him. In Jean. Between them.
There was no undoing it.
Afterwards, there were still formalities to be taken care of.
Jeremy tried to pull himself together in the brief window of calm. He willed his heart to slow down, to stop replaying the kiss over and over again in his mind. But it was nearly impossible, not when the whole Floozy Line kept ribbing him about the kiss and especially not with Jean standing just a few feet away, gaze fixed on him like he was the only person on the court.
Xavier nudged his side with a teasing smile, “Come on, Cap. The faster we get through this, the faster you can get back to your man.”
Jeremy opened his mouth to correct him— Jean isn’t my man —but the words never made it out. There were more pressing things to deal with than the mess in his chest. More time for that later… or maybe never.
The Foxes were all lined up waiting and Jeremy made his way toward their captain first. Danielle Wilds met him with a firm handshake. “You guys knocked it out of the park. Congratulations, Knox.”
Jeremy gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks. You gave us hell out there.”
Wilds let out a short scoff, shaking her head with a flicker of amusement before stepping aside and walking to Xavier to shake his hand.
Jeremy moved down the line saying his ‘good game’s and ‘thank you’s —Boyd, Hemmick (who gave him some sort of scandalous smirk), Reynolds, the less terrifying Minyard twin—and then he saw her.
Blonde hair, with the ends of her hair tipped with pastel colours of the rainbow. That unmistakable gentle smile.
Renee Walker.
She looked just like the photo Jean used to keep on upside down on his desk–before it, too, was eventually lost to fire that engulfed their home.
She stepped forward, her voice light and warm as she extended her hand. “Congratulations, Jeremy.”
“Thank you.” Jeremy shook it, trying not to visibly flinch at the kindness in her eyes. He could see it now—why Jean was fond of her. He’d seen the way she played at court, seen her closely now without her helmet. She was soft, kind, all gentle strength and grace. Everything Jeremy wasn’t.
The comparison sank into his gut like a stone. How could he possibly measure up to her ?
But then Renee leaned in with a knowing glint in her eye. “Don’t worry,” she said with a quiet giggle. “He’s mentioned you in four out of every five texts he sends me each month.”
Renee Walker winked. Just like that, she moved on down the line, like she hadn’t just casually dropped a grenade into Jeremy’s entire sense of self. Oh.
Next came Kevin.
His usual scowl was locked firmly in place, flanked by Neil Josten—smirking like he knew too much—and Andrew Minyard, face unreadable as always.
Jeremy held out his hand. “Thanks for giving it your all, Kevin.”
Kevin shook it with grim precision. “I would never do anything less. Not when it’s USC that we’re playing.”
Neil rolled his eyes, “Of course Kevin wouldn’t, when you guys are his favourite.”
Jeremy laughed a little thinking back on the longest eighty minutes of his life. He said while looking at Kevin, “If that’s how you play your favourite team, then I wouldn’t want to be in the team that’s at the bottom of your list.”
“The way USC plays is how Exy is supposed to be played,” Then, without missing a beat, Kevin added, “Although… that interaction between you and Jean? Not what I expected.”
Andrew scoffed beside him.
Jeremy had no idea whether the scoff meant judgment, amusement, or both. Only that Jeremy felt his face flush.
“When did that happen?” Kevin asked.
“That,” Jeremy rubbed his hand on his neck, “Well, we still have to talk about it.”
Neil snorted and Kevin only looked at Jeremy with an eyebrow raised, “Well, good luck with that...and congratulations.”
The press swarmed Jeremy after the game. He and Coach Rhemann sat next to each other and fielded their questions one by one. To their credit, they spent some time talking about the team’s win and how USC planned to carry that momentum into next season after his graduation—but that didn’t stop them from asking about what had just happened.
“Jeremy! Is it true that Jean transferred to USC because of the nature of your relationship?”
Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “That’s an insult to Jean’s talent. He’s worked relentlessly to prove—again and again—that he’s earned his place and his name through sheer dedication to the game and Court.”
He flashed the wildest smile he could and added, “Have a winning day!”
Jeremy stood up and with a firm pat on his back by Coach Rhemann, joined his team.
After, when the Trojans and the Foxes said their goodbyes and when the press was satiated enough to back down, the team and their coaches made their way to the locker rooms. The corridor leading to the locker rooms was a blur of noise and motion—teammates shouting, laughter echoing off the concrete walls, the unmistakable clatter of gear being dragged around. But Jeremy barely noticed any of it. His pulse thrummed with adrenaline as he came to terms on what he did out there. Every time he looked at Jean—just a few paces ahead of him, calm as ever—it all came rushing back. Jean’s hands on his hips. The heat of his lips on his.
Without thinking, Jeremy reached out and caught Jean by the wrist.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, “Can we—just a sec.”
Jean blinked, then allowed himself to be steered into a quieter alcove near the supply closet, out of the crush of people. Out of the nosy ears of their teams and especially away from Cat and Laila. It wasn’t much privacy, but it was enough for the meantime.
Jeremy dropped Jean’s wrist and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of how close they were, how loud his heartbeat felt in his ears. He fiddled with the loose thread on his jersey.
“About earlier,” he started, eyes flicking up to meet Jean’s. “The kiss. That wasn’t… I mean, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that. I wasn’t thinking. I just—God.” He exhaled sharply. “I’m so sorry, Jean.”
Jean tilted his head slightly. His expression didn’t shift, but there was a softness in his eyes that hadn’t been there on the court.
“You’re apologizing,” he said carefully, “for kissing me?”
Jeremy’s shoulders tensed. “For doing it like that . In front of everyone. I didn’t want to assume anything. I know you don’t always like attention and I just—if I made you uncomfortable or—”
“Jeremy.” Jean’s voice cut through, calm and clear.
Jeremy froze.
“I will choose you, every time.”
The words were quiet, but they hit like a thunderclap in the small space. He’s suddenly pulled back to a memory of him and Jean in his room atop sleeping bags in that lonely room of his. I will choose you every time. You, and Cat, and Laila, every time.
“But this is different.” Jeremy hated that he sounded so desperate. Desperate for this kind of affection when he knew he deserved none of it, not after what he had done, not after all of the bad in his life. In his shame, he put his head down and averted his eyes from Jean’s, “You don’t feel the same way as I do.”
Without missing a beat, Jean said, “You do not have to keep second-guessing yourself with me.”
Jeremy’s breath caught in his throat. He looked at Jean like he was seeing him clearly for the first time, like the noise of the world had been dialed down to nothing.
Then Jean added, “You did not make me uncomfortable. You did not put me on the spot. I kissed you back, didn’t I?”
Though much was left unspoken, Jean brought a sense of clarity to Jeremy’s life. He let out a shaky laugh—somewhere between relief and disbelief that this was actually happening. “Yeah. Yeah, you did.”
Jean stepped forward, close enough that their foreheads nearly touched. “You do not have to apologize for being happy,” he said. “Especially not with me.”
And that—more than the win, more than the cheers, more than the trophy he’s coveted his entire Exy career—was what finally, truly, made Jeremy feel like he’d won something real.
April 2008
USC Trojans Clinch Spring Title in Last-Minute Victory Over Palmetto State Foxes!
By: Elise Ryerson
In a heart-stopping finale to this year’s Exy Spring Championships, the USC Trojans clinched a narrow 15–14 victory over the formidable Palmetto State Foxes. The match, held in front of a packed stadium and thousands of live viewers at home, lived up to the hype with relentless offense, brilliant saves, and edge-of-your-seat drama until the very last whistle.
The Trojan’s team captain Jeremy Knox led the charge with a stellar performance, rallying his team through a tense final quarter. The Foxes, led by their powerhouse strikers Kevin Day and Neil Josten along with their formidable goalkeeper Andrew Minyard, kept the pressure high, but the Trojans ultimately pulled through with an impossible shot in the closing seconds of the game by Ananya Deshmukh.
In what quickly became the most talked-about moment of the night, emotions spilled over post-game when Knox ran into the arms of The Golden Raven himself, Jean Moreau, and kissed him in front of the roaring crowd. The moment, equal parts spontaneous and heartfelt, set the stadium ablaze and marked a powerful, personal highlight in an already unforgettable championship match.
With the win, USC secures its first national title in nearly a decade—cementing this team’s place in Class 1 Exy history.
There were 5 unread messages on Jeremy’s phone.
Jeremy promptly ignored his phone that night in favour of basking in the moment of what he would consider the happiest moment of his life.
In the rush of their Spring Championship win and the aftermath of the kiss (as Cat liked to put it), it was like everything and nothing changed.
Jean was still the same. Cool. Composed. Always a step ahead of the game, his words still measured, deliberate. He was still healing from the years he spent in The Nest. He wasn’t suddenly more talkative or openly romantic. He didn’t gush or flirt or do any of the things Jeremy’s teammates insisted were part of the ‘honeymoon stage’, but there was something undeniable beneath the surface now—a shared current between them, quiet but steady.
The difference was in the knowing .
Jeremy understood now what those small glances had meant when he could finally name it. He could see the softness in Jean’s eyes when no one else was looking, felt the subtle brush of fingers as they passed in the locker room—the quiet ways Jean cared for him.
What had changed were the kisses. Not in frequency—Jean wasn’t big on public displays, and Jeremy knew that—but in the meaning. Each one felt deliberate. Intentional.
Sometimes, it was just a quick press of lips against his temple before they parted ways when Jeremy had to go home. Other times, a kiss on the cheek when they were the last two in the locker room, voices echoing in the stillness. Jeremy lived for those moments, the quiet intimacy tucked into the edges of their day.
There were no grand declarations, no fiery speeches. Just Jean’s hand on the back of his neck and the way he looked at Jeremy like he chose him every single time.
Still, things weren’t always easy. That tension hadn’t vanished. Jean was still Jean—reserved, private, sometimes difficult to read. The nightmares didn’t magically go away now that they had this. And Jeremy? Jeremy had always worn his heart right on his sleeve, a little too eager, a little too loud for someone like Jean.
But somehow, it worked.
They found their rhythm in the silences between conversations, in the glances passed during drills, in the way Jean’s knee would bump Jeremy’s under the table in their apartment and linger there just a moment too long.
Cat, of course, noticed everything . She’d shoot Jeremy a knowing look across the court or nudge him not-so-subtly after practice when Jean handed him a water bottle and their fingers brushed. “Your boyfriend,” she’d sing-song, and Jeremy would roll his eyes but smile anyway, because… yeah. That was what Jean was, wasn’t he? At least Jeremy would like to think so.
One afternoon, a week after the championship buzz had faded, Jeremy found himself in the living room of their apartment, neck-deep in his guidebooks. It was a grounding kind of moment—a quiet reminder that even though he had Jean now, or at least something in the works with Jean, there were still responsibilities he couldn’t ignore.
The apartment was unusually quiet. Cat and Jean had gone out for groceries, while Laila was on a mission at TJ Maxx to pick up things to make the apartment feel like home again. Meanwhile, Jabberwocky, sweet as ever, was fast asleep on Jeremy’s lap, curled up like he belonged there. Which, Jeremy guessed, he kind of did.
He poked one of Jabberwocky’s ears gently. It twitched in response, and Jeremy couldn’t help but chuckle softly.
“Hey,” he whispered, fond and exasperated, “You wanna wake up and eat these guidebooks for me?”
Jabberwocky remained in deep, blissful sleep unaware of the woes of studying. Nothing short of a natural disaster could wake him up when he was this comfortable.
About half an hour later, the front door opened, followed by the sound of rustling grocery bags and Cat’s cheerful voice calling, “We’re home!”
Jeremy slid his books aside and put them on the coffee table. He stood up to greet them, Jabberwocky hopping off as well to trail after him like a loyal shadow.
Cat dropped to her knees immediately, reaching out to cup Jabberwocky’s face with both hands. “How’s our little Jabby, huh?” she cooed.
Jabberwocky wagged his tail furiously, basking in the affection. But the second he noticed Jean entering the kitchen, his attention snapped away. With one last lick to Cat’s fingers, he bounded over to Jean and pawed at his pant leg.
Jeremy grinned, arms crossed as he leaned against the kitchen doorway. “Oh look, he wants his dad .”
Jean shot him a look that could freeze lava. “I am not his dad.”
But the damage was done. Jabberwocky whined impatiently, and Jean—grudging as ever—bent down and scooped him up into his arms. The dog let out a happy little yip and immediately snuggled into Jean’s shoulder like he belonged there.
Jeremy laughed under his breath, walking over to give Jabberwocky a playful pat on the head. “Say what you will, but Jab clearly loves you.”
Jean didn’t respond right away. He just rolled his eyes and adjusted his grip on the fluffy bundle now clinging to him like a koala. But Jeremy saw it—the way Jean’s fingers gently scratched behind Jabberwocky’s ears, the way his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.
Yeah, he could deny it all he wanted, but Jabberwocky had him wrapped around his tiny paws and Jeremy was just happy to witness it.
Jean moved into the living room, still carrying Jabberwocky, who looked entirely too pleased with himself. Cat busied herself unloading bags in the kitchen, humming some tune Jeremy couldn’t quite place, but sounded familiar all the same. Jeremy followed them in, about to ask what they picked up when Jean’s gaze landed on the open guidebooks still spread out across the coffee table.
He didn’t say anything at first—just stared for a beat too long.
Then, with deliberate calm, Jean said, “You were studying.”
It wasn’t a question. His voice was quiet, level, but there was something beneath the surface—disappointment? Frustration?
Jeremy shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual. “Just brushing up. I haven’t had the chance since championships.”
Jean’s eyes didn’t move from the books. “You’ll be Court.”
“Well,” Jeremy ran a hand on the back of his head, sheepishly. He was trying to appease Jean’s tanking mood. He sighed and stepped closer to Jean. He lowered his voice so Cat wouldn’t overhear, “I mean, I’m not planning on going to law school or anything. I’m just… keeping up appearances.”
Jean finally turned to look at him, brows furrowed. “For who?”
Jeremy didn’t answer right away. He leaned against the counter and let out a long breath. “For my mom,” he admitted. “She wants me to do it, but we’ll see what happens. I don’t even think I’ll pass. Worst case, I don’t pass and that’ll be the end of it.”
“And if you do pass? What happens then?” Jean retorted.
“I don’t know.” Jeremy didn’t know what would happen next. He’d be graduating in June and his mother would demand that he take his LSAT in the same month the latest would be July .
Jean was quiet for a moment. Jabberwocky squirmed in his arms, trying to wiggle closer to Jean’s neck, and Jean adjusted his hold absentmindedly.
“You hate it.” Jean said firmly as a matter of fact.
“I…I don’t don’t hate it,” Jeremy said and Jean tilted his head in confusion.
“You used the same word twice, I do not understand.”
“I don’t like it, but I still have to do it,” Jeremy said, though it sounded less convincing even to his own ears. “It’s not like I’m applying to internships or prepping for the bar. It’s just… a few hours a week. It keeps the peace. She doesn’t call me five times a day asking for progress on my studies.”
Jean gave him a long look. Not judging, but not entirely understanding either, “Just calls you to make sure that you’re kept in line.”
Jeremy knew not to engage. This would be a longer discussion than it needed to be and Jeremy didn’t have it in him to argue any further.
“I know,” he said quietly. “But it’s complicated. You don’t… you don’t just stop being someone’s kid, even when you don’t fit into the future they had planned for you. I just don’t want to be a bigger headache for her than what I am currently.”
Jean didn’t say anything for a while. He just nodded, gaze softening.
Then, after a moment, he stepped forward, still cradling Jabberwocky, bumped his shoulder lightly against Jeremy’s and handed Jabberwocky over to him.
Jeremy looked at him, heart full and aching at once. It was in the silence that Jeremy knew that Jean wouldn’t talk about it more unless Jeremy was willing to and for that he felt grateful.
“Thanks, Jean.”
Jean nodded once, then reached for the open guidebook and tucked it away under the coffee table where Jabberwocky could definitely reach it. It was in this quiet gesture that Jeremy realized that while Jean might not understand fully, he had confidence that Jeremy knew what he was doing.
Jeremy smiled, a little sad but still warmed by the fact that Jean saw him—really saw him—even when he couldn’t quite figure himself out just yet.
Behind them, Cat shouted from the kitchen, “Are you two having a moment or do I need to leave the room?”
Jean rolled his eyes. Jeremy just laughed.
It had taken Jeremy three days, two bribes, and one very dramatic promise of post-meal green smoothies to convince Jean to eat at Raising Cane’s.
Now, they were seated at a booth in the corner of the restaurant, beneath the buzzing warmth of neon signs and the soft hum of pop music overhead. The tray in front of them was loaded—chicken fingers stacked in its greasy glory, a bed of golden fries, buttery Texas toast, and a cup of coleslaw that Jeremy wasn’t willing to touch but thought Jean would. Two drinks sat between them, condensation dripping slowly down their sides. One sweetened tea and the other unsweetened. Compromises.
Jeremy looked thrilled. Jean looked like he’d been dragged through all seven levels of hell.
“This is not food,” Jean said flatly, staring at the tray like it had personally wronged him. “This is…regret that is disguised into food.”
Jeremy snorted into his sweet tea, nearly choking. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. You eat those protein bars that taste like drywall and sadness.”
“At least those are designed with nutrition in mind,” Jean muttered, prodding a fry with his index finger. “This is grease on a tray.”
“That’s the point,” Jeremy grinned, scooping up a handful of fries. “Grease is the experience. You don’t come to Cane’s for a salad—you come for the indulgence. The salt. The sauce. The sheer joy of giving your arteries a workout. Stop counting the macros and just try it.”
Jean gave him a look. The kind of unimpressed, slightly horrified look that could only come from a man who read nutrition labels for fun. “I do not understand why you would willingly do this to yourself.”
Jeremy shrugged and popped a fry into his mouth. “Because it tastes good. Because it reminds me of long bus rides after away games and team dinners and late-night cravings. It’s comfort food, Jean. You could use a little comfort.”
Jean didn’t respond to that. He looked at the Texas toast like it might attack him, then lifted it cautiously and took a bite.
He paused.
“…Okay,” he admitted after a beat. “That is not entirely horrible.”
Jeremy grinned, practically glowing. “Ha! Victory! The great Jean Moreau admits a fast-food chain did something right.”
“I said it was not entirely horrible. That is not praise.”
Jeremy leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, eyes twinkling. “You say that, but you took another bite.”
Jeremy picked another fry up and bit into it and flashed Jean a flashy smile.
Jean looked down at the toast in his hand and sighed like he was carrying the emotional burden of the entire restaurant.
“I still hate the atmosphere,” he muttered. “Why are the lights so aggressive?”
“That’s part of the charm,” Jeremy said with a smirk, “They want you to eat fast and get out. Efficient dining. Capitalism at its finest.”
Jean gave him another look but didn’t argue. He picked up one of the chicken tenders, examining it like a biologist about to dissect a new species. Then, with the air of a man walking into battle, he dipped it into the Cane’s sauce and took a cautious bite.
Jeremy watched him with barely concealed amusement. “Well?”
Jean chewed. Swallowed. Then reluctantly muttered, “…It’s fine.”
Jeremy whooped, startling a few nearby diners. “That’s a glowing review from you!”
“I said it’s fine , not good .”
“Same thing when it comes from you. I’ll take what I can get. Wait until Cat and Laila get wind out of this. Maybe we can get you to finally try boba tea?”
“Absolutely not.” Jean took another bite, then another, chewing slowly. The lines of tension in his shoulders eased—just a little. Maybe it was the food, maybe it was Jeremy’s laughter, maybe it was the fact that the sky outside had faded into that golden hour hue that made everything look soft and kind.
“You know,” Jeremy said after a moment, “you don’t have to like this stuff. I just wanted to share something with you. Something that used to make me happy.”
Jean looked up, eyes a little softer now. “I don’t… dislike it. Not entirely.”
“High praise,” Jeremy teased, grinning.
Jean rolled his eyes, but there was something warm behind it. “Next time, we’re going somewhere with real cutlery.”
Jeremy mock-gasped. “You mean you’re willing to do this again?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“I did no such thing.”
Jeremy leaned across the table, resting his chin in his hand, his expression softening. “Thanks for coming anyway.”
Jean gave him a long look, then glanced down at the half-eaten tender in his hand. “…You’re welcome.”
And even though Jean refused to admit it, and even though he claimed the food was a crime against humanity, when he reached for another piece of toast without thinking, Jeremy didn’t say a word. He just smiled to himself and took a long sip of sweet tea.
“You’re staring,” Jean said flatly, his tone as deadpan as ever.
Jeremy rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish, “I can’t help it. I’m just… happy.”
Jean didn’t respond right away. He simply looked at Jeremy for a beat, then gave him a slow once-over that made Jeremy instinctively glance down at himself, trying to see what Jean was looking at. But when Jeremy looked back up, Jean’s silver eyes were locked on his face with such intensity that it nearly knocked the air from his lungs.
If looks could melt someone into a pile of goo, Jeremy was convinced he’d already be a puddle under Jean’s chair.
Then Jean leaned in.
And Jeremy—weak to it, completely undone by the way Jean moved with such quiet certainty—closed his eyes. He didn’t have to wait long. Familiar lips met his in a kiss that was soft, sure, and impossibly warm.
Time blurred. It could have been a second, or a minute, or forever. Jeremy didn’t care.
When Jean finally pulled back, Jeremy stayed still for a breath, dazed. The world looked a little brighter. A little softer. Like everything had been dipped in sunlight and wrapped in rose-colored glass.
He didn’t know how to name this feeling yet—was it elation? Delight? Something deeper and quieter, like contentment blooming in his chest?
Whatever it was, it filled him to the brim.
Jean studied him with a tilt of his head, lips still faintly curved from the kiss. Jeremy watched as Jean licked his lips and said, “Too sweet.”
Mom
2 missed calls
It was one of those nights where Jean’s thoughts seemed to spiral faster than he could catch them. Jeremy could see it brewing—like storm clouds quietly gathering behind Jean’s eyes—thunderous and silent all at once. They had been at the apartment for most of the evening, but Jean had barely spoken. He’d spent most of the time staring off into the middle distance, jaw tight, hands fidgeting more than usual.
The court was closed at this hour, too late even for their usual stress-relieving drills, Laila and Cat were out on one of their long-awaited dates, and the most adorable dog in the whole entire world was asleep on his dog bed. That left Jeremy and Jean in a silence that was getting harder to ignore. Jeremy knew better than to push. Jean didn’t do well with being cornered. Still, watching him sit on the couch like a coiled spring, Jeremy couldn’t help but worry.
He didn’t ask what was wrong. Not yet. He knew Jean would tell him if he asked but now wasn’t the time. Instead, he stood in front of Jean and asked, gently, “Wanna go for a ride?”
Jean looked up, brows furrowed. “Where?”
“The beach,” Jeremy replied. “It’s late. It’ll be empty. No one around. Just… space.”
Jean hesitated. Jeremy could see the war happening behind his eyes. Riding with someone still made Jean tense. He’d only recently gotten used to sharing a bike with Jeremy at all, and even that had taken some coaxing.
“It’ll be good practice,” Jeremy added with a soft smile. “I promise not to scream like a banshee this time.”
Jean gave him a flat look, but the corner of his mouth twitched. After a long pause, he gave a small nod. “Alright.”
They changed quickly, pulling on his red and yellow USC sweater for the still cold spring night air. Jeremy was still lacing up his runners when Jean came out of his room dressed in a fitted black Henley and dark jeans. It was a simple outfit, but Jeremy felt like someone had drop-kicked him in the chest. The Henley clung to Jean’s frame like it had been made for him the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and when he pulled on his matte black helmet, Jeremy had a brief but dramatic moment where he considered the very real possibility of death by attractiveness.
They bid goodbye to a very confused, very groggy Jabberwocky and made their way to the door. Jeremy swallowed the lump in his throat, grabbed the spare helmet, and followed Jean out–making sure to lock the door behind him. The walk to the underground garage was quick, but Jeremy could swear that he was a little too hot despite the cool spring breeze.
He barely remembered to breathe as Jean moved toward the bike. Jean was already mounted, hands adjusting the controls with careful precision. Jeremy hesitated before climbing on behind him. Once seated, he wasn’t sure where to place his hands. Tentatively, he rested them on Jean’s shoulders as he always did, feeling the taut muscle underneath.
But then Jean did something unexpected—he reached back with one hand and gently nudged Jeremy’s hands lower, guiding them to rest around his waist instead.
“Better here,” Jean murmured without turning.
Jeremy felt his cheeks flush, but obeyed. His arms circled Jean’s waist, hands settling against the hard plane of his abdomen. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture for Jean, who often shied away from touch in public or semi-public settings. The act alone made Jeremy’s heart skip more than a few beats.
The bike roared to life beneath them, and they pulled away from the curb, the city lights trailing behind as they sped off into the quiet night.
The ride to the beach was smooth, the streets mostly empty. Jeremy leaned into Jean’s back, the wind tousling his curls beneath the helmet. He focused on the way Jean moved, the slight shifts of his body, the solid warmth beneath his palms. It was comforting, grounding—even with all the things still unsaid between them.
The closer they got to the beach, the quieter the world seemed to become. Streetlights faded into long stretches of darkness, and the roar of the ocean began to replace the hum of city life. Jean slowed as they reached the coast, pulling into a small parking lot tucked beside the dunes.
They dismounted, Jeremy’s legs slightly shaky, either from the ride or the closeness—it was hard to tell.
Jean removed his helmet, running a hand through his wind-blown hair. Jeremy pulled his helmet off as well, cheeks still a little flushed, but smiling now.
“You okay?” he asked.
Jean nodded, glancing toward the moonlit shoreline. “Yeah,” he said, voice quieter than usual. “This was… a good idea.”
Jeremy bumped their shoulders together. “Told you so.”
And for a moment, under the soft silver glow of the moon, with the roar of the waves in the distance and the warmth of Jean’s presence beside him, Jeremy allowed himself to believe that this was real. Him and Jean.
A seed of hope took root into Jeremy’s heart. A feeling Jeremy didn’t think he could have again. Cultivated by Jean’s unwavering promises of I will choose you.
Partners.
“How do you say ‘my heart’ in French?”
“Why?”
From: mon coeur ♥️
You are incorrigible.
To: mon coeur ♥️
You like it though.
Jeremy leaned back on the headboard, thoughtful, “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”
Jean raised a brow, curious. “I do not know enough of the world to pick.”
Jeremy tilted his head. “But this is just hypothetical.”
Jean exhaled but still indulged Jeremy, “The only place I have really known is California, when I first moved here after being signed to USC. Any glimpse of the world was from Kevin’s postcards. That’s it.”
“I know,” Jeremy urged. “If you could pick."
Jean shook his head, “But even in theory, it’s hard to imagine more when you’ve never had it.”
The silence stretched for a moment then two.
Jeremy’s voice was gentler now. “I’d go anywhere. Anywhere life takes me. I’ve always wanted to see the world—to follow where the wind leads.”
Jean looked over at him, something wistful in his expression. “It must be nice… to believe you could.”
Jeremy reached over and nudged Jean’s arm. “Hey, just because you haven’t seen it yet doesn’t mean you won’t. You’ve still got time. And when you’re ready, maybe we’ll go together.”
Jean gave a quiet smile, a rare softness in his eyes. “Maybe.”
(1 Unread Message)
From: Annie
Mom wants you home. Answer your damn phone.
(2 Unread Messages)
From: WILSHIRE
You’re making your mother worry. Come home.
It was inevitable, really. Too many ignored messages and calls couldn’t go on without repercussions. William called and that was all Jeremy needed to know that he needed to go home. With an emotional farewell to his beloved son— of flesh and blood, Jabberwocky, and a promise to Laila, Cat, and Jean that it would only be two days, Jeremy packed up for a two-day stay at his mother’s house.
Just forty-eight hours. That was all he had to endure.
The drive to his mother’s house was long and quiet, a stretch of highway that did nothing to ease his nerves. If anything, the silence left him alone with his thoughts, most of them unwelcome. The closer he got, the heavier his chest felt. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he pulled into the long, winding driveway that led up to the wrought iron gates of his mother’s home.
When the gates opened automatically with their usual mechanical hum, Jeremy didn’t move right away. He remained in the driver’s seat for two full minutes, inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly, counting the seconds as if they could somehow steady him.
Forty-eight hours, he reminded himself. Then back home. Back to Jean, to Jabberwocky. Back to Laila and Cat. Back home.
Anywhere was better than here.
The front door opened and out stepped William. His expression was tight, lips pressed into a line, eyes tired.
Jeremy sighed. That look didn’t bode well.
“Let me guess,” Jeremy said as he climbed out of the car, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s that bad, huh?”
William offered a sympathetic glance and held the door open. “I’m sorry. Your mother came home last week and tried to contact you. When she couldn’t reach you, Bryson showed her and your stepfather the news.”
Jeremy winced. Of course Bryson had. His brother always found ways to make sure that Jeremy would stay at the proverbial totem pole. Jeremy tried his best to make light of it, “Perfect timing, as always.”
They ascended the sweeping staircase in silence, the air in the house thick with tension. Jeremy’s room was just as he remembered it—cold, impersonal, museum-like.
Laid out on his bed were the expected garments: charcoal formal pants, a crisp white button-up shirt, polished leather shoes. Jeremy stared at them like they were shackles.
“Your mother is expecting you in ten minutes,” William said quietly, his voice low and careful.
“Just her?” Jeremy asked, hopeful—desperately so. But hope never lasted long in this house.
William hesitated. “Unfortunately, Bryson flew in with her and your stepfather arrived an hour before you did.”
Jeremy groaned under his breath. “Of course he did. Fantastic.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. The tightness in his chest hadn’t left. If anything, it was worse now.
“I’m sorry,” William said again, but they both knew it didn’t change anything. Apologies didn’t soften the sharp edges of this household.
Jeremy forced another breath and stood up, squaring his shoulders. “I’ll be fine,” he said. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince William—or himself.
William gave him a long look. One of quiet understanding.
He turned to leave, pausing at the doorway. “Ten minutes,” he reminded, then disappeared down the hall.
Left alone, Jeremy looked at the clothes waiting for him like a soldier staring down a uniform before battle.
Just forty-eight hours.
And Jeremy, once again, was walking toward the gallows.
Jeremy made his way down the staircase to his mother’s study, each step heavier than the last. He tugged at the hem of his neatly pressed dress shirt, fingers smoothing down the fabric as if he could will the tension out of his body. His slacks felt too stiff, his shoes too polished. Everything about him felt like a costume.
The hallway was silent save for the soft hum of the house's central air and the faint ticking of a grandfather clock down the corridor. Jeremy paused at the door to the study and took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. Forty-eight hours. That’s all it was. He just had to survive this.
He knocked twice, sharp and controlled.
“Come in,” came his mother’s voice—cool and unmistakable.
Pushing open the heavy door, Jeremy stepped into a room thick with expectation and judgment. The curtains were drawn halfway, casting the room in a blend of shadow and golden afternoon light. His mother sat in her high-backed chair behind the mahogany desk, perfectly poised. Her expression was unreadable, but the glint in her eyes gave away her disapproval. Bryson lounged on the nearby settee like he owned the place, legs crossed and smirk already in place. Warren, his stepfather, paced like a caged animal near the fireplace, hands clenched behind his back.
“There he is,” Bryson drawled, a smug grin spreading across his face. “The prodigal son returns. Dressed up and back from his little escapade. Ready to embarrass the family again, I see—now with your fruity little face all over the news.”
“Bryson, please,” Mathilda said sharply, casting a withering glance in his direction.
Warren waved his mother off, stepping forward. “No, Mathilda. Let’s not sugarcoat this. Let’s call it what it is.”
Jeremy’s heart sank. Jeremy’s not an idiot, of course ignoring his mother would come without repercussions, especially with what he did at Spring Championships. Of course he did, but that didn’t make the confrontation any easier.
Warren stalked toward him, his polished shoes thudding against the hardwood floor. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
Jeremy, with his smart mouth, wanted to say: What haven’t I done? But even he knew better than to toss gasoline on the fire.
He said nothing.
Bryson chuckled darkly. “To be fair, this isn’t new. He’s been a stain on this family ever since he’s stepped into USC. The only difference now is that the whole damn country’s watching, again .”
A knife twisted itself in Jeremy’s chest. A reel of sick memories from his freshman year played on his mind.
“Your little stunt,” Warren continued, practically spitting the word out, “has been everywhere . Sports blogs. News outlets. Social media. People are talking, Jeremy—and not in the way this family wants to be talked about.”
Jeremy stayed silent, jaw tight.
“This little stunt of yours is going to damage our name. Our reputation. You didn’t think for one second what that meant, did you?” Warren jabbed a finger into Jeremy’s chest. “Of course you didn’t, because you never think about anything but yourself. This family has worked for years to maintain a clean, respectable image—and then this .”
“And with Jean Moreau of all people,” Mathilda added, finally rising from her chair. “I told you, Jeremy. I warned you to stay away from him.”
Jeremy’s eyes flicked to her. “He isn’t his family,” he said, voice low but steady.
“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” Bryson cut in with a scoff. “You think that blood doesn’t carry consequences? He’s part of that criminal family of his whether you want to admit it or not. You’re just too busy playing house with him to see the truth. You’ve always been stupid like that.”
Jeremy turned sharply toward him, fists clenched. “Careful.”
Bryson’s grin widened. “What? Gonna cry? Or are you going to throw another tantrum like you always do, you little whore? Was it that good that you couldn’t resist? Hey tell me, was he that good of a fuck you couldn’t–”
Before he realized it, Jeremy had crossed the room and grabbed Bryson by the collar, yanking him roughly to his feet. The smirk was still on Bryson’s face, knowing that Jeremy wouldn’t touch him.“Keep him out of your filthy mouth!”
Bryson raged against him, “If anyone’s filthy it’s you, you skank–”
“Jeremy!” his mother snapped.
Jeremy’s fists trembled with restrained fury. Bryson scoffed at him.
“Or what? You can’t do anything unless you want to lose the little freedom you have,” Bryson taunted, “Oh wait, you’re about to.”
Warren moved to step in, but Mathilda raised a hand. She approached quickly, her manicured fingers grabbing Jeremy’s arm. “Let go of him. Now. ”
Jeremy didn’t move for a long second, his grip tight, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He could see the satisfaction in Bryson’s eyes. His heart was weighed down by Bryson’s words.
Mathilda looked furious, her voice tight. “You are not helping yourself, Jeremy.”
Jeremy stepped back, his hand dragging through his hair as he tried to calm the pounding in his ears. “Tell me exactly why I’m here,” he said, his voice low but firm. His eyes locked onto his mother’s. “Go ahead—lay it out. You already cut me off from my inheritance. You guilt-trip me into staying under this roof. So what’s next?”
Warren let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes like Jeremy had just thrown a tantrum over the wrong dinner order. “Guilt-trip? What a joke! Spare us the dramatics, Jeremy. Honestly. You should consider yourself lucky —the privilege you have in this house, in your life?”
Jeremy felt the familiar heat of frustration crawl up his neck. What privilege ? That word hung in the air like a slap to the face. What use is a bird in a gilded cage?
Mathilda, who had been watching the exchange in cold silence, finally spoke, her fingers massaging her temple as though she were nursing a migraine. “Finals are done, yes?”
“Yes,” Jeremy answered without hesitation, his tone clipped.
“And your…Exy season? Finished as well?”
He nodded stiffly, Jeremy has no idea why his mother is asking this when she knows the answers to these questions.
Mathilda gave a slow, deliberate nod. The air in the room shifted in a way that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He recognized the look on her face immediately—it was the one she wore when she spoke to colleagues or subordinates at the hospital. Her voice took on that same controlled, authoritarian tone. The one that brooked no argument.
“Effective immediately,” she began, “you are no longer permitted to leave this house without my express permission. Any previous arrangements or plans are null. You will need my consent to leave this house and will be driven by Alexander to wherever you need to go. You will remain here until further notice. If you need anything, you may request it through William.”
The words hit him like a punch to the chest.
“What?” Jeremy blinked, his voice rising, “What about practice? I have a team. I’m still captain—I can’t…I just can’t leave them behind.”
“You just won the Spring Championships right?” Mathilda said with infuriating calm. “The media can’t stop talking about you. I see no reason for you to return to USC when the season is clearly finished. What use will you be to the team? You’ll be graduating in June, anyways.”
Jeremy’s voice cracked with disbelief, “That’s not how it works!”
His mother didn’t flinch. She simply extended her hand. “Your phone.”
Jeremy stared at it like it was a weapon. “Are you serious?”
“I’m not going to repeat myself,” she said, her tone hardening.
He hesitated for a second too long, and she took a step closer.
“ Now , Jeremy.”
Reluctantly, he reached into his pocket and handed it over. The cold finality of it made his stomach drop.
“What about Coach Rhemann?” he asked, panic leaking into his voice. “He’ll ask where I am—why I’m not showing up for practice. He’ll want answers.”
“I’ll speak to him,” Mathilda replied smoothly as she walked toward her desk and picked up her purse. “I’ll explain that since your season is done there’s no need for you to be there.”
“Mom—” Jeremy stepped forward, the edge of desperation in his voice now undeniable. His voice broke while he pleaded, “Please. You can’t do this.”
She paused in the doorway, back still turned to him.
“You’ve forced my hand time and time again, Jeremy,” she said, her voice quiet but unyielding. “You’ve proven, again and again, that you can’t be trusted. The drugs. The parties. The lovers. Your brother. And now this... stunt with Jean Moreau? Time and time again you break my trust. I give you an inch and you take a mile. You leave me no choice.”
With that, she walked out, the door clicking shut behind her. Warren and Bryson followed closely behind leaving Jeremy.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Jeremy stood frozen in place, staring at the empty doorway, his heart thundering in his chest. The study was dimly lit, the air thick with the remnants of a conversation that felt more like a verdict. The walls were caving in as his mother’s words reverberated in his mind.
I give you an inch and you take a mile.
You can’t be trusted.
With his heart breaking each second that passes, he only thought of Jean, Laila, and Cat.
Home was a little too far out of his reach.
(8 unread messages)
From: mon coeur ♥️
Jeremy?
After that disastrous confrontation with his mother, things returned to their twisted version of normal. Business as usual. His mother, ever the professional, boarded a plane to Oregon for another medical conference the very next day, as if she hadn’t just stripped Jeremy of every ounce of freedom he had. Warren disappeared into his network of business meetings and political dinners, only ever returning late at night. Bryson had left the morning after, apparently bored with the spectacle and needing to “be seen” elsewhere.
Jeremy was left alone in the house like a ghost haunting his own life.
Each night, he lay in the cold expanse of his childhood bed, staring at the ceiling until the familiar ache behind his eyes burned into full, unrelenting tears. He tried to be quiet—no sobbing, no heaving—just a slow, steady leak of grief. Grief for the little life that had slipped through his fingers, for the team he couldn't talk to, for the Laila and Cat who were waiting for him, and for Jean. There was no saving him from this.
He had made his bed. Now he had to lie in it. Jeremy knew dwelling on the what-if’s wouldn’t do him any good. But in the quiet, he would dream of a different turn of events. He would dream of a different reality where Noah was still alive, where his family didn’t hate him, where he could still talk to Annie, where he was free to live his life.
Days bled into each other. A heavy silence blanketed the house, suffocating and ever-present. Two days became three. Three became five. Before he knew it, Jeremy had been in the Wilshire home for a full week. Every morning he woke with a little more dread, and every night he watched the headlights from Warren’s car pull into the driveway, hoping—ridiculously—that they might reverse and take him with them.
His mother had planned this lockdown with brutal precision. No phone. No access to his school portals. His laptop was locked down tighter than a federal file, completely neutered—no messages, no Skype, not even access to his email. Laila, Cat, Jean... all unreachable. He was completely cut off.
The only reprieve came in the form of William, who quietly left law guidebooks on Jeremy’s desk every couple of days. It was his mother’s version of mercy: academic busywork to keep him "on track." But even that felt hollow. Reading the books only reminded Jeremy of what he was being molded into—a puppet for the Wilshire legacy. He’d flip the pages half-heartedly, pretending to care.
On the seventh morning, Jeremy woke early, his stomach tight with a restless ache. Padding barefoot down the stairs, he followed the faint clinking sounds to the kitchen and found Dallas already at work.
The scent of sizzling bacon and fresh omelets filled the air. Jeremy hovered near the doorway for a moment, watching as Dallas expertly flipped a sausage in the skillet with one hand while whisking something in a bowl with the other.
“Good morning, Dallas,” Jeremy greeted, attempting a bright smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
Dallas glanced up. There was a brief flicker of surprise, followed by a softer, more rueful smile. “Morning, Jeremy.”
Jeremy stepped into the kitchen, drawn to the warmth and life in the otherwise lifeless house. “Need a hand?”
Normally, Dallas would have waved him off with a gentle laugh, claiming Jeremy was more likely to burn toast than help. But something in Jeremy’s voice—or maybe in the quiet slump of his shoulders—made Dallas hesitate. Instead, he set the bowl on the counter and handed over the whisk.
“Just stir it ‘til there’s no lumps left,” Dallas said, pointing in a slow circle with his finger. “Think you can manage that, Captain Sunshine?”
Jeremy gave a small, genuine laugh.“Yeah. I think I can handle that.”
The bowl was warm in his hands, grounding in a way he hadn’t expected. He began whisking, slow and steady, the silence between them not quite as heavy now. It was a small thing—mixing batter for pancakes or waffles or whatever Dallas was whipping up—but to Jeremy, it was something. Something other than wandering the house like a ghost, trapped in a loop of guilt and longing.
For the first time in days, Jeremy felt like maybe, just maybe, he still had a piece of himself left.
The batter in the bowl was finally smooth, no lumps in sight. Jeremy kept whisking anyway, the motion comforting, the gentle scrape of the metal against the ceramic a steady rhythm he could control. Dallas moved beside him, placing a clean pan on the stove, already warm. He took the bowl from Jeremy without a word, giving him a slight nod before pouring a measured amount into the pan, the batter sizzling as it hit the surface.
“Smells good,” Jeremy said softly, watching the bubbles form.
“Always does when you’ve got the right hands,” Dallas replied and he bumped his shoulder against Jeremy’s. “Not bad with yours, either.”
Jeremy smiled faintly and leaned against the counter. The kitchen light was warm, casting long shadows on the tiled walls. It was early still, too early for the world outside to bother him. He wished this stillness could stretch out forever.
Dallas flipped the pancake with a satisfying hiss, then glanced at Jeremy sideways. “I watched your game, by the way. The Spring Championship.”
Jeremy looked up, startled. “You did?”
Dallas chuckled. “‘Course I did. You think I wouldn’t watch you take down Palmetto? That was a hell of a match. That shot Deshmukh took was out of this world.”
That shot was thanks to Jean’s late Raven drill instructions and the fact that he’d finally convinced Ananya to switch to a heavy. A quiet warmth bloomed in Jeremy’s chest. “It was... a lot.”
“You looked good out there,” Dallas said, not looking up from the pan. “Strong. Focused. Like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.”
Jeremy felt the sting behind his eyes again but blinked it away. “Thanks,” he whispered. “That means a lot.”
Dallas finally looked at him, serious now. “And that boy. Jean.”
Jeremy swallowed. “Yeah.”
Dallas didn’t say anything for a moment, just nodded to himself, flipped the last pancake onto a plate, and turned off the burner. He pushed the plate toward Jeremy and motioned to the small table in the corner. “Sit. Eat.”
They sat across from each other. Jeremy poured syrup over his stack slowly, then cut into the fluffy layers like it was the first real meal he’d had in days.
Dallas sipped his coffee. “I know it’s not my place, but I’ve seen you grow up in this house. I remember when you were knee-high, all of you.”
Jeremy smiled through a mouthful of pancake. “Yeah, it was good.”
Dallas smiled but something in his eyes dimmed. “Even now, you’ve still got that fight in you. That spirit. But Jeremy...” He set his cup down gently. “I see how this place wears you down. Especially after Noah.”
Jeremy looked at him, syrup-coated fork paused in midair.
“This house,” Dallas continued, “has a way of convincing people that they’re smaller than they really are. That they’ve got to fit into something tighter, cleaner, more polished than real life allows. Your mother, Warren, Bryson, Annalise, Joshua,—they live by that rule. But you? You never did. You never have.”
Jeremy let out a breath, long and shaky. “It’s hard. Feeling like I don’t belong anywhere, not really. Like no matter how hard I try, it’s not enough. It doesn’t matter what I do, it’s not going to change how they feel about me. I’ve already ruined everything.”
Dallas leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. “You didn’t ruin anything. You made choices—stupid ones, sure. But you’d never wanted Noah to die.”
Jeremy could feel the tears well up in his eyes, “But I just stayed, maybe…”
“Noah made his choice,” Dallas said gently, his voice softening. “Grief does strange things to people. It makes them irrational. And in this family, all that guilt and pain needed somewhere to go. Someone to blame. Unfortunately, that someone was you.”
The words sank deep, stirring up memories Jeremy tried not to think about—blinding lights, the lingering scent of sweat and smoke, the disorienting rush of the high, and the terrible things that had been said when everything came crashing down.
Dallas reached out and lifted Jeremy’s chin, his touch steady and kind. “Jeremy, listen to me. You carry more kindness in the tip of your pinky finger than most people manage in their whole lives. Even after everything—after the blame, the silence, the way this family treats you—you still love them.”
He gave a small, knowing smile. “You love with your whole being, Jeremy. It’s written in the way you move, the way you care. And loving someone like Jean? Standing by your team? Owning who you are in front of the entire world, even when it’s easier to hide? That’s not weakness. That’s courage. It’s damn rare in this house.”
Jeremy’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what to say.
“I know you feel stuck,” Dallas went on. “And yeah, right now you are, but this isn’t forever. Your mother can clip your wings for a while, but she can’t stop you from flying. The day will come when you walk out that door again—not sneaking, or begging for forgiveness—but with your head held high, because you deserve to be happy too.”
Jeremy nodded slowly, eyes damp. “I miss them. All of them. Jean, Laila, Cat. Especially Jabberwocky.”
“William did say that you adopted a dog.” Dallas gave a fond laugh and then conspiratorially he added, “Your mother was in the kitchen when she got the ledger from the accountant, got to see her face when she caught wind of it. His name’s Jabberwocky?”
“Jabberwocky Moreau,” Jeremy smiled, wiping at his eyes. “I just… I want to go home.”
“You will,” Dallas said simply. “And when you do, you’ll be stronger for it. Just hold on a little longer. There are people out there who love you, Jeremy. That doesn’t disappear just because someone locked a door.”
Jeremy nodded his head and cut another piece of his pancakes, “Thank you.”
Dallas patted his hand. “Always, kid.”
And for the first time in days, Jeremy felt like he could breathe again. Not completely, not yet—but it was a start.
William entered Jeremy’s room with a manilla folder in hand. Jeremy looked up from his desk and gave him a tired smile. “Got more for me?”
“They’re mock tests,” William said, his tone unreadable. He stepped further into the room, holding out the packet. “Make sure you answer them well.”
Jeremy took the folder, frowning slightly. “Mock tests?” he echoed, brows knitting together in confusion. William’s expression didn’t budge—his eyes met Jeremy’s, steady and serious.
“Give them back to me once you’re finished,” William said quietly, and with that, he turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.
Still puzzled, Jeremy sat back in his chair and peeled open the folder. As he did, he pulled a booklet out while two envelopes slipped out and landed on the desk with a soft thud .
His breath caught.
Both were addressed to him. His eyes scanned the handwriting, heart suddenly thudding in his chest. One was neat and narrow—Laila’s unmistakable script. The other made his breath hitch even more. The familiar curve of the ‘J’ in his name. Jeremy’s fingers trembled slightly.
Jean.
He didn’t even open them yet, but the weight of them, the thought of them reaching him in this house—it was enough to bring a lump to his throat.
He opened Laila’s letter first.
We kept trying to reach you when you didn’t call. We got really worried when you didn’t return home. So I called William. William told me what happened but not in so much detail. Only that your mom is insisting that you stay home since the season’s over. But Jean? He figured it out fast. I had to stop him from marching over there, convincing him that this would blow over sooner or later. But the second Coach said you weren’t coming back, he’s been a total menace on court. Snappy, silent, terrifying—like he’s holding it all in and ready to explode. Poor Tanner has been getting the brunt of it during their Raven drills.
Your whole family’s a piece of work. You don’t have to keep letting her control your life anymore Jeremy. You’re stronger than that, and we need you back. Jean needs you.
So bring your ass home, okay? We miss you. L&C.
Without anything better to do, he opened Jean’s letter. It was simple:
Enough is enough. You are my partner. I don’t care what your mother says. I don’t care what lines she tries to draw around you. I’m coming to you.
On the eighth night of his reluctant stay at the Wilshire home, the house was quieter than usual. Warren had informed William that he’d be coming home late—again. Some political dinner, most likely. His mother was halfway through a grueling 12-hour hospital shift. The air in the house felt heavy, like it always did when Jeremy was alone with his thoughts for too long.
He was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, drowning in silence, when there was a soft knock at the door—measured, patient. William’s knock. Jeremy turned his head toward the sound and called, “Come in.”
The door creaked open. William stood there with a neutral expression, but his eyes held something more. “Someone’s here to see you,” he said quietly.
Jeremy blinked in confusion. “What?”
Then, from behind William, a familiar silhouette came into view. Jeremy's breath caught in his throat.
Jean.
He looked impossibly real, like he had walked straight out of Jeremy’s memories and into the hallway. His black wavy hair looked tousled from his helmet. That soft alabaster skin looked even paler in the dim light of his room. The tattoo on his right cheek and Jeremy's gaze softened when he saw the slight bump on his nose. Jean was wearing a dark navy t-shirt under his usual leather jacket, and Jeremy didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more grounding, more necessary than the man standing in front of him.
This couldn’t be real.
Jeremy shot up from the bed so fast he nearly tripped. He took one step, then another, before stopping just short of Jean, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to close the distance. His voice came out in a whisper. “Jean… you’re here.”
Jean’s gaze didn’t waver. Cool and steady as always, he replied, “I told you I would come, didn’t I?”
Something in Jeremy cracked at those words. He looked down, eyes fixed on the hardwood floor as the tears started to sting. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Jean’s voice didn’t change, but there was a note of softness now. “You’re apologizing to me? For what?”
Jeremy’s throat tightened. What was he apologizing for? For being here instead of home? For not fighting harder to leave? For always being the one who broke things and never the one who held them together? For being a son his mother could barely tolerate? He didn’t have the words, only the feeling that everything inside him had gone sideways. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted, voice cracking.
Jean stepped forward. He reached up and gently touched Jeremy’s chin, tilting his face up until their eyes met. Jeremy felt a few tears slip down his cheek and Jean’s thumb brushed them away, slow and sure.
“There you are,” Jean murmured. “You go away when you’re in this place.”
The words struck something deep inside Jeremy. It was all the comfort, all the reassurance he didn’t know he needed. A sob caught in his chest as he moved forward and fell into Jean’s arms.
Jean caught him easily, wrapping him up in the safety of his arms. Jeremy pressed his face against Jean’s shoulder, breathing in that familiar scent of leather and fresh linen, the one that always reminded him of home—not a house, not an address, but a person.
He didn’t speak, just held on tighter.
Jean’s hand smoothed down his back, grounding him, tethering him back to the version of himself he liked better—the one who smiled freely, who played Exy like it was art, who dared to fall in love.
“Let’s go home,” Jean said after a moment. “You don’t belong here.”
And Jeremy, still holding on, nodded into his shoulder, because finally, finally someone had said it out loud.
He didn’t belong here.
He belonged with them. With Jean.
The rush of relief that surged through Jeremy’s chest as the familiar apartment buildings came into view was unlike anything he’d ever felt. His shoulders dropped, breath catching in his throat, and for the first time in days, he felt like he could finally exhale.
They pulled into the quiet complex, the low hum of Jean’s motorcycle settling into stillness as the engine cut off. Jeremy dismounted with slow, almost shaky movements. The tension in his body had held him upright for so long that now, with it gone, all he could do was collapse gently onto the curb. He sat with a heavy sigh, elbows on his knees, head cradled in his hands.
“I’m home,” he murmured, voice raw, like he still didn’t quite believe it. Like if he said it too loudly, the moment might shatter and vanish.
Jean stepped off the bike and joined him in the silence. He didn’t speak, didn’t rush anything. Just sat beside Jeremy, his shoulder barely brushing Jeremy’s, warmth radiating from him like a quiet, unspoken promise: you’re here where you belong.
The stillness between them wasn’t awkward. It was grounding. Healing.
Jeremy turned his head slightly, eyes catching Jean’s in the dim light of the streetlamp. His voice was soft, but firm with emotion.
“Thank you, Jean.”
Jean didn’t look away. “I told you I would come to you.”
The peace didn’t last long.
Jeremy knew it wouldn’t. From the moment Jean helped him escape the Wilshire house, he understood he was living on borrowed time. Every hour felt like a countdown ticking in the back of his mind, each breath too sweet, too fragile to hold onto.
For two days, he existed in a sort of suspended reality. Jean stayed close, grounding him. Laila and Cat came over with takeout and loud reassurances, treating him like someone who needed to be gently pieced back together. For a moment, he let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he could keep this.
But nothing good ever lasted when his family was involved.
The illusion shattered the moment William sent out a message that Bryson and Joshua returned to the Wilshire house and found Jeremy’s room empty, bed made, and his things left undisturbed like he’d been vacuumed out of his life.
And then Warren and his mother found out.
The fury that followed wasn’t subtle. Jeremy didn’t need to be in that house to feel the aftershock of Warren’s wrath and his mother’s steady disappointment. Bryson, undoubtedly, added fuel to the fire—spinning stories that would satisfy his narrative.Warren had never needed much reason to go after someone, and now he had what he would consider a justified vendetta.
Jeremy’s phone—still locked away wherever his mother hid it—would be blowing up with missed calls and messages if he had it. But he didn’t and the silence wasn’t comforting anymore. It was heavy. Loaded. Something was coming. And Jeremy knew all too well what it felt like when a storm was about to break.
The storm broke that evening, just as Jeremy had predicted.
Cat was in the kitchen, trying out a new paella recipe she’d seen on the Food Network , the fragrant scent of saffron and garlic wafting through the apartment. Jeremy was nestled on the sectional with Jean and Laila, Jabberwocky curled contentedly on his chest. It was quiet. A rare moment of peace.
And then came the knock—sharp, insistent, and entirely out of place.
Jabberwocky’s ears perked up. Jeremy tensed. Laila stood, already frowning as she made her way to the door. Jean rose too, slow and steady, a shadow of readiness in his every move. He felt it too—the inevitable second shoe finally dropping.
Jeremy sat frozen as he watched Laila reach the door. Her shoulders stiffened, her back straightening with alarm.
Cat peeked out from the kitchen, brows furrowed. “Babe? Who is it?”
Jean’s voice was low, controlled. “It’s your mother and your step-father.”
Jeremy’s stomach twisted. Of course it was. He’d known his freedom was temporary. Still, knowing didn’t make it any easier to accept.
“We don’t have to let them in,” Cat said firmly. “This is our home.”
Jeremy stood slowly, gently lifting Jabberwocky off his chest. “No... I have to face them.”
“Jeremy—” Laila started, the concern etched deeply across her face.
He gave her a weak smile, barely convincing even to himself. “It’ll be okay.”
But they all knew it might not be.
Laila stepped aside as Jeremy moved forward, Jean steady at his side like a shadow that wouldn’t leave him. Jeremy reached for the door, fingers trembling only slightly as he unlatched the chain and twisted the lock until it clicked open. When he pulled the door wide, he was met with the imposing sight of his mother and Warren standing in the hallway.
Warren looked furious—jaw tight, shoulders squared, the scowl on his face unmistakable. Mathilda, in stark contrast, stood calm and composed, the perfect image of restrained authority.
“Jeremy,” she said in place of a greeting, her voice clipped. “Let’s go.”
Before Jeremy could move, Jean stepped in front of him, shielding him with his body as he pushed him gently back into the apartment. His voice was quiet but firm. “No.”
Warren’s expression twisted in annoyance. “Do you know who you’re talking to, boy?”
“I do,” Jean replied coolly, eyes unblinking. “And I do not care.”
Warren let out a short, condescending laugh, as if he couldn’t believe the audacity. “Listen, Moreau. Everyone has a price. So tell me—how much?”
Jean’s face remained neutral, but Jeremy could feel the tension building in him. “For what, exactly?”
Warren gestured toward Jeremy with a sneer. “To leave this faggot.”
The word landed like a punch. Jeremy’s stomach dropped. A high-pitched ringing echoed in his ears, drowning out everything else. It felt like someone had poured black oil into his lungs—thick, suffocating. He was sinking again, just like before. Just like Leo. Just like the nights he sat staring at that goddamned BMW in Leo’s driveway, knowing exactly what it meant. Knowing he wasn’t worth fighting for.
He barely registered the audible gasps behind him—Laila, Cat. Their outrage. He couldn’t look at Jean. Couldn’t breathe.
“Warren,” Mathilda hissed through gritted teeth, scandalized.
But Warren waved her off. “No. I warned your son that if he drowned again, I’d let him. But out of respect for you, Mathilda, I’ll throw him a line again”
Then he turned his attention back to Jean with a smirk. “So, Moreau. Name your price. A car? A check? The last boy walked away for a BMW. What about you? I’m sure we can negoti—”
He didn’t finish.
Jean lunged. One hand fisted in Warren’s shirt collar, the other braced against his chest as he shoved him hard into the wall with a dull, satisfying thud. The hallway echoed with the sound. Warren grunted, stunned.
Jeremy flinched—but didn’t stop him.
“You don’t get to talk to him like that,” Jean growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Warren, scandalized and red-faced, shouted, “I can have you sued for this!”
The moment cracked open into chaos. Jeremy and Mathilda rushed toward them, followed quickly by Cat and Laila.
“Let go of him—now,” Mathilda snapped, tugging at Jean’s arm with both hands, trying to break his hold.
But Jean wasn’t backing down. His eyes were blazing, jaw clenched tight with fury Jeremy had never seen in him before. He’d seen Jean annoyed, irritated, even exasperated—but this was something else. This was pure, burning rage.
“You do not get to treat him like he’s disposable,” Jean hissed. “You do not get to say those things and walk away clean. He is worth more than a thousand of you stacked together. You have no right.”
Warren sneered. “Right? Over that worthless piece of shit?”
Jean’s fist tightened. “Fuck you,” he spat.
And then his arm moved fast, too fast.
Jeremy saw it coming. He knew how fast Jean could be. Without thinking, he lunged forward, grabbing Jean’s arm and yanking it back with all the strength he had.
“Jean, no!”
Jean froze, fist suspended just inches from Warren’s face.
The air went still.
Warren was visibly shaken, eyes wide with disbelief. Even Mathilda looked stunned, her hands frozen in place. No one said a word—just the sound of heavy breathing and a silence so thick it seemed to swallow the room.
He pulled Jean towards him, “It’s not worth it. Please.”
The silence shattered with Mathilda’s sharp voice.
“That’s enough,” she said, regaining her composure. Her tone was icy, clipped—like a scalpel slicing through the tension. She stepped between Warren and Jean, her eyes locking onto Jeremy’s with quiet fury.
“I warned you, Jeremy,” she said coldly. “If you continued down this path—defying me, running off with him , leaving the house without permission—there would be consequences.”
Jeremy’s breath caught. His hand was still on Jean’s arm, the warmth of his skin grounding him. He could feel Jean tense beside him, ready to spring if needed, but silent.
Mathilda straightened, smoothing her blouse like the confrontation hadn’t just happened. “If you walk away from us again, if you continue this rebellion, you won’t have a home to return to. You won’t have our support. No inheritance. No name. No family. Do you understand me?”
Jeremy’s heart slammed against his chest, her words striking like whiplash. It wasn’t the money. It wasn’t even the name. It was the finality in her voice, like she was already preparing to shut the door on him forever.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Jean stepped forward first, placing himself slightly in front of Jeremy.
“You can cut him off,” Jean said evenly, “but don’t pretend for a second that what you’re doing is love.”
Mathilda’s jaw clenched, but she said nothing.
Jeremy bit down hard on his bottom lip, but the words clawed their way out anyway, raw and aching. “Mom,” he said, voice shaking, “what do I have to do for you to love me again?”
The question cut through the room like a blade. Even Mathilda blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Jeremy… what are you talking about?”
“When Noah died,” he began, the dam breaking, “I blamed myself. I still blame myself for it. And I know you did too—you all did.” He thought of Joshua’s scathing messages. Annalise’s awful indifference to him, Bryson’s antagonism, his step-father’s comments, and his mother’s cold demeanour.
Tears slipped freely down his cheeks now, hot and relentless. Years of silence screamed through every word. “I tried so hard to earn it back. Your love. Your approval. I thought if I studied well enough, obeyed everything you said, smiled through it all, maybe one day I’d be worthy of the same air you breathe.”
His voice cracked as he continued. “But no matter what I do, it’s never enough. I’ve carried this guilt like it’s my skin. And for what?After Noah died, you only saw me as your greatest headache. You only saw the mess left behind after Noah. But I didn’t jump, Mom. I didn’t push him. I was just a kid, and I’ve paid for it every day since.”
Mathilda’s face had gone still, a mask of unreadable cold. Her mouth tightened into a thin line. “If you walk away today,” she said, low and firm, “you’ll never see me again.”
Jeremy looked at her for a long moment, his chest rising and falling.
Then, softly, clearly: “Okay.”
That night hurt more than any other. Jeremy grieved his brother. He grieved the family he had finally accepted he might never see again. He grieved the version of his life he had spent so long trying to hold together.
But not all his tears were from pain.
Some were from relief—raw, liberating relief. Relief that he no longer had to live the life his mother had scripted for him. Relief that he didn’t have to twist himself into someone else’s shape just to be accepted. For the first time since Noah’s death, Jeremy could finally breathe .
And through all of it, Jean stayed beside him.
It was Jean’s steady presence that kept him afloat. That tethered him to something real when everything else felt like it was slipping away. He didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t offer empty words or force comfort where none could be found.
He just held Jeremy—quiet and unwavering—as he cried.
And that silence, that understanding, meant everything.
For that, Jeremy was grateful in a way words could never fully express.
(Later that night, when Jeremy was finally asleep, Jean reached out and gently traced his lips with the tip of his finger. He wiped away the tears that still clung to his eyelashes. Then he shifted Jeremy just a little, trying to make him more comfortable, wanting to give him even a small bit of peace.
In the quiet space of their room, Jean leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Jeremy’s temple. He stayed there for a moment, then rested his forehead against Jeremy’s and whispered in his own language, “I love you.”)