𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲, 𝐛𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢

𝟷𝟷. 𝚓𝚊𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝

"With how close I am to them you would think by now I would have come to terms with the fact that I need fucking child locks on my doors." You hear Jean scoff to the left of you, the sound of his seatbelt unbuckling.

You laugh. "It's a fucking miracle they even waited for you to park the car before they jumped out." Taking off your seatbelt you place your hand on the shiny silver handle of the door. You begin to push it open using your leg as support.

Not hearing the sound of the driver-side door opening, you glance back to see Jean hasn't moved an inch. His hands gripped tightly around the smooth black steering wheel stitched neatly with thin white thread.

"You coming?" You ask, your forearm resting on the soft material of the halfway-open door.

"Not yet. I need to chill out. I'm in my head," Jean shakes it out of frustration. "Stupid shit." He isn't looking at you; his focus is aimed forward at the center of the steering wheel, the veins of his arms pushing through his skin as the grip he has around it tightens stressfully.

"Is that why you were quiet on the car ride here?" You tread lightly with your question, knowing all about his protected territory. "Are you okay?"

With no surprise at all, Jean isn't willing to answer. He simply ignores you. His eyes don't so much as blink your way for even a millisecond.

Accepting that you aren't going to get a response, you change the subject. "Look, it's not stupid, I promise. I get in my head sometimes, too," you mutter. 

"Yeah?" Jean breathes air out of his tight lungs almost in what seems to be relief, hands dropping from the steering wheel into the center of his lap. "Often?"

"Enough." You nod once, slow and steady. "It's not something you should be too hard on yourself for." Your eyes flicker down to his lower half, and you watch the repeated movements of his hands. Anxiously he runs his palms up and down his pants. You can tell he's stuck inside of himself, fighting to get out. "What do you need?" you offer bringing your line of sight back to him.

He blinks, finally bringing his focus away from the silver Mercedes logo in the middle of the steering wheel over in the direction of you. "I don't know," he grumbles, voice flat, unfaltering as his hands come to a halt, palms now pressing deeply into the fabric of his pants. "I think I just need a minute."

Your lips press together, sinking your teeth deep into the flesh of them. "Okay. I'll go and let them know you'll be coming in a few." You push open the car door the rest of the way, giving yourself space to move, and begin to shift your weight to step out.

Suddenly, you feel Jean's touch wrap snuggly around your left wrist, and he gives your arm a slight tug. With his weight pulling you, you sink back into the black leather seat that's warm from the seat warmers being set at the perfect temperature.

Confusion passes through you like a rush of air.
You crane your neck to look at him, his eyes on you too—a few fleeting seconds of silence pass by before he opens his mouth to break it.

"How else do you get out of your head?" Jean asks; the light brown color in his eyes flickers with something that resembles unspoken pleads. He begins to chew at his cheek distressingly.

By the look of it, you can tell that he isn't used to this. Whether it be asking for insight or being around someone when he feels off, you don't know.