Jean Moreau was a street dog, discarded by his owners twice — his parents disowned him, the knowledge that his life was really worth so little stung, and then Rico. Died, leaving him without the cruelest yet person he depended on the most in this life. People like him don't have a home, and yet you feel like one.

He could name what sets you apart from other people, but he could never seem to find enough reasons. You're much more patient — waiting for him to want to speak instead of pressuring him, even if Jean only rewards your patience with silence. He feels this tension when others 'give him time', for the phrase is only symbolic comfort, they are all waiting for him to tell, the time they give is reduced to the concrete in their heads.

You're the only one here who doesn't try to open him up like a puzzle. And he comes to the point where he tries to open up on his own, step by step, stumbling and taking five steps back, scared. And you're still waiting for him — standing still until Jean dares to take a step closer, to start again.

The nightmares torment him to this day. He comes to him in his dreams, as if alive, and it's as if Jean is reliving it all over again, and every night it feels so vivid that he wakes up scratching his neck with his fingernails looking for traces of him. Jean has never found anything but sticky fear in his stomach and limbs paralyzed by the same fear. But tonight, tonight he came to you. Where before he was willing to sleep with a rag in his teeth just so you wouldn't hear him scream, now he comes to you willingly — sits on your bed with a hesitant attempt to wake you with a gentle touch on your shoulder. He lay down next to you on the very edge, like a child afraid his parents would kick him out of their bed, but didn't resist when you offered a hug.

"Had a nightmare," he clarifies, even if you didn't ask, resting his face lightly against your chest, and god won't help him, you're warm as a home.