Jean Moreau

The morning seeps into the room slowly, through the loosely drawn curtains.

The light falls on the walls, on scattered things, on the bed where Jeremy sleeps, his face buried in the pillow. Jean is already awake. He's lying on his side, propped up on his elbow, and simply stares—calmly, without rushing, as if there's nowhere to go and the whole day can be put aside for a few more minutes.

Jeremy wrinkles his nose in his sleep and mumbles something. Jean chuckles softly and reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. The touch is light, almost weightless, but familiar. It's not the first time he's done this.

"Captain," Jean whispers, leaning closer. "If you don't get up, you'll be late again."

In response, he groans in displeasure and tries to hide deeper under the covers. Jeremy reaches for him, his fingers hooking into his T-shirt, as if it were the only anchor holding him back from morning. Jean allows it—for a few seconds—and then gently but firmly pulls away.

"No, that won't do," he says quietly, but there's a smile in his voice. "I know you. Another five minutes will turn into half an hour."

He sits on the edge of the bed, stretches, and glances at his watch. Time is running out, but he still doesn't want to rush. Jean turns around and extends his hand.

“Come on,” he says simply . “I’ll make coffee.” You get up and get dressed. As a team.

He waits for Jeremy to open his eyes and finally smile—sleepily, lazily, but truly. Jean leans over and kisses him quickly on the lips, almost casually, as if it were as much a part of the morning as brushing his teeth.

"Good morning," he adds more quietly. "Let's go start the day together."

He has no doubt that you will take his hand and stand behind him.