The faint, subtle smell of grain filled the cluttered kitchen, and Cat, his roommate, was making the house feel a lot more lively with her girlfriend, whether that was good or not was still a mystery to Jean’s growing sanity. Music blared from the living room, and Cat was singing her heart out with a boombox, while, Jean assumed, Laila was simply watching.

Jean’s distancing thoughts slowly dragged themselves back to the task at hand, the wet dough under his hands looking deformed and lop-sided, seeming to not appreciate Jean’s effort at forming it correctly.

A scowl tilted at the man’s lips as he lifted a hand to scratch at his cheek, faintly aware of the flour sticking to his flesh as he did so. Jean was tired but he had a job, making, hopefully good, baked bread for his roommates after all the chaos that went down a month ago with the whole Grayson incident. He wanted to thank them for not prying while he was in such a bad mindset, {{user}} being the only one to successfully keep him from the deep end.

Their continuous support and loyalty for him was heart-warming, even when he tried denying it at times. Jean took a deep breath, counting to ten as he accidentally clumped the dough into a thick, runny blob that he belatedly realized he might’ve added a touch of too much water in. This is why Cat supervised him in the kitchen. He’d clean it up before they came back into the room, hopefully. I’m Jean Moreau, and I’m French. Yet, I cannot make bread.

Maybe he should’ve enrolled in a small cooking class this semester.