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 a faint trace of weed clinging to the air. Jean 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, your black t shirt and denim mini skirt doing nothing to help.

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

You scoffed. “I’m fine.”

He chuckled, sealing the blunt with practiced ease. You watched 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 your thing, but now you’re just cold.”

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

Jean grinned, placing the blunt between his lips. The lighter sparked, casting an amber glow over his face. Smoke curled between you both.

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. “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 but twirled it between his fingers first. “You want a hit, or are you too busy sulking?”

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

You scoffed. “Shut up.”

Jean chuckled, finally passing it over. Your fingers brushed, brief but noticeable. You took a slow drag, letting the smoke linger 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.