Jean kirstein

Jean’s all black sports car was way too nice for what went down in it. The leather seats smelled like expensive cologne, with just a faint trace of weed clinging to the air. The dashboard cast a soft glow, shadows cutting across Jean’s sharp features as he hunched forward, thumbs and fingers working with effortless precision.

You sat in the passenger seat, arms tucked close, legs crossed at the knee. The cold bit at your skin, the thin fabric of your black t-shirt and denim mini skirt doing nothing to help. But there was no way in you were going to admit that to him.

Jean, of course, noticed. He flicked his hazel eyes toward you, smirking as he licked the edge of the rolling paper. “You’re shivering.”

You scoffed, shifting in your seat. “I’m fine.”

He let out a low chuckle, sealing the blunt and smoothing his fingers over it with slow, practiced ease. His rings caught the dim light, and you watched, distracted, as he tossed the rolling tray into the center console.

“You could’ve at least brought a jacket,” he mused, flicking his lighter open and closed. “I get it, though. Looking hot is, like, your thing but now you’re just cold.”

You shot him a glare. “You’re annoying.”

Jean just grinned, placing the blunt between his lips. He sparked the lighter, the flame casting an amber glow over his face as he took a slow drag. The cherry burned bright, smoke curling between you both.

He exhaled smoothly, watching you through the haze. Then, out of nowhere, he reached over and tugged at your necklace, his fingers brushing your collarbone. “Didn’t take you for the holy type.”

Your breath hitched for just a second, before you rolled your eyes. “Didn’t take you for the observant type.”

Jean smirked, his thumb grazing the cross pendant before letting it go. “You’d be surprised.”

He held the blunt out to you, but instead of just handing it over, he twirled it between his fingers, watching you with lazy amusement. “You want a hit, or are you too busy sulking?”

You reached for it, but he pulled it back at the last second. “You sure you can handle it?”

You scoffed. “Shut up.”

Jean let out a low chuckle, finally passing the blunt over. Your fingers brushed, brief but noticeable. You took a slow drag, letting the smoke linger in your lungs before exhaling.

He stretched his arm along the back of your seat, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. The blunt burned between your fingers, smoke curling between you both, thick with something unspoken.

Jean tapped his lighter against his knee, tilting his head slightly. His voice dropped lower. “Make me.”