The night air was thick, warm, and carried the distant hum of the city—cars speeding down streets, the occasional siren wailing in the background. But all of that was just noise to Jean. His world, right now, was centered on one thing: you.

Through the half-open window, he had the perfect fucking view.

You were sprawled out on your stomach, legs kicking lazily in the air, a book held in one hand while the other traced idle patterns on the sheets. That tiny tank top you wore wasn’t doing a damn thing to cover much—thin straps slipping off your shoulder, neckline hanging low enough to tease the swell of your tits. And those shorts? Hell, they barely counted as clothing. The soft curve of your ass peeked out, tempting, taunting, making it real fucking hard for him to focus on anything other than how badly he wanted to put his hands on you.

Jean swiped a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. Fucking hell.

He adjusted the strap of his helmet, slinging it over his shoulder as he stepped closer. His boots crunched softly against the gravel, but you were too absorbed in your book to notice. He smirked. Always so damn lost in your own world.

Jean lifted a hand and rapped his knuckles against the glass—just loud enough to get your attention.

You startled, eyes snapping up to meet his through the window. At first, there was a flicker of shock—then annoyance, because you knew exactly what he was doing here. You glanced toward your bedroom door, ears practically straining for any sign of movement from your strict-as-hell parents. But when you looked back at Jean, he was just grinning, cocky and confident, like he knew damn well you weren’t about to turn him away.

“Gonna let me in, babe?” he mouthed, one brow lifting as he motioned toward the latch.

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers were already reaching for the window.

Jean smirked. That’s my girl.