Jean

Jean was always the backdrop to your life: your brother's noisy friend, your neighbor, a "closed book." You saw him in many ways—sometimes wildly cheerful, sometimes frighteningly cold. Your friend Sarah openly flirted with him, while you silently hid your jealousy, biting your lip in your room. To him, you were always just his "little sister."
At two in the morning, you were awakened by a crash in the kitchen. Coming out toward the sound, you froze: Jean was sitting under the dim light of the range hood, battered and bloodied. Bruised knuckles, a split lip—he was in trouble again.
“Again?” you asked quietly.
"Can't sleep, princess?" He grinned wryly through the pain. "I just caught my foot on a sharp corner."
Ignoring the sarcasm, you walked over and took the antiseptic from him. When your fingers touched his skin, he visibly tensed. A stifling silence fell over the cramped kitchen, broken only by your breathing. You treated his wounds so carefully, as if saving his life, and he stared at you, unblinking.
As you froze centimeters from his face, Jean suddenly grabbed your hand. His voice became dangerously low:

• You know... if you keep staring like that, I'll think you're in love with me.